As awful as it sounds to some, I always suspected that my brain would explode.  It’s not unusual for me to walk down the street and just imagine my skull exploding and splattering everywhere.  Poof.  It’s all over.  In theory, it’s fast.  It sucks for all the people who have to clean you up off the street — brain parts and such — but it’s a clean ending.  Knowing this about me now, you can imagine my surprise when my brain actually DID explode.  Only my skull stayed intact — and no one had to clean brain parts up on the sidewalk during a slow summer Friday evening in August.  So…. here goes the story of what actually happened……

August 17, 2012.  It was a summer half-day Friday.  One of the last before Labor Day.  I was sad.  I love my summer Fridays, and I hated to see them coming to an end.  I remember saying goodbye to a few of my fellow co-workers and heading home.  The sociopath/psychopath wasn’t coming over.  He told me he had to work despite the fact that summer Fridays were always when we sat on my deck, ordered pizza, drank wine, etc.  (Of course now knowing that he is most likely really fucked in the head, who the heck knows what he was REALLY doing? Again, more on THAT later.)

The weeks and months leading up to the explosion were strange.  I was having weird “episodes.”  Also my frontal facial area would tingle when I drank wine — so basically it was tingling a LOT that summer.  I think I’ll save the “episodes” and tingling explanations for another post. Suffice to say, something was NOT right.  And I knew it.  But instead of making an appointment with my physician, I made an appointment with my shrink and told him what was up.  I also told him that I knew I was getting old because I couldn’t see a goddamn thing anymore.  He was AWESOME.  Totally listened. Said he was invested in figuring out what was wrong, but I should probably just accept that I’m of the age when I might need reading glasses.  Done.  I made another appointment and left.  Went to Duane Reade for some readers and went home for my wine and television enjoyment.  This was the Monday of the week that my brain exploded.

Now — back to the actual day.  I was sort of okay that the sociopath/psychopath couldn’t make it to see me that Friday.  September Issue the movie was FINALLY on Netflix, and I had never watched the new updated DALLAS tv show, which according to reliable sources was “brilliant.”  So, I went home solo, plopped myself on the couch with wine and what we all think was probably pizza (I don’t remember that part) and focused on my huge massive living room television…..  All was enjoyable.  I was texting with a few of my friends (mostly about how much I loved Larry Hagman’s reprised JR Ewing role and the new show), and then after I made it a few episodes in, I decided that I was tired and wanted to go to bed. (The rest of DALLAS would be there for me on Saturday of course.)  Said goodnight to my friends over text and started to wind down.

As I went to put my wine glass away, it fell to the ground, broke EVERYWHERE, and simultaneously, the most piercing pain came over me.  When and if you ever read about brain aneurysms, most survivors describe them as the worst headache of their entire life.  That is  absolutely what happened to me.  Absolutely. (Unlike my past ideas of what it would be like, the reality is that there is no dramatic splattering of your skull, head and brains everywhere — it’s all internal.)  Still, despite the INCREDIBLE pain I was experiencing, I am at heart a cat lady, and all I could think of was that if I didn’t clean up the glass before I went to bed, Stevie Wonder or Macy Gray might hurt their poor cute paws.  So I made my way to the hall closet for the Dyson.

The rest of the experience is hazy.  I think I cleaned up the glass.  I think I might have gotten into bed and taken an Ambien or Advil — I think I couldn’t believe how much my fucking head hurt. I think I dreamed that I was a Cleopatra type Egyptian Princess who was being carried across the dessert in a fancy Caravan (whilst in much pain)– But rather than guess, let’s just say that my next REAL memory is waking up  in a hospital bed (3 days later actually), with the psychopath/sociopath sitting beside me.  Crying.  (Faking maybe… who the fuck knows?  Again, more on THAT later.)  I remember asking him what was wrong, and he said something about the fact that something bad, something that I had alway thought would happen to me, happened.  (I had told him about my fear of my exploding brain in the past.)

What happened between that fateful explosive Friday night and late Saturday afternoon when my friends found me in the living room with my trusty Dyson, is only something my cats know.  I really wish I could have them guest blog to tell us.  I will on the other hand, at some point, blog about what my team of friends who came to my rescue went through, the in-between hospital, the shitty lame-ass doctor there, and how I eventually made it up to Cornell Weill Columbia Pres. where I was successfully treated.  I will also gladly blog and tell you all the crazy ass shit I said to my parents, brother and friends while on major painkillers and such.  Apparently, I was quite amusing.

That’s all for another day.  THANK YOU for reading. I truly mean it.