Three years ago today, while we were living in New York learning to do the first jobs we’d held after 28 years of freelancing, Margaret said, “I’m sick of you complaining about headaches. I’m taking you to a doctor.”
“Of course I have headaches!” I said. “We’ve moved from Boulder to New York! I have to ride the subway to and from work every day! I’m learning a new job!” Yes, I was eating Tylenol like M&Ms, but I thought I was manning up to big changes and manfully self-medicating. But man, oh man; did my head hurt.
At City MD, a doc-in-a-box at the corner of 88th and Amsterdam, a young, bearded doctor named Ghinty asked me one question– “Do the headaches wake you at night?” — and when I said yes, he began scribbling on a pad. “Get up out of that chair right now and go down to Mt. Sinai/Beth Israel Hospital. Find the radiology department and give them this. It’s a prescription fora CT scan.”
By 5:00 that evening I was proud possessor of a five-centimeter mass in my right temporal lobe, scheduled for surgery a week hence, and my long glioblastoma adventure had begun.
Three years ago today — about double what I was led to believe I’d get.