“Inspired by something resembling the truth,” I said.
“Sounds like we’re both protected,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “But can I ask a favor?”
“What favor?”
“I’m going to be stoned on painkillers and other drugs for days and days, right?”
“Yes.”
“And I have brain trauma from the surgery, right? No matter how well everything went?”
“Yes.”
“So with all the pain and painkillers, and all the damage, I am going to forget things I say and do.”
“Yes.”
“So if I say something really good—something sad or funny or smart—then can you write it down—remember it—in case I can’t?”
“Wow,” she said. “I don’t know if I can write it down.”
“HIPAA rules?”
“Yes, HIPAA.”
“But isn’t monitoring my behavior part of your job?” I asked.
“Yes, it is,” she said, and smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” I asked.
“Something funny happened right after surgery yesterday.”
“What? What?” I asked. “Tell me. I need you to tell me the story so I can tell the story later.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Right after surgery, we took you into the MRI to check that everything looked good in your brain.”
“Did it look okay?” I asked.
“Yes, everything was cool,” she said. “And you were talking and—”
She hesitated.
“What? What?” I asked.
“You were being funny and smart right away,” she said. “You were verbally coherent even though you were still so drugged up.”
“What did I say?”
“You were flirting with everybody,” she said. “Calling everybody beautiful and hot.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I wasn’t being a creep, was I?”
“No, no, you were very sweet. You were also talking about your beautiful wife. And you were flirting with the men and the women. I think you flirted with yourself and with the MRI machine, too.”
“Oh, God, that’s so embarrassing.”
“There’s more,” she said. “There’s more.”
“I don’t know if I want to hear anything else,” I said. “No, I lied. I want to hear all of it.”
“Okay, so when we lifted you from your gurney onto the MRI machine, your operating gown slipped off, and you were completely naked.”
I laughed at the nude predicament that I could not remember being in.
“So you were naked,” she said. “And you were apologizing. You kept saying sorry to all of us—”
“Wait, how many people were there?”
“Eight of us.”
I laughed and laughed.
“So many people,” I said. “It was like I was putting on a show.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t stop apologizing and we’re all trying to calm you down, saying it’s okay, it’s okay, we’ve seen it all before. And then you said, you said—”
“Oh, no, what, what, what?” I asked.
“You pointed at me,” she said. “Then you told everybody I was a big fan of your books. And then you pointed at your...nudity...and said you didn’t want to disappoint your loyal reader, me. You wanted to make sure we all knew you were a grower and not a show-er.”
My nurse and I laughed together. I had worried about the size of my dick only an hour after brain surgery! Of course I did!
“Then you got all quiet,” she said. “And put your hands over your privates and yelled, ‘HIPAA! HIPAA! HIPAA!’”
My nurse and I laughed harder and harder, until I thought I might bust the stitchings in my skull.
“And that’s when we started calling you the Unicorn,” she said.
“Because of—”
“No, no, no, no, not because of your penis,” she said. “Because you were talking so well after surgery. Because you recovered so fast. Because you and your brain were magical like a unicorn.”
“So my dick isn’t magical?” I asked.
“Oh, God, no,” she said. “I’m a nurse, Sherman. There is nothing magical about anybody’s dick.”
My nurse and I laughed often during my three days in the ICU. I didn’t know if I would ever see her again. Considering the state of my brain at the time, I didn’t think I would recognize her again. But I thought she would read this book. I hoped she would read this book.
Dear Nurse, thank you for your honesty and humor. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for doing your job so gracefully. Thank you for remembering my stories when I could not.
102.
Brain Surgery Ping-Pong
Three months after brain surgery, I played Ping-Pong
And found myself unable to adjust to the speed
Of the game. I could only follow the ball for one shot At a time and couldn’t anticipate my next move
Or where my opponent might hit it next. I wondered
What that might mean about my brain and its new
Normal. I had noticed those gaps in other ways, how
I forgot an interviewer’s question five seconds after I began to answer. How I stood onstage in front of 3,000 people In Minneapolis and, for a brief terrifying moment, forgot
Why I was there. In the neurosurgery ICU, the nurse told me They had to be extra diligent when assessing the brain health Of imaginative people like me. She said, “You’re the ones Who can talk your way around your deficiencies.” And I said, “I’ve been talking my way around my deficiencies since I was born.”
So, playing Ping-Pong, I tried to work around my sudden deficiencies But I missed and lost and missed and lost. I didn’t tell my friends What I was feeling because I didn’t want to ruin the fun Or make excuses. My friends would have beaten me even if my brain Were fully healthy. And I was in no danger. My neurologist said
It would take at least a year for my brain to fully heal.
So this is who I am now: a lesser Ping-Pong player.
That’s hardly a tragedy. I played as well as I could.
And I sometimes hit good shots. And I was having fun, Even as I recognized that I had lost a little
Of that connection between my eyes and hands.
But haven’t I been losing shit all along? As we age,
Don’t we all deteriorate? If I can’t hit as many smashes In table tennis or swish as many jump shots in basketball Or write as many poems as I did before brain surgery,
Then so be it. I am alive! I am alive! I am alive!
And felt even more alive when my friends and I switched From Ping-Pong singles to doubles. Playing with a teammate, We alternated hits, and I was fucking overjoyed to realize That I had enough time—another second or two—between shots
To recharge—to refresh, refresh, refresh—and put my paddle On the ball with more accuracy and power. But I still didn’t say Anything about my Ping-Pong dilemma or my Ping-Pong epiphany To my friends. I knew I would tell them later through a poem.
And this is their poem. Dear friends, I am often a lonely man,
Even in a room full of people who love me. Dear friends, my brain— Unpredictable as it was—is even more unpredictable now.