Steve Kane - Out Of My Head

Out Of My Head
I’m in a hospital because they need to operate on my brain. I am guessing that it is a private hospital: everything is clean and new, I have television (complete with digital and satellite channels), en suite bathroom that doesn’t appear to be urine stained, pleasant pastel colours on the walls upon which are hung bland and inoffensive watercolours, quality carpets and crisp clean snowy sheets. Nothing, in fact, to suggest that the building is full of sick people or that anybody might have actually died here. Three times a day an attractive and friendly young nurse brings me a menu full of dishes to tantalise my appetites. The food would put many professional restaurants to shame; well presented, warm and nourishing. I spend my days watching television or reading. I feel perfectly fit and well despite the ongoing treatment. I am regular. I am suffering no side effects from the medication; the doctors tell me that I am making good progress and they are confident of a full recovery. The only difficulty I have is that my head needs to be placed in a special brace at night as I have to remain upright. Also, I have to move very carefully, as if balancing a plate on my head, to avoid spillage. "It’s a standard procedure," the surgeon reassured me, "and judging from your medical history, we foresee no complications." I shuffled apprehensively and said, "But it’s true that you will have to remove my skull?" "The top of your skull will be removed from about an inch above the temples." "Won’t that be a little… dangerous?" "Mr. Benton," said the surgeon leaning forward on his desk, "please rest assured that every precaution will be taken to prevent any mishaps." In this age of advanced medical procedures I had assumed there would be a less precarious way to operate on my brain without having to remove the top of my head. But despite my concerns it hasn’t been too bad. All it means is that I must keep my head perfectly still and straight at all times. At first, going for a piss was difficult as my natural tendency was to look down to take aim. But now I sit for all ablutions. I have to be careful when washing as well: getting into and out of the bath while looking directly ahead was too tricky so I now stand in the shower with the nozzle at about chest height. Instead of drying myself and risking brain stain on the bathroom floor, I am supplied with a stack of thick towelling dressing gowns so I can dry naturally. Eating is not too difficult as my food comes diced and I drink through a straw. The doctors tell me that the treatment is going smoothly and it should not be too long before I can go home. They have one more procedure to perform this afternoon and then they will be able to replace the lid on my head. Right on time, the nurse brings in my breakfast tray. I can smell the bacon and eggs, the warm buttered toast and the piping hot coffee. I carefully lay aside the newspaper and wait to receive my morning sustenance. Before anything happens, I feel a sudden tensing behind the eyes: I frown in anticipation, raise my hands, but it is too late. I see the nurse trip or stumble, the tray falling out of her hands toward me and the bacon and eggs sliding off the plate in mid air. And then I feel the sudden scolding, liquid heat of the coffee landing on my lap. I yell out in pain, jump up and try to brush the burning beverage from my pyjamas. My head tilts forward and I feel my centre of gravity changing and with it the gloopy consistency of my brain oozing over the edge of my skull and trickling down my face onto my chest. In total panic, I desperately try to scoop my cerebrum back into my head but it just slips through my fingers like a raw egg. Everything goes blurred and at first I don’t realise what is happening: I’m having an out of body experience. Not in any spiritual sense: no corridor or tunnel with a blinding light at the end; I am literally seeing my body from the outside. As my brain slipped out of my head, my eyes were pulled out as gravity tugged at the optic nerves. I lie in my own lap, nothing but a creamy pink lump squelching about in a puddle of cerebrospinal fluid, gazing up at the empty, hollow husk of my body.

Out Of My Head

I’m in a hospital because they need to operate on my brain.

I am guessing that it is a private hospital: everything is clean and new, I have television (complete with digital and satellite channels), en suite bathroom that doesn’t appear to be urine stained, pleasant pastel colours on the walls upon which are hung bland and inoffensive watercolours, quality carpets and crisp clean snowy sheets. Nothing, in fact, to suggest that the building is full of sick people or that anybody might have actually died here.

Three times a day an attractive and friendly young nurse brings me a menu full of dishes to tantalise my appetites. The food would put many professional restaurants to shame; well presented, warm and nourishing.

I spend my days watching television or reading. I feel perfectly fit and well despite the ongoing treatment. I am regular. I am suffering no side effects from the medication; the doctors tell me that I am making good progress and they are confident of a full recovery.

The only difficulty I have is that my head needs to be placed in a special brace at night as I have to remain upright. Also, I have to move very carefully, as if balancing a plate on my head, to avoid spillage.

"It’s a standard procedure," the surgeon reassured me, "and judging from your medical history, we foresee no complications."

I shuffled apprehensively and said, "But it’s true that you will have to remove my skull?"

"The top of your skull will be removed from about an inch above the temples."

"Won’t that be a little… dangerous?"

"Mr. Benton," said the surgeon leaning forward on his desk, "please rest assured that every precaution will be taken to prevent any mishaps."

In this age of advanced medical procedures I had assumed there would be a less precarious way to operate on my brain without having to remove the top of my head. But despite my concerns it hasn’t been too bad. All it means is that I must keep my head perfectly still and straight at all times.

At first, going for a piss was difficult as my natural tendency was to look down to take aim. But now I sit for all ablutions. I have to be careful when washing as well: getting into and out of the bath while looking directly ahead was too tricky so I now stand in the shower with the nozzle at about chest height. Instead of drying myself and risking brain stain on the bathroom floor, I am supplied with a stack of thick towelling dressing gowns so I can dry naturally.

Eating is not too difficult as my food comes diced and I drink through a straw.

The doctors tell me that the treatment is going smoothly and it should not be too long before I can go home.

They have one more procedure to perform this afternoon and then they will be able to replace the lid on my head.

Right on time, the nurse brings in my breakfast tray. I can smell the bacon and eggs, the warm buttered toast and the piping hot coffee. I carefully lay aside the newspaper and wait to receive my morning sustenance.

Before anything happens, I feel a sudden tensing behind the eyes: I frown in anticipation, raise my hands, but it is too late. I see the nurse trip or stumble, the tray falling out of her hands toward me and the bacon and eggs sliding off the plate in mid air. And then I feel the sudden scolding, liquid heat of the coffee landing on my lap. I yell out in pain, jump up and try to brush the burning beverage from my pyjamas. My head tilts forward and I feel my centre of gravity changing and with it the gloopy consistency of my brain oozing over the edge of my skull and trickling down my face onto my chest.

In total panic, I desperately try to scoop my cerebrum back into my head but it just slips through my fingers like a raw egg.

Everything goes blurred and at first I don’t realise what is happening: I’m having an out of body experience. Not in any spiritual sense: no corridor or tunnel with a blinding light at the end; I am literally seeing my body from the outside. As my brain slipped out of my head, my eyes were pulled out as gravity tugged at the optic nerves.

I lie in my own lap, nothing but a creamy pink lump squelching about in a puddle of cerebrospinal fluid, gazing up at the empty, hollow husk of my body.