Sunday, January 27, 2013
Scientific American February 2013
I couldn’t believe that I was holding your brain in my hand. I laughed. Then, I threw up. Not on the brain, on the floor, a little on my new Doc Martins. You’d asked me to take your negative thoughts that were bringing you down, down, down, into the mud of your past. It didn’t matter to you that I’d only completed two weeks of residency at Mount Sinai. I performed a lobotomy in the foyer of your condo building because neither of us wanted to clean up the mess. We’d leave it to the cleaning people who come in and do the floors every week. You died pretty quick. I mean, we didn’t have IV’s or the right instruments, or anything surgical at all. There was no nurse. At one point the concierge came over and asked if everything was okay. I paused, looked him in the eye, and said, “Yes!” perhaps a bit too confidently. Your brain was heavier than I thought it might be, a solid ten pounds, for sure. I lifted it high above my head.