I don't think I can be friends with my neuro-oncologist. You think I'm being silly?
She's saved your life, you say? She's intelligent; she's pretty. Why can't she be your friend?
Because I don't think we could really be friends.
When we're together, in the same room, like we were today, just hours ago, I'm so focused on the images of my brain that shine behind her that I can't pay attention to the words she says.
I mean, I can only pay attention to my brain. All 16 images of them. This hole here, that hole there, the white, the black, the white, and so on.
If we ever bumped into each other at a Cubs game or a play, my words would stumble. And she'd think it was a seizure.
But it wouldn't be the kind she was used to reading about, no, it would be an outrotextbook kind but she wouldn't accept that as an excuse.
She called me a boring patient today, I think. Because I had a stable MRI. And that was the sweetest thing she ever said.
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