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My mom had started to look forward every day to seeing the grandfatherly Dr.“Bugsy”; his perpetual good cheer and kind words had become one of the only bright spots in these darkening days. When he didn’t arrive on the afternoon that the test results came back, she worried, and wandered the hallway looking for him. She spied his white lab coat as he left one of the other rooms down the hall. “Yes. The whole world is making fun of me.” A new MRI had been loaded into his office computer and workstation, and it guided the surgeon through a process called frameless stereotactic neurosurgery, which involves the visual mapping of the brain in both three and two dimensions so that the surgeon can swiftly and accurately target one specific area of the brain—in this case, the right frontal cortex. He had already chosen an area, one without any large draining veins, farthest away from the parts of the brain responsible for motor functions. My gurney was rolled over to the operating table, my scalp shaved and cleaned. Then they put me under general anesthesia.
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