Ah, Boston.  The land where Rs either don’t exist on the end of words, or they are added when they actually aren’t there (example:  “pizzar”).  The land where you pay your toll to the Sumner Tunnel and the guy calls Jonathan “Pal.”   The land where Jonathan is kind of a folk hero because he can describe what it was like to be there during the blizzard of  ’78.  The place where, even though we lived here for many years, the antics of drivers can still surprise us.

It’s been a long day of appointments, but we are mostly ready to go now. Turns out that spending an hour+ sitting in the Chief of Neurosurgery’s waiting room is a really good way to end up feeling that you have no problems at all in the world. Today it was packed with people with shaved heads, mobility and mental challenges, and lots of stories. Just listening in made me realize that, if you ever want to be around a lot of courage, you should just go hang out in the neurosurgery waiting area. Particularly emotional for me was the young woman who has 2 stents in her brain because she was born with hydrocephalus and also shrapnel in a number of areas of her skull because she and her family survived attacks when they lived in Sarajevo. Hearing her telling her story, all the time with a face of bravery and  a  type of humor I’ve come to understand is critical to making it through these moments, put many things in my own life in perspective.

We met with Dr. Eskandar to confirm the details of the surgery. And then there was the great moment when he gave me a wink and said “See you tomorrow, shall we?” That’s a moment — when your neurosurgeon winks at you!

I was felt like a star in pre-op because it turns out that doing a lot of yoga and Nia keep your blood pressure and the rest of your body very healthy — all of those tests and numbers looked good. I have a delightful anesthesiologist (Standford Grad — Go Cardinal!) who was telling Jonathan where he could watch the youtube video on putting in a central line (I’m going to pass on that this evening).  Heard the general description of the gizmo they screw my head into so that it remains perfectly still while they do the surgery. It’s a lot to take in, and I am happy that I will not be awake for most of it.

Kind people seem to be everywhere.  Even the woman doing my blood work and my EKG told me, when we finished that she would be praying for me (and go by her church and light a candle for me).  I can’t imagine feeling more surrounded by love than I do right now.  And I love you, right back!