Honestly, it would explain a lot.

 

The black goo—that’s what I affectionately referred to it as. It was this metaphorical but almost literal dark ichor, rotten blood, that surrounded my brain. Sometimes it was so thick I could feel it swirling around my head with every step. I knew it wasn’t real; it was psychosomatic. But every headache, every hazy day, every time I struggled to remember a name, I felt its presence. I didn’t go to the hospital often growing up, partly because Medicaid didn’t cover much and partly because I was afraid of what they would find.

 

I kept having this recurring dream that I’m in a hospital room. A doctor would push back my thick black hair to reveal my big brown ears and shove the otoscope in there with its big bright light and disposable cover. He would look for a second and then look some more.  he would pause, and he would blink, he’d take it out, and clean it and recalibrate it and look some more. Then he’d take off his blue latex gloves, clean his glasses on his white lab coat, and slowly rise from the stool he was perched on. Internally, he would be giddy, but he would have to mask the excitement of discovering a new ailment as his face turned into a stern, compassionate one. 

 

He would quietly mumble something cliché like “I-I-I’ve never seen anything like this before” in a low voice, gently murdering the fifteen-minute puzzled silence he created by digging into me. He’d whisper something to the nurse, and she would frantically rush out of the room. In seconds, she would be holding the door open as two additional nurses ushered in a gurney. The two nurses, who took an oath to treat each patient with compassion above all, would forcibly transfer me onto the new bed. I wouldn’t even be fully on it before they started pushing it through the halls.

 

They would frantically place an oxygen mask over my face, and it would be in an awkward position, pinching my lower right cheek uncomfortably. I would barely overhear the doctor say, “Surgery room seven is open. Let’s start prepping him now,” as he speed-walked to keep up with the nurses pushing the heavy metal bed. We would arrive in surgery room seven, and it would be sterile. It would have those big shadowless overhead surgery lights, but instead of an operating bed, there would be a chair—think electric chair, with arm restraints and a head vice.

 

The doctor, who is now a surgeon, is present in sterile aqua green scrubs with double-gloved hands. He has a blue bandana covering his silvery-white hair and a face shield visor that has another big bright light. He would shave my thick black hair and put my head in the vice, screwing it tight, just like the otoscope. Then he would grab a sharpie and haphazardly draw a circle around the circumference of my newly shaved head. I can imagine him being eager, excited to confirm what he saw in my ear as he reached for a rotating circular saw and switched it on. 

 

The warm buzz of the saw would be quiet until it makes contact with the path he drew on my head. Then the buzz would pitch up as it carves away at my scalp. In some instances of this dream, I like to think that he uses one of those electric turkey carvers people used to use on Thanksgiving in old TV specials. He finishes the full rotation of my head and switches the saw off, gently placing it on the surgical tray beside him. 

 

My skull, now disconnected, turns into a hat, and he places his double-gloved hands on my head—one hand on each side, like he’s about to pick up a toddler—and exclaims, “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got.” He lifts my skull off, and the black goo streams down my head, rushing onto the floor. It gets on my clothes and the double-gloved hands. He is still holding my skull a foot above my head, repeating, “I’ve never seen anything like this before” 

 

A wave of relief washes over me; my shoulders drop for the first time in years. I can remember what I ate for breakfast today and yesterday. This is why I always describe it as a dream and not a nightmare—because of the relief. The doctor says something smart like, “Have you really been living with this in your head your whole life?” I reply with something simple like, “Honestly, it would explain a lot.” 

 

He grabs a toothbrush from the surgical tray and starts scrubbing my brain, removing every trace of the rot from every lump and crevice. He pulls back fold after fold and gets deep into each one. When he’s done with all he could, he staples my head back and says, “They’re probably going to name this after you. Also, whatever it is, I guarantee it isn’t covered by your insurance. Good luck.” He leads me out of the room. 

 

I feel like an environmental disaster. I remember seeing pelicans covered in oil on the late-night news after an oil rig blew up off the Mexican Gulf. I remember commercials for Dawn dish soap claiming they were the bird cleaner of choice. I consider purchasing a bottle on my way home. I run my hands across my freshly buzzed head, stroking it almost as if I’m trying to metabolize my hand through my skull. 

 

Then it hits me again: I don’t feel heavy anymore. I can think without intrusion. One thought is just one thought; it isn’t a spiral that leads onward into infinity. I’m not anxious anymore. I can take a deep breath and fill my lungs, and for the first time in my life, I’m cured.