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the PDF of her book - National Aphasia Association

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Tales from <strong>the</strong> O<strong>the</strong>r Side <strong>of</strong> Language 19<br />

<strong>the</strong> window <strong>of</strong> my small room is blue-gray and s<strong>of</strong>t this morning. My mood,<br />

too, is s<strong>of</strong>t and expectant. My mo<strong>the</strong>r and a patient from across <strong>the</strong> hall come,<br />

sit quietly with me. When <strong>the</strong> nurse comes with <strong>the</strong> corsage <strong>of</strong> sedations and<br />

bundles me up in warm blankets, I’m ready to put on <strong>the</strong> beautiful coat <strong>the</strong><br />

surgeon seemed to <strong>of</strong>fer to me in his <strong>of</strong>fice. I slip onto <strong>the</strong> gurney.<br />

The doors to <strong>the</strong> OR suite are old shining oak with large windows, and<br />

swing out to welcome me in. The neurosurgeon is standing <strong>the</strong>re, dapper in<br />

street clo<strong>the</strong>s and white lab coat. He receives me, a graceful moment. Pulling<br />

my coat more tightly about me, I am satisfied. He turns half away from me,<br />

commanding <strong>the</strong> OR staff behind him, “OK folks, let’s get moving! We have a<br />

lot <strong>of</strong> work to do!” Then motions <strong>the</strong> transport to take me to a tiny anes<strong>the</strong>sia<br />

cubby down <strong>the</strong> hall.<br />

Once under anes<strong>the</strong>sia my inert body is us<strong>her</strong>ed into an ultra-hi-tech<br />

surgery. The neurosurgeon works on my brain through a large microscope.<br />

His chief nurse monitors through ano<strong>the</strong>r eyepiece to watch and anticipate<br />

<strong>the</strong> instruments he will want. The anes<strong>the</strong>siologist explained to me yesterday<br />

<strong>the</strong> left side <strong>of</strong> my head will be shaved and a wide crescent shape in my skull<br />

will be very carefully sawed open. This is <strong>the</strong> first part <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> surgery: <strong>the</strong><br />

surgeon selects one <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> branches <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> exterior artery and places it into <strong>the</strong><br />

expressive speech area to give a new blood supply. Its many tiny branch ends<br />

are stapled shut in <strong>the</strong>ir new places. When <strong>the</strong> first part is stable and secure,<br />

<strong>the</strong> second part is done: an incision is made in my neck, and <strong>the</strong> artery with<br />

<strong>the</strong> clot in it is cut and <strong>the</strong> whole length <strong>of</strong> it in my brain is pulled away.<br />

Many nurses, residents, and neurosurgery fellows rotate in and out to<br />

do support work and to learn. A medical friend gets reports from <strong>the</strong>m as<br />

<strong>the</strong>y come out. If <strong>the</strong> surgery should go badly, he has my instructions for <strong>the</strong><br />

surgeon. Let me die peacefully.<br />

After eight long hours, I’m sedated semi-conscious in <strong>the</strong> ICU for three<br />

days, tucked inside <strong>the</strong> elegant coat. Residents rouse me, prick my feet with<br />

a pin, shine a light in first one eye and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r, and ask me to repeat,<br />

Methodist Episcopal. I fall back asleep, and <strong>the</strong>y leave, come back, over and

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