That Other Guy

by Brian Clark

Table of Contents, chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Chapter 10

Four days after his appointment with Dr. Patel, Richard underwent an MRI scan with contrast enhancement. It revealed a nickel-sized mass in his left frontal lobe. When the doctors told Richard that the frontal lobe regulates reasoning, behavior, memory, personality, judgment and mood, he said, “Yes, I know.”

Judging by the well-defined borders of the growth, doctors said the tumor was likely benign, but they wouldn’t know for sure until it was removed and biopsied.

And so, five days after the MRI, Richard checked into Dalesford General Hospital to undergo a bifrontal craniotomy.

The next morning, he was wheeled into an operating theater and given a general anesthetic. In 15 seconds, he was gone. A frame was attached to Richard’s head with pins to prevent motion during surgery. A nurse shaved a narrow strip of hair.

Then the neurosurgeon, Dr. Rachel Penmark, went to work. She made a coronal incision, cutting over the top of the head from ear to ear, and pulled the skin down like a mask to expose the skull. She drilled four holes in the bone, then sawed between them to create a skull flap, which was removed and put aside.

To gain access to the brain, she used surgical scissors to open a thick membrane called the dura, which she then folded back. Using retractors to move aside healthy brain tissue, Penmark isolated the tumor and removed it using a suction device. She then removed the retractors; sutured the dura closed; replaced the skull flap, anchoring it with titanium plates and screws; and folded the skin back into place, securing it with surgical staples.

The procedure took three hours.

Chapter 11
conclusion

Richard made the turn from Hogan Street onto Buchanan. For the first time since his surgery five weeks before, he was determined to complete his favorite walking route, the one that took him by the park.

He had started walking on his first day home after a weeklong stay in hospital. It helped the recovery process, Dr. Patel had told him. His first walk consisted of a slow circuit of the rooms in his house, which lasted all of three minutes. Overwhelming fatigue and a crushing headache meant that was all he could manage. A few days later, when he felt slightly more energetic and slightly less headachy, Richard did two circuits. Then he added the basement stairs. After two weeks, he moved outdoors and strolled around his backyard for ten or fifteen minutes. Soon he was trudging up and down Hogan Street for thirty minutes at a time.

Now, Richard felt that his energy level had almost returned to normal. The dizzy spells and memory gaps he had experienced before the surgery were gone. He still had headaches, but they were becoming milder and less frequent. The cause, Patel had assured him, was no longer the tumor. A post-operative MRI had confirmed that the surgeon had removed all of it. And a biopsy established that the mass — known as an oligodendroglioma — was benign. No, these headaches were the lingering result of Dr. Penmark’s excavation of his brain, and they would eventually fade away, Patel said.

And as for Ricky, Richard was certain that he was history.

Richard paused and let a power walker — a grey-haired woman who looked to be ten years his senior — pass him on the Buchanan Street sidewalk. He didn’t mind. It was a beautiful September morning — a deep blue sky, a few tufts of cottony clouds, a gentle breeze — and he was in no hurry.

He passed a Dalesford Express newspaper box and stopped to read the main headline: Council Approves Budget.

“Now that’s one boring headline,” he mumbled and continued walking.

They really need me back, he thought.

The plan was to return to work, part time at first, starting next week. He felt ready.

The old farmhouse came into view on the left. Alice was nowhere to be seen. Richard wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

He stopped in front of the house, and reached up and gently touched the top of his head. It was something he did dozens of times a day, almost without thinking. He could feel the plates and screws under his scalp.

A thought flashed into his mind: Where do alternate personalities go when they die? Does anyone mourn them? Do I?

He pictured a headstone with the inscription, “Ricky Callaghan: 2020-2020. We hardly knew ye.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Richard turned and headed up the front walk of Alice’s farmhouse. He climbed the stairs and stood on the porch. He looked at the paint job. Ricky had done well.

It was a lovely spot to watch the world go by. There was a scattering of wicker chairs, and a porch swing secured by chains from the ceiling. Potted plants stood atop a couple of wrought-iron tables. Chrysanthemums, sunflowers and asters spilled out of hanging baskets. Ornamental frogs, rabbits, sheep, pigs and chickens stood watch here and there.

But something wasn’t quite right. He was no decorator, but it was obvious to him as he looked around. More work was required.

Richard approached the front door and raised his hand to knock. He hesitated, dropped his arm to his side and took a step back. Touching the top of his head, he again felt the metal hardware under his scalp. The door to my brain.

He sucked in some air and slowly let it out. “Ah, just do it.”

He stepped forward and knocked. Ten seconds later the door opened a crack and a fleshy face appeared. It lit up.

“Oh my goodness, look who it is!” the elderly woman said, throwing open the door. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

“Oh, you know, managing OK, I guess. So where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“Yes, well, I had some health issues I had to deal with,” Richard said.

“Oh? Nothing serious I hope.”

“Well, it was. But everything’s fine now.”

“Oh good. Well, would you like to come in? I’ll make some coffee.”

“I’d like to, but I’ve got to finish my walk. Doctor’s orders. It’s part of my recovery process. I’ll take a rain check, though.”

“OK. I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Richard smiled. “The reason I knocked is, I was wondering if there’s any paint left. You know, the hunter green.”

“Well, sure. Don’t you remember? There’s a whole can left. You put it away in the shed.”

“Oh, of course,” he said. “That might be enough. If not, I can get some more.”

“Enough for what?”

“Could you please come out here? I’ll show you.”

He held out his hand. She took it and stepped gingerly out onto the porch, supporting herself with a cane in her other hand.

Richard pointed at the wooden frames of a pair of large windows flanking the front door. Both were bracketed by shutters. They were all covered in flaking white paint.

“I think they would look good in hunter green,” he said. “The window frames and the shutters. And the door, too, now that I think of it.”

“Oh my, my, my. You’ve done so much already. I can’t ask you—”

“It’s OK,” Richard said. “It’s really just a matter of finishing the job. I’m actually surprised that Ricky... um... that is... I’m not sure why I didn’t notice this when I was here last time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, absolutely. In a week or two. I’ll be back to 100 per cent then. And I’ll come back and get it done.”

“This is just so nice of you. I can’t thank you enough.”

She looked in his eyes and held her gaze for several seconds. The smile she was wearing faltered.

“You know, you seem a little bit different to me somehow. I’m not really sure why. I don’t want to pry but... are you sure everything’s all right?”

Richard nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. But you know what? Maybe I am a little bit different. And that might not be so bad.”

Still holding his hand, she gave it a squeeze. “Well, this time I insist on making it up to you. How about a great big Sunday dinner? D’ya like pot roast, Ricky?”

He let out a faint chuckle. “I do. But I just have one favor to ask, Alice.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Would you mind calling me Richard?”

Copyright © 2021 by Brian Clark