The last time I posted to my blog was almost two years ago when I learned that I had a brain tumor and was facing some delicate and dangerous surgery. In the process of getting my affairs in order, I also reviewed some highlights of my life and decided that, without a doubt, I had been blessed with an extraordinary one with some incredible experiences and remarkable friendships. I was making a list of people I have known or met and decided to limit it just to some famous and accomplished people with whom I had an actual conversation. The list started with James Baldwin, Mihail Baryshnikov, Jackie Onassis, John Jr., Bette Davis, Millard and Linda Fuller (founders of Habitat for Humanity with whom I had a lifelong friendship) Andrew Young, Arthur Shores and his family, Jimmy Carter, George W. Bush, Tab Hunter, Liza Minelli, Joe Namath (although he was drunk at the time) and literally hundreds of others who, though not as famous as these, were and are just as notable.
Almost 75 years old with at least three major surgeries and a few other life traumas behind me that I may address when I get some time, I continue to feel blessed in many ways. Amazingly, life’s travails have barely slowed me down. Even while recovering from several surgeries, I was able to continue with my volunteer work and other pastimes, one of which has been painting which I started doing when I was a kid. I got in my head that I should do paintings for some of my friends as a memento of our friendship or something they might sell on eBay after I’m gone. The one pictured here is an amateur, semi-realistic painting I completed a few months ago as a birthday present for my dear friend Rene Joyal. It’s my take on the woods surrounding the vacation home he built for his family on the Canadian border in Pittsburg, New Hampshire where birch trees abound and wildlife plentiful. In it, I embedded various small animals, including a representation of his grandchildren, Charlotte and Raiden, for which I have made no secret that I adore them. I thought it would be fun for them to search for the animals and see themselves holding hands as they wander down the winding path into a sunset. They are always arm-in-arm on any adventure and they’ve had many at the “North House”.
This is likely my last painting of this type before I am forced into my “Impressionist” period because of my failing eyesight due to the residual effects of the brain tumor that was removed in May of 2020. Certainly, I won’t be doing details like this eagle and his friends without the help of visual aids. Even writing emails and posts like this have become a challenge.
So, on top of the raging pandemic and Trump, I had this health ordeal with which to deal, making me think it was past time for me to exit the planet or at least disappear for a while and regroup for the last chapter.
Turns out the tumor had been there for many years, slowly encroaching into all sorts of places it was not supposed to be, causing other health problems and issues. Somehow, my Harvard-trained ophthalmologist overlooked some clear signs that something might be wrong until after cataract surgery he performed that left me blind in my right eye. For several years I had complained that my vision in that eye was not being corrected by refraction (his prescription glasses) and there was pressure behind the eye I could feel. When the MRI was done, the pronounced protrusion of my right eye was also more readily apparent and might have been noticed much earlier if I had just gone to a competent optician at Pearl Vision instead of the New England Eye Center. Do not want to be too gruesome here but thought one of the images from one of my many MRI’s would validate my claim. BTW, this same Harvard-trained doctor in a follow up appointment to see if my vision had improved any after the surgery, overlooked a bleeding lesion which turned out to be a basal cell carcinoma and would have cause major disfigurement had it not been noticed by my primary care physician and surgically removed by a specialist because of its proximity to my eye. The lesson here is that sometimes you have to be your own doctor and at least vigilant all the time; a white lab coat does not always a good doctor make.
The brain surgery was performed by the head of neurology at Tufts Medical, Dr. Carl Heilman. Somehow, I really lucked out. He’s simply the best. You can watch him give a lecture on brain tumors at this site: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rirhV22dKTM. After 15 hours of surgery, he removed most of the tumor but had to leave some of it that was choking my optic nerves rather than having me risk total blindness. He used titanium to rebuild my skull and stapled my head together with 60 or so metal staples. I looked like a Frankenstein creation immediately after the surgery but was so amazed I was still alive, didn’t bother to complain. Instead joked that I was ready and would not need a Halloween costume this year, or maybe anytime in the future. I was bringing my own. But Dr. Heilman’s skill is so great that no one notices the scars unless I point them out and I am loathed to do that. Nothing is more boring than other people’s health problems, especially when the endless health war stories come from hypochondriacs. I apparently had a seizure on the recovery table, so they kept me under longer than usual. When I finally regained consciousness, the doctors were gathered around me to assess the situation and determine if I had lost any cognitive abilities or other body functions, like the ability to speak or walk. They asked the usual questions: ”What’s your name?”; “Where are you?”; “What day is it?”; I answered each of them as politely as I could, thinking answering just the first one would be sufficient to convince them I had survived with my brain functions and speech relatively intact. But I left no doubt when they asked, “Who’s the president of the United States?”. Without hesitation, I answered, “An idiot. Now please take me to my room so I can rest”. One of the doctors apparently agreed. “He’s good to go! Take him to his room.”
Aside from having the bragging rights of surviving a brain tumor and still being lucid and smarter than any Trump sycophant I know, I’ve decided there are other advantages if I ignore the fact that the right side of my face is always numb and I’m having the inconvenience of daily radiation treatments to stave off further damage. For one, I’ve been able to return to my normal weight and wear clothes from 40 years ago that now fit again. No one seems to care that they may be out of style. More importantly, I now have an organic excuse for all of my bad behavior through the years. So, if I ever insulted or offended you, it was “Densa”, (the name I’ve given my tumor), not me. I chose Densa in homage to my membership in Mensa that some friends, namely Dr. Paul Houston and his wife Kay, thought I should join as it would be a good way to meet people with high IQs and maybe improve my lackluster social life. Paul and I took the test and I was the only one who passed, but he went on to become the superintendent of the Princeton, NJ schools and executive director of the American Association of School Administrators. Go figure. After the tumor, I canceled my membership after a spontaneous revelation that it was not worth $99 a year just for the fun of being able to say I knew a waitress or truck driver with an IQ of 140. So, I hung it on my framed report card from Baker Elementary which I attended while apparently living on Avenue I in Ensley in 1953. ( Looked up the address on Google maps and have absolutely no memory of the place or anything that happened there. And there is no historical marker, so I may have cruised through the second grade either drunk or in detention.) Nevertheless, I was promoted to the 3rd grade with all E’s, except for an S in conduct. Hard to believe that I might have had a slight behavior problem. But the good news is that I was vaccinated without any apparent protest or rebellion. In fact, I remember getting the Polio vaccine on a sugar cube, making me want to get it again and again. I wonder if this would work with the anti-Covid vax nutcases? A drop of the vaccine in their Trump Kool-Aid might be a way to solve this phony and dangerous problem of them wanting to infect others for the sake of protecting the sacred control over their own bodies. You know. It’s the same fight they are waging against women who think they should be able to control their bodies and terminate an unwanted pregnancy.
Anyway, I am receiving radiation treatments on the recommendation of Dr. Heilman and my neuro-ophthalmologist at Mass Eye and Ear in whom I have complete confidence. The purpose is to try and stop the tumor from returning and save the sight I have left. While I have argued that I’ll likely die of something else, like my AFIB, before the tumor gets me, I don’t want to hurt any feelings by ignoring advice based on the facts from doctors who have my best interests at heart and have never lied to me. Although I still have suspicions that Dr. Heilman may not have been totally honest when I asked him about whether he took any bathroom or lunch breaks during those 15 hours he was fiddling around in my brain. I warned him that if we found any breadcrumbs from Subway in the occipital cavities, I would not let him operate again on me if he had an empty stomach.
While it is admittedly a pain in the ass to interrupt my routine every day with a trip to Tufts Oncology, it gives me a reason to get dressed and I get to see all sorts of people on the commuter rail and subway. It’s especially fun to see excited kids waiting happily waiting for the arrival of the train, though there is a sadness deep inside of me as it reminds me that small children are also waiting for trains to carry them to any safety without a certain home or destination ahead of them. I also get to harass the doctors and attendants administering the treatments. I complained that every day they ask me the same annoying question as I’m strapped into the machine. They said it’s the rule to ask for my birth date, so they don’t treat the wrong patient which is certainly possible. Friday, Ryan, my usual technician was hiding in an observation room as I completed my treatment at the hands of other staff. I accosted him with a statement that I was going to have to report them because they forgot to ask me my date of birth and zapped the wrong person. Claimed my name was Brad Pitt and my birthday was December 18, 1963. He didn’t buy it. Apparently, I’m more recognizable than I realize. Or maybe its because, in my old age, I have a story of some experience, relative to everything that happens that I compulsively share. For example, when he completed constructing the mask they use to keep me still in the “zapper”, I told him that he had done such a good job that he and his helper reminded me of a mask maker I met on the streets of New Orleans a couple of decades ago. I was so impressed with his work, I commissioned him to make me two “Phantom of the Opera” masks. I paid him what he asked and gave him my mailing address and a couple of months later they arrived at my home in Birmingham. His artistry was amazing and the masks were a credit to his creativity and skill, although I gave them away when I determined they did not fit into my decor and the frenzy over Phantom which I had seen opening week on Broadway with Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman started fading. Every year, I’d get some card or letter from this guy saying that the money I paid him saved his life, or at least allowed him to pay his rent and eat for a few more days, and he would never understand why I trusted him to finish the work and follow-through. H?E pointed out that I didn’t even write down his name or ask for a receipt.
We discussed this again when he called me one day to say he had been hired by Disney World as their chief mask maker. After I congratulated him on this job about which he was clearly excited, I told him, “It’s not that complicated”. “I just start out in every relationship assuming the best and that all people are basically decent and honest. And while I’ve been proven wrong a time or two, it’s a better way to view the world than through cynical eyes that assume the worst about everyone and everything.” Anyway, I told Ryan the technician that this guy was probably ready to retire by now and if this medical thing did not work out as he planned, he might be a good replacement at Disney, and I could call my mask friend whose phone number I still have and see what was up. And working at the Magic Kingdom could be a lot more fun than listening to old people like me day in and day out. He agreed.
(Unfortunately for him, I have some more stories to share, especially the one about my lunch with Bette Davis,dinner with Liza Minelli, and how I came to be James Baldwin’s escort to the Symphony. So stay tuned.)
john katopodis: the path well travelled 