The Brutality Report – Lobe Failure

(Actual note written by the author in 1981, under the influence of migraine-induced dyslexia.)

Last fall, I was just wrapping up a workout at the gym when I started seeing flashing lights. Since I know exactly what you’re muttering, allow me to paraphrase it in italics: Jesus Sam, it was only a matter of time. You work out too hard! You’ve already converted yourself into a terrifying tower of muscle. How much mass is enough? You’re lucky blood didn’t squirt out of your eyes, what with all the lunges and squat thrusts and SEAL-Team delt crunches you must perform every day to maintain that physique! Slow. Down.

But here’s the thing, you presumptive jerk. I wasn’t exerting myself at that moment. I was actually sitting quietly, post-workout. It was a moment of contemplation marred by a profound neurological malfunction. First I noticed purple light splotches in my visual field. When I stood, these splotches morphed into a large glowing disc that followed me into the locker room. Baffled naked men watched me fumble with my combo lock and then stagger out like a drunk. By the time I made it to the car, the world had been replaced by a scary and silent discotheque of which I was the only patron.

I’d experienced this 30 years earlier. During that incident, I’d developed a case of sudden onset dyslexia, followed by some slurred speech and a slightly less spectacular lightshow. Doctors diagnosed this as a “migraine condition”—symptoms without headaches—and advised me to lay off the red wine. Perhaps they thought I was a 12-year-old wino. I was told that I would eventually grow out of the condition, which I more or less did. Without being scientific about it, my 2010 brain-break seemed like a resumption of that earlier incident, a tiny comfort as I sat in the parked car and waited for my sight to return.

Eventually the disco receded, and I calmed down and drove home. These episodes got to be an occasional thing, and I realized that the flashing lights were no more than flashing lights. They couldn’t, for example, communicate with me. The lights couldn’t make me harm others, or myself. They didn’t want to show me their starship or make me disrobe in a bank lobby. If I kept a hand over my eyes as a shield from the related photosensitivity, I could absolutely hold a conversation while the lights were going. If this occurred while I was in a restaurant, it would appear as if the person or people I dined with were breaking up with me.

This was amusing, up until a few weeks ago, when I started having these episodes once a day. Which was not so amusing. What if I had a flashing light attack on the freeway? Or, worse, while stuck in traffic in the far left lane? What if I was taking the Bar exam? Or skydiving lessons? Or flying a large commercial aircraft? What if this was my new life? I talked to close friends and relatives about my problem with kaleidoscopic flashing lights, and they all said the same thing: “You’re getting for free what everyone else pays for!”

That’s not the brutal part. I can handle that I have a chronic condition, and that no one takes this condition very seriously. The brutal part is that this is an actual disorder of the brain. Which means I can’t ever be objective about the experience. Perhaps I’m suffering a series of daily strokes or aneurysms. Maybe I’ve been oblivious to a long series of religious experiences initiated by a God who grows increasingly frustrated at my Mister Magoo obtuseness. Or maybe the mini-electrical hurricane that passes over my visual cortex will migrate to other regions. Perhaps this will happen while I’m talking with you. Perhaps you’ll get socked in the face with a chunk of my brain in the resulting explosion. None of these possibilities can be ruled out.

Oops, more lights! Gotta run.