The Thing in TJ’s Brain: The Story So Far

About a year and a half ago, I started noticing that the vision in my left eye was getting worse. Overall, it was blurrier than the right eye, but specifically a patch slightly to the left of centre (from my perspective) was particularly cloudy. I responded as all true-born Englishmen should; I ignored it.

This practical and well-tested remedy didn’t seem to do the trick though, so two or three months after first noticing, I went to the doctor. He examined the back of my eye, but admitted that he had neither the tools nor the specific expertise to detect anything untoward. He recommended that I go to an optician.

I did so, and went along for an eye test, explaining the problem. They didn’t seem very interested in my claims of vision loss, ran all the usual tests and prescribed a new pair of glasses.

Rather disheartened, I did nothing more for several more months. After all, although a little annoying, it wasn’t affecting my 3D vision at all, and so wasn’t stopping me driving. Then I developed an ear infection and had to go along to the doctor, at which point I mentioned the eye problem again.

This time, the doctor referred me to an eye specialist. I went along, he ran a number of tests, and appeared rather surprised to find that I had some vision loss in my left eye. He referred me to the eye clinic at the local hospital.

Here, they ran many more tests, including dropping various chemicals into my eyes and shooting them with lasers to try and intimidate them into working properly. Eventually they conceded that I did indeed have some vision loss in my left eye. They diagnosed it as optic neuritis, probably caused by an infection. However, to play it safe, they referred me for a CT scan.

Off I went. I had a plastic tube stabbed into my arm, and they administered a drug that first makes one very warm, and then feel unpleasantly as though you’ve wet yourself. I then lay with my head inside a giant white doughnut while they repeatedly irradiated my brain. Daunting as this may sound, I have yet to notice any harmful horseradish canoe.

A few days later, I was called back in, and saw an extremely young doctor, just out of primary school.

“Has anyone discussed the results of your scan with you yet?” he asked.

“No. I thought that was why I was here?”

“Ah, right. What do you know about your diagnosis?”

“I was told it was optic neuritis.”

“Right, well, I’m afraid that the scan did find something.” He tensed, ready to bolt for the door.

“Oh.”

I obviously wasn’t about to burst into tears or hurl the desk over and lunge for his throat, so he relaxed a little. “They found a very small, very slow growing tumour.” He stressed the ‘small’ and ‘slow growing’. He told me that it was a meningioma, a benign tumour on the lining of the brain. He would refer me to a neurological hospital in London.

To the hospital I went, and had an appointment with a specialist.

“I don’t think it is a meningioma,” she said bluntly. “I think it’s a pituitary lesion.”

“Oh. Is that better or worse than a meningioma?”

“Well you don’t really want to have either.”

“True…”

“Or it could be an aneurysm.”

“Right…?”

“But it’s more likely to be a pituitary lesion. I’ll refer you to a neuro-ophthalmologist, and put you in for an MRI.”

“Righto.”

The day of the MRI eventually came round. It turned out that I would actually be scanned in a mobile unit parked up at the front of the hospital. Ok then…

However, inside everything seemed alright. I had turned up ensuring that none of my clothing contained metal fasteners etc, and I had to remove my watch, glasses etc. I was then led through to an adjacent room where I was made to lie down on a narrow bed thingy, fitted with a plastic cage-like object. I put in a pair of earplugs, and then headphones were fitted on top of these, and pads on top of these. The plastic cage was then swung down over my head, the front bar touching my nose and completely immobilising me from the neck up. At this point I half expected to be dragged off to an oubliette in the dungeons of the Bastille, so that no one would ever realise that the king had a twin brother.

Happily, this did not occur.

Very suddenly, the bed thing moved up into a narrow white tube, and then stopped. If you have never had an MRI, let me tell you this: They are noisy. Furthermore, they are not just loud; the noises they make vary considerably. They don’t just hum or whirr, although they do a lot of both. They beep. They scream. They tick. They roar. At a couple of points, it made a noise that sounded worryingly like a warning siren. At another time, the series of sounds brought to mind the soundtrack of a very early computer game, perhaps during some sort of boss fight. I hope the MRI won.

Even through the earplugs and headphone and padding (which I did not find especially comfortable) it made a lot of noise.

During the scan, you have to stay very still. It’s amazing how hard it is to stay absolutely still. Whenever I swallowed or cleared my throat (which, by attempting not to, I only needed do more) I was worried that I was shifting my head minute amounts. The corner of my mouth started to itch, then my nose.

Eventually, I felt air movement, and a few seconds later was slid back out of the tube. One of the people looked down at me and said something. Due to the ear plugs, headphones and pads, I have no idea what he said. Then I was slid back up into the tube.

More beeping, whirring, grinding, screaming, air raid sirens, ZX-Spectrum soundtracks. More swallowing, throat-clearing, itching, holding very still.

More air movement, and once again I was slid back out. This time, I was released and was able to sit up. I went back through to the first room, where a screen showed images of what looked gratifyingly like a brain, and one that seemed to take up a satisfactorily large proportion of the image.

“Is that me?”

“Yes, that’s you.”

“Ah.” I looked at the screen with interest. Of neurology, I know nothing, but it was interesting to look at. Then the other technician leant over and closed the image, giving me a look. Presumably they don’t want people examining their own images and worrying about every spot and smudge, but it’s my brain after all!

I was told I would receive the results within two weeks.

I received an appointment and headed along. I was called into a room where I was met by a panel of four sombre-looking men. I was informed that one was the neuro-surgeon, one was his Fellow (presumably a euphemism of some sort, but I’m open-minded), one was the registrar (perhaps there to discuss nuptial options for the surgeon and his fellow) and one was a professor of endocrine medicine. This last confused me a little at the time, since I’m neither a platypus nor an echidna, but having consulted Google, it turns out I was thinking of monotremes, not endocrines. So that clears that up.

“I think it’s a meningioma.”

“Oh. I was told it wasn’t.”

“Well it is.”

“Ah. Righto. Is that good?”

“It should make it easier to remove, without damaging the surrounding tissue.”

“That does sound good.”

This time I got to see the images of my MRI scan in detail, and my brain seemed to fill the cranial cavity to a pleasing extent. I was told that an operation would be necessary, and that they would have to go in through the nose to get at the base of the brain. Every single person I’ve told this to has immediately said, ‘Oh, like the ancient Egyptians?’ This possibly says far too much about the kind of people I associate with.

The registrar then took me aside, and began telling me my options.

1: Do nothing. Tempting, but this had not worked up until now, so I discounted it.

2. Irradiate my brain to kill the lump, with the high likelihood of taking out the surrounding tissue as well. I discounted this too.

3. Operate. This seemed like the best option, so I agreed.

‘Ok, now, do you consent to a blood transfusion if we need to give you one to save your life?’

‘What? Yes! Yes, save my life! If you need to, do it! You have my permission.’

‘Ok, good.’

He then ran through the associated risks of the surgery; not making it better, making it worse, damaging the pituitary, damaging the optic nerves, damaging the brain, not getting the whole thing, or just outright killing me. This latter he seemed to think fairly unlikely, which comforted me a little.

I also apparently required another, albeit briefer, MRI and the registrar decided to take me down to the department to see if they could fit me in today, so to speak. He led me through a bewildering maze of passages, corridors, hallways, stairs, steps, mezzanines and chambers. I’d have got completely and utterly lost without him, and would probably have starved to death. There may well be entire tribes of people living in the depths of that hospital forming their own strange societies, unable to escape from their labyrinthine prison. Probably not though.

We eventually arrived, and it turned out the MRI department happened to have a gap right then, so in I went. This time, they stuck a pipe in my arm, as they had when I had the CT scan, and squirted cold liquid straight into my vein, which is a very odd sensation. On the plus side, it didn’t make me feel like I’d wet myself. They quickly ran through the standard questions, told me to take off my watch and glasses and gave me some earplugs.

I lay down and a cage was again lowered over my head, but this one had a mirror angled so that I could see down along my body. I was then loaded into the tube like a human torpedo. At this point, I felt a strange movement in my trousers. I was not unduly nervous, nor do I find confined spaces unusually stimulating. Instead, I realised in horror that my keys were still in my pocket.

I’ve read that the magnetic field in an MRI machine centres on the brain, and that’s where all metal present eagerly wishes to be. Indeed, not expecting a scan, I had turned up in clothing with metal fasteners, and all the other stuff they tell you not to have. I was still wearing my wedding ring, although I had mentioned it and they didn’t seem too concerned. Now though, I had visions of the keys boring through my skull, and clutched them tightly. Happily, they seemed content to stay in my pocket, wadded as they were with tissues.

This MRI machine was more comfortable than the one I’d been in before, and the sounds were much calmer. The scan was also shorter, and I was soon released. They made no comments about my keys, so I assume all was well.

I was then booked in for a pre-assessment, and told to come back in a week.

To be continued…