I received a letter within a couple of weeks of my Neurology consultation, advising me of the next step. My appointment was with a consultant by the unassumingly named Mr Ross. When thinking about brain surgeons, My first thought is always of an old advert I remember, where a full-on punk wearing a lab coat screams the words, "I wanna be a braaaaiiin surgeon". Mr Ross was never going to live up to this. I asked a friend who I knew had relatives on a par with Mr Ross in the local medical community, what the word was on Mr Ross. The answer came just shortly after. "He's supposed to be technically brilliant. Don't know about him personally though".
So - technically brilliant. There is no negative way of perceiving that. People have good and bad days, but someone regarding as such must have that reputation for a reason...even if he came in with a stinking hangover! I realised that I must've fallen lucky. Other people had told me that the whole neuro-surgery set-up at Leeds General Infirmary was highly thought of, and whereas my friend couldn't vouch for his personality, I was about to be seen by someone whose professional reputation preceded him. On the day of the appointment, we stepped across the threshold of Leeds General Infirmary for the first time. It was an untidy mixture of architecture, and had the appearance of a patchwork quilt. The classic public owned building look of extension on extension on extension. Inside, the building showed its age, but seemed clean, and dare I say it, quite grand (in an ugly way). We made our way to Mr Ross' office, and we're greeted by one of his registrars. I learnt later that opportunities to actually see the main man would be limited. It mattered not. As long as he was exerting his influence when it mattered, I was happy. The registrar had what seemed like a strange mix of accents, with more than a hint of the trans-Atlantic about it. She was switched on, and a good communicator - I wanted and needed both, as I had a string of questions which I had been noting down for some time. There was a suggestion that I was being given an option as to whether I went under the knife or not, but when the 'not' option involved increasingly painful headaches, more cognitive problems, irreparable damage to my optical nerves, it didn't really seem like an option. I probably don't need to remind you that all I wanted was for this thing to be out. I expressed my preference, and talk turned to the operation. The registrar was clear, concise, and relayed this well. It was deemed that this was the tumour to have, and mine was presented in a way that was relatively straightforward to get out. When I use the word straightforward, I use it advisedly. The suggestion was that this would be a four-and-a-half hour operation, and it involved an incision across the top of my head, opening my skull, and tampering with my brain with an ultrasonic device, to systematically disintegrate the tumour that had become the bane of my life. The imagery this conjured was quite appealing...not least because I was told that it needn't involve my head being shaved. My head is not appealing when shaved. I look like I belong in an orphanage in Eastern Europe. Add this to the inevitable scar / stitches / staples, and it wasn't going to be a pretty sight. "Technically brilliant...technically brilliant", I repeated to myself.
I reeled off my questions, and felt like my understanding was increasing second by second. My brain works in quite a scientific manner. I'm rarely scared of what I understand, and I was starting to get what I was about to go through. I'm sure that if I'd been fully functional at the time, I would have had more questions, but I was tired, and the Registrar, no doubt, had more people to see. We came away from the appointment, knowing that they were looking at a turnaround in weeks rather than months.
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