Thank
God for Valium
PM
Kellermann
My brother Brian wore five earrings in his left ear and three in the right. He rarely took them out, because if he did, he could never find the holes again. In fact, two of the pricks were self-inflicted: he had tried to find the holes and missed, creating new ones in the process.
When he had his first MRI, Brian took out his earrings and never replaced them. A stereotaxic biopsy followed the MRI, and then Brian underwent a course of radiation treatments. No jewelry allowed. After six weeks of radiation, the earrings lost their significance to Brian—an unnecessary embellishment amid the nonsymmetrical bald spots from the radiation’s path and the growing untrimmed beard that gave him a freakish, punky look. Besides, with his limited vision, he could hardly put them in himself and pride prevented him from asking for help.
I am thinking about Brian this morning, as I remove my single earring in preparation for my first MRI. Brian gave me the diamond stud many years ago. Earrings sell in pairs; he only needed one. I wear it more often than any other earring, and I own hundreds—gifts from friends and lovers, earrings that I’ve bought myself, earrings inherited from Brian, Lynne, and Mom, a pair of pearls I found in a hunk of cheese Lori Dillon made me take home from a party.
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The afternoon of Brian’s MRI, I dropped him at the imaging center and went about my business, “I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Call first,” said the receptionist, “sometimes we get backed up.”
I didn’t think the MRI would show a thing; I couldn’t conceive that there was anything seriously wrong with him.
We had been in negotiations, Brian laying bribes on me. Drive me here, drive me there, I’ll buy dinner for you.
“Why can’t you take a train?”
I couldn’t conceive that there was anything seriously wrong with him.
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I, of course, know there’s nothing seriously wrong with me. Everything tells me so: my intellect, my experience, research. I am merely having a series of unexplained headaches. “We just need to rule everything out,” the neurologist asserted.
My sister Lynne had unexplained abdominal pains.
So did Mom.
Brian had an unexplained cut in his vision field.
I’m having unexplained headaches.
I know I don’t have a brain tumor. Chances are, if I did, I wouldn’t even feel it. The brain has no nerve endings, no pain receptors. Unless the tumor pressed against the cranium, I wouldn’t feel a thing. If the tumor pressed against the cranium, the pain would be constant—it wouldn’t come and go like a stray cat you once laid milk out for. If the tumor pressed against the cranium, the pain would be localized and dull; it would not be so intense. I know I don’t have a brain tumor.
I’m merely having unexplained headaches.
But I couldn’t conceive that there was anything seriously wrong with Brian.
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“Have you taken the Valium yet?” my friend asks as we scarf down bagels and she tries to quiet my nerves.
“No, they told me I should take the first pill 45 minutes before the test, and another if I start to freak out.”
There’s a 99 percent chance that the MRI will show nothing. In the back of my mind, I know better. I’m preparing the speeches in which I will tell my friends, my students, my brother Jim that I have brain cancer. “Y’know these headaches I’ve been having . . .”
An unrealistic feeling of optimism counters this eerie sense of impending doom. I know I can beat cancer; I just need to prove it. It’s a shame I have to get it first.
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We joked as I drove Brian to the imaging center. “Do you think your magnetic personality will screw up the machine?”
“If this machine rearranges the nuclei in my brain, how do they know how to get back to where they came from?”
“Bread crumbs.”
We began making plans to go to Lollapalooza, and then I added: “Don’t worry about it, Brian. We both know a scan of your brain won’t show a thing.”
I couldn’t conceive that there was anything seriously wrong with my brother.
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He told me all about the MRI over linguine in dreadful cream sauce at one of the pre-fab chain restaurants along Route 1. “They strap your head down and a conveyor slides you into a tube. You’re wearing headphones, listening to tunes. And then tap tap tap. Next thing you know, white noise like a jackhammer drowns out the music.”
I couldn’t conceive that there was anything seriously wrong with Brian.
He called the next afternoon. Blubbering, I could hardly make out the words through his whining cry. For some reason, I thought his dog Annie had died. The only time I’d ever seen Brian cry was when his dog Sammy died. And then I heard the words. Brain tumor.
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Strapped to a table, my world begins to move. I slide into the tube. A voice rises in the air: “If you look above you, you’ll see a mirror. It allows you to see outside the tube.” I’m not wearing my glasses; I can’t see beyond my knees. “We’re going to start your CD now. Let me know how the volume is.” Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, and we wouldn’t have to wait so long . . . I know there’s a 99 percent chance that the MRI will show nothing. I’m merely having unexplained headaches.
Lynne had unexplained abdominal pains.
So did Mom.
Brian had an unexplained cut in his vision field.
I couldn’t conceive that there was anything seriously wrong with Brian.
Tap tap tap.
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Once home, I replace my earring, choosing the dangling silver yin/yang, one-half of a pair I split with a friend. I wait for the phone to ring. When it does, I think I’ll let the machine answer it. There’s a 99 percent chance it won’t be the call I’m waiting for.