The headaches were there in the beginning. I remember the pain better than I remember my first words or my first day at school.
Mum used to say, “Donny Gladfield. You think too much. You’ll stress yourself out.”
But despite my greatest attempts. Despite meditation, alcohol, smoking, all the good and bad you can name as an escape —the tension at the top of my skull never went away.
My first doctor wrote it off as psychological. But I wasn’t psycho-anything. The pain, for me, was all too real.
I happened to be clever —an overachiever. The advice given by parents and teachers was to not be so hard on myself, I was doing great already. I took their advice at face value.
I learned to live with it.
By the time 28 rolled around, I was used to the pain. I had my own place; I was dating a girl; I had a good job. The tension was part of who I was. In fact, something about being in this state of despair made me work harder, it made me want to prove that the pain meant something. Almost as if I had to rid myself of the burden.
Dayna and I decided to start a family. It had been both of our dreams. A family would make us happy.
We tried. We tried so hard. This time the doctor said that I had to relax, that the stress was harming our chances.
Several months later, Dayna left me. She said I was miserable. I was. She said I needed to get myself sorted. I needed to get rid of whatever I was holding onto. I needed help.
All I wanted was to live a normal life.
This time, I was put in line for an MRI at my local. The pain had never been worse. What had once been an ache on my skull had spread to my neck and shoulders.
The doctor stared at his computer screen, sweat beading across his forehead.
“I’m not sure how to say this,” he said.
“Spit it out, doc.”
The doctor paused. “You have a tumor at the base of your skull.”
“Shit,” I said.
“Thats not all,” the doctor said. “It’s growing hair and teeth and arms and legs. It’s been living inside of you for god knows how long.”
I swallowed, trying to process what he had said.
“Its fingers have been prying away at the inside of your skull for . . . for what looks like years.”
“Come off it,” I said.
“We’ve got days maybe hours, Mr. Gladfield. We must act.”
The pressure at the top of my head increased. There was a sharp prick from inside the skin and a warm dribble rolled down the back of my neck.
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Credits
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