There’s a CD with MRI scans sitting on my desk—sealed and unopened. Today, it’s been exactly a week. The results that will tell what is happening in my head. Is my acoustic neuroma—a tumor also known as a vestibular schwannoma— “moving” in any direction or just chilling in there? That paper envelope, more precisely the CD it contains, holds the data that will ground me—in a good way or a bad way—I don’t know yet. I’m afraid to look at it! It feels like I’m in the middle of a cosmic coin toss, frozen just before the flip lands. If I don’t look, there’s still a chance that my protocol—my disciplined and borderline-religious way of life—might be working. That the tumor is shrinking. Or even just staying still. If I do look, that possibility might vanish. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat, but instead of a box, it’s an MRI viewer. Instead of a cat, it’s my faith. Well, if by any chance a thought already came into your mind like, “ Fool, he thinks he can reverse it just by eating some m...
Not the path I chose. But it's the path I walk!