health

My Two Brains

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For many years, now I’ve wondered if there are two brains in the body. You, too?

My vacation to the Warm South was meant to be a break from the Winter North, but also to test hopefully repaired, rejuvenated, and reclaimed physical abilities. It was during this testing, the “proof” of my second brain was finally revealed.

There have always been internal conversations–such as the infinitely confusing argument between doing good or doing bad–but I assumed those discussions were a normal personality abnormality, simple sophistry inspired by too much Devil’s Advocacy during young, formative years. It would go away with time and maturity, and the accumulation of wisdom. But the second brain discovered in North Carolina last week is different, it actually-,better tell the discovery story, first.

Sometime in the mid-morning hours of Thursday, March 27, 2025, I was in a Happy Place: a public tennis court surrounded by tennis players my own age. It was a time to celebrate recovery, patience, and give the beleaguered medical corporate establishment some credit for good work. The early moments were a time full of insults, name-calling, trash-talking, and too many hugs, all of which were greatly appreciated. Sadly, the second brain discovery happened only moments after actual physical activity was perpetrated. Yes, perpetrated. Perfect word for what happened. Look it up.

A now ex-friend hit a soon to be outlawed (hopefully) shot called a “Drop Shot”. For the un-tennis among you, the Drop Shot is a nasty trick played on mature, semi-immobile tennis players by younger, fully mobile tennis players. Given the abundance of gray hair and joint braces this morning, there was no expectation any one of us would ever have to face such a nasty play. I felt especially free from worry as I was recovering, attempting to resurrect my game, and open to any special treatment benefiting my progress. In a later post we will discuss whether or not there is honor among septuagenarians. (Full disclosure, it was our groups lone octogenarian who hit the shot, so I’ve no legal basis for claim, if so inclined.)

The beginning of the unappreciated drop shot was quickly seen by my Big Skull Brain (BSB), and  BSB immediately broadcast the signal to the entire body to move forward at a rapid pace to get to the falling tennis ball before it hit the ground. Perfect. Just right. So far.

But the next thing to hit the ground was me. The “ground”, by the way, in public tennis courts is painted concrete.

If you are at all familiar with the saying “got out over the ends of my skies”, then no more explanation is needed. For the rest of you, as my BSB issued commands, some other, smaller brain not only cancelled those commands, but did it with prejudice. As I lay writhing on the ground/concrete watching the yellow ball bounce next to my skinned knee, a comment between my BSB and the other, smaller brain was overheard. It went like this: “Move? Hell, no. We ain’t going nowhere.”

And thus a mystery was solved: we do have two brains. At least I do. A naïve, uninformed person may say the smaller brain is located in the penis of a male and it is hard to argue they’d be wrong. We will not attempt to locate the female smaller brain or even make the argument the females are equipped with one. Utter discretion. And maybe one is all they need, anyway

That NC morning’s facts are: one brain said “go” and the other said “no”. My big skull appeared to follow BSB’s directive and moved forward. Parts of the upper body followed, but reluctantly, as if the debate between big and small brain was already happening and non-brain parts were confused about which command to follow. The penis theory might be right because the lower parts followed the small brain directive and pretty much stayed in the same spot, leaving my big skull, and upper trunk to accept gravity’s invitation and topple over, risking major injury if no more action was taken. Fortunately, some sort of “emergency” system (a THIRD brain??) kicked in and my arms extended to absorb most of the impact. The upper body rescued itself and rolled over, saving the heart and lungs for later abuse.

It’s as if the small brain was punished for its incalcitrant (sic) actions as most of the medical carnage was done to knees and lower extremities. Take that, small brain. Aside: why do skinned knees take so long to heal?

You can understand how hurt BSB was, but it did a masterful job of pretending not to be hurt and graciously accepted every ounce of empathy.

It was a distracted drive home with the constant stream of debate between brains. I tried not to listen but did hear the word “insurrection” more than once.

The one, major positive about aging is the things you learn about yourself. One positive, now is—with a second brain—all the bad things done in the past are not entirely my fault…are they?

Hello, miss me?

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I’ve tried not to talk too much about The Calamities which have visited me these last 20 months, but what happened recently deserves noting.

Cancer, AMD, arthritis, and now anemia, caused by cancer treatments make up The Calamities. Of the four, The Big A, arthritis was the biggest pain in my arse(sic), and just about every joint, but especially in my left hip. It was the companion who went with me everywhere, to the tests, and treatments and recovery for all the other Calamities. Arthritis was with me every minute of every day for the last 20-some months. It even slept with me. When I rang the bell at the end of radiation, I had to limp up to the ringer.

Slowly we knocked the others off. We beat cancer, so far. We stopped AMD, so far, and anemia is being tracked, ready for elimination. But The Big A treatment required surgery, something we couldn’t do until the body could take it. Curing The Big C came first.

December 6th, 2024 the body was ready. At the sparkling Apex facility on Route 233 near Westmoreland, NY, I entered the Star Wars of medical care at 6:30am. Every single person from Doctor to receptionist was not only friendly, but treated me as if I were King Charles, or whoever is the big deal in England these day. Questions were answered, treatments were explained, hands were held, and flirting with nurses was allowed (so my daughter says).

Somewhere there is a record of the exact moment I came out from under anesthesia, but all I know, all I care about, all I celebrate, is the moment of the final, complete extermination of my painful companion. A “thing” that had dogged me, disabled me, and caused life to be severely limited…was gone. There was a picture in my mind of Dr. Wickline throwing my old hip bones into a red, medical waste bin, gone forever, to the cheers of his staff.

It’s safe to assume surgical drugs helped my post-op euphoria, but I knew the difference. And even when those drugs wore off and “NORMAL” surgical pain presented itself in the following days, it still felt painless, liberating, and rejuvenating. There was a new life to live…with out The Big A.

It helped that Dr. Wickline not only prepared me for all that was to happen, but he put it in a book so I could read and follow along, knowing all the time exactly what MIGHT happen, all the while hoping very little of it did. Dr. Wickline’s books, and his employees, and the Apex people, made the experience of gaining a new lease on life a real adventure, an enjoyable surgery, and thanks to all of them for getting me through it.

The days of recovery are saturated with noticing and analyzing pains and swellings, and bruising and possible nerve issues. All of which were in the book, and were already being treated by the “Recovery Drug” protocols outlined. Now, on my 12th recovery day, my only real problem is keeping my self from jumping with joy (Watch those sutures!) at the freedom and promise of new life, with both, now, my every day companions.

One last thing, if you are man my age, and you remember when coaches told you to “throw some dirt on it”, take notice of those pains, and modulate them or fix them before its too late. Don’t be so manly. I should have replaced the hip years ago.

Oh, and for fun: if I hadn’t gone to the doctor for The Big A in February 2023, I may not have caught the other Calamities in time to cure them. Think about it old men, and women. Get to the doctors. Now.

Early Morning Something or Other

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It’s 1:30 am, EST, and I’m not only awake, but rested. The Yankees won, so, that helps. And Aaron judge finally homered. Yay.

My days, lately, have inverted themselves. I sleep/nap a lot in the day and spend the night wide awake, rested and wondering about all the things a 20-year-old never had a clue he would be wondering about 52 years later. As a possible misanthrope, (don’t know where to go to get a fair and accurate diagnosis) it’s a pleasure having fewer people awake and milling about, doing nothing but making noise. In this area of upstate NY there are no 24 hour stores, or fitness centers, or any other place to wander around, so here I am. I’ll be at one or the other my fitness centers when they open at 6, and be back to my apartment, toned and refreshed, by the time most everyone else arises and starts to ruin the world.

This early morning post is obviously going nowhere, more like therapy. The daily dose of news has been consumed. The times for the day’s sporting events have been entered into my crowded schedule. I’ve checked my credit union to make sure my identity has not been stolen and money siphoned from accounts. Finished my Kia Warranty paperwork for Limpy, the car that shut down on me while driving. Getting it repaired was a thoroughly enjoyable venture into the world of corporations who communicate poorly and care little for 72 year-old health-challenged humans who need their car. Nuts, to them. They won’t have me to not call back much longer.

As a slower burner of calories, it’s time to plan the days food festivities. Being disabled has reduced my step rate from a healthy 8-10,000 a day, pre-Calamities, to the current dis-respectable average of 2,500 steps. I allow myself the luxury of not worrying about it, anymore, since swimming doesn’t translate into steps, so…I’m good.

I should probably go the bathroom. Maybe a piece of toast. Too early for 120 calories of carbos?

Huh. I’m tired. Just now. Just like that. 2am and back to bed. Not bad. Wonder how many calories I burned typing…

Are you Content? Happy? Both?

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In an article titled “Is Contentment an Underrated Goal in Life?” By Jill Suttie | August 26, 2024. she reports on a study that “suggests contentment is a positive emotion with some unique benefits for people who seek it.“

Researcher Yang Bai summarized her research for this study this way: “Compar[ed] to other positive emotions, contentment makes us more accepting of ourselves,” and “it can bring [people] the strength to accept the good and bad sides of their lives.”

Hmph. That’s not a grumpy noise, but a startled one, as if I just sat down, exhausted, after looking all over the house for my keys and then found them in my pocket. Dedicated readers may remember my August 1, 2024 essay titled “Why Now?” where contentment is happily reported as the possible by-product of misfiring neurons and tangled, silly synapses. (Silly? Synapses, synapse, synopsis, synopses, sinopsis, et.al.)

A fun-filled debate could be had about whether you’d want to be happy or be content, but I see it as the car you own. “Happy” is driving a high-powered Lamborghini with one, free tank of gas and one free month of insurance and maintenance. “Contentment” is driving an NHTSA (Look it up) 5-Star rated car which runs on human farts. I mean, very little gas.

Happy is hard to control. It’s like fireworks: it comes and goes as it pleases, with lengthy pauses to reinforce its spectacular return.

Contentment is the slow smoking of brisket, and the knowledge your hard work will pay off in the end.

Contentment seems easy to find: a good sunrise, actual help from someone in Customer Service, or having your Klondike bar melt perfectly without making a mess. Or having trees talk to you. It’s all around if we find the time and the way to see it.

The study noted above was also looking into whether or not people knew they were content. Or happy. Or if they even knew the difference. Ever have a very good day and wonder why no one else was? You just had a case of the Contentments. The saddest thing, ever, then would be you surrounded by contentment and not know it as you strive mightily for happiness.

Remember Yang Bais words about accepting the good and bad of our lives. Accept the contentment life offers, while waiting for the happiness you seek.

Now, I’m off to the Citadel of Contentment: The Chair. Hope you have one of those.

Why Now?

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Mysticism: a belief or experience involving a direct connection with the divine or ultimate reality, and can also refer to an altered state of consciousness.

No one really understands the brain. We’re close, but not close enough to mapping the 86 billion neurons making up an average brain. Add to the complexity, each neuron can have hundreds of thousands of synapses, or connections to other neurons. 86 billion times 100,000 equals…

So when someone says they have a mystical experience, what does it mean? Is it in fact a connection with the “ultimate reality” (safe way to include all deities), or is it a misfire, a malfunction of something in the synapses and neurons?

As a young man, I experienced episodes of “dazed happenings” lasting from 30-60 seconds. They were times when my mind went wandering and I let go, resulting in feelings of connection and “great peace” with the world. They faded with maturation but were never forgotten. I labeled them “Grace Periods.”

With the onset of The Calamities in 2023, and after months of drug treatments and radiation, the Grace Periods tried to make a comeback. Maybe. In the months following treatment, the “mind wandering” would start, but the first few times it continued down a darker path and felt like approaching death, so I fought the wandering and found my way back to “normal”. Subsequent UNC research revealed a name and possible cause: Orthostatic Imbalance from too much potassium. Limiting potassium and quick, body position changes ended the “Dark” wanderings

But as you can probably tell by my last post, the wandering has returned. And if the wandering is unchecked, the result is trees talk to me and there is beauty everywhere. God’s beauty, or the “Ultimate Reality’s” beauty. Its a funny thing (strange funny) to feel. “Things” disappear. Things like worry, anxiety, pain, the unfathomable, bottomless questions about “being”. All gone. Nothing but contentment. Not happiness, just a feeling everything will not just be okay, but it will be what it is meant to be. The wandering is still not understood. But, all is well.

As a senior citizen, my first understanding of why these things happen is the close relationship to death. Or closer, relationship of age. A few months back I wrote about a midnight revelation (See: “Whoa…really?” from May 10, 2024.) which may be related to the Grace Periods.

A rational, scientific mind could interpret what I’ve described as the misfiring of complicated bionic equipment and connections in an aging brain.

A mystical person, however, would revel in the evidence of a Grand Design from the Ultimate Reality, who has something fantastic in mind for one of His/Her/Its creations.

Maybe someday we’ll know but right now, both explanations sound right to me. Contentment is a wonderful thing, even if it’s not understood.

Whoa…really?

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Night time is a tough time for old people. In the darkness and quiet times we have plenty of opportunity to think. And what do we think about? Hopefully, you’ve read enough to know. It is a running review of the past, present, and future of life, complete with an inner dialogue between two parts of the same brain: a reasonable, intelligent part, and a strange little voice that won’t shut up.

But I was surprised the other night when the little inside voice calmly said this to the rest of me :

“I am ready for death. When it happens I’ll welcome it.”

The inside voice is the mouth in your head that thinks and talks about things your brain tries to keep you from thinking about. The usual conversation for me involves food. My brain says “you’ve had enough, stop eating”, while the inside voice says “man that Klondike Bar was good, lets have another.”

There isn’t a winner in debates between the brain and the inside voice..they tend to reach an agreement, a settlement, a compromise, and life goes on. Sometimes I get the extra Klondike Bar, sometimes I don’t.

So on that fateful night, as I lay awake in the dark thinking of all life’s complexities, my inside voice blurted out the statement noted above.

I sat up in bed and bed and said loudly: “Whoa. Really?”

Yeah. That’s exactly what happened. My brain and inside voice agreed on something and I was the last to know. I was surprised but felt a relief, a peacefulness new to my life. I liked it.

In the light of morning I recalled the night’s events and noted the relief, the peacefulness still filled my body with…well, peace.

Its not easy to comprehend the billions who have died before us, or the billions who will probably die after us, but there is some comfort in knowing they exist. But as someone once said to me: “There’s the past, there’s the present, and there’s the future. Live where your feet are.”

Which reminds me I need new shoes. Slip-ons. No laces.