Spectrum of Lightning

Everyone in the room stood behind their protective screens. As if I were some key figure in a fantasy movie, a colored spectrum of lightning tore through the room visible only to me.

A catheter inserted into my femoral artery had been carefully navigated through my aorta, up into my neck, and finally into my head. Several people watched closely. I lay flat on my back, surrounded by equipment.

“Hands in the air,” the doctor said. “You’re doing great. Okay, here we go.” He was wonderful; calm, humorous, reassuring. Then my arm went limp. The left hemisphere of my brain had been completely put to sleep.

A doctor I knew well sat beside me. “Okay, Kieran, what’s this?” she asked, holding up a fork. I knew exactly what it was, but I couldn’t say a word. My ability to speak had vanished. She continued showing me objects and pictures as my brain flickered between silence and comprehension.

Then, slowly, my left hemisphere woke up again.

“Did I show you this?” she asked. “And what about this?” On and on she went. Here came the twist you might not expect: somehow, I scored full marks.

Now it was time for the right hemisphere. Again, my arm fell limp.

“Did I show you this?” she asked. But in my mind, I thought, What a ridiculous question! She hadn’t shown me anything.

The results were the opposite of what’s typical; language and comprehension switched sides.

The news was terrible, proof of how damaged my brain truly was. And yet, it was also tremendous. It would shape the rest of my life.

That test was the most terrifying of them all, yet everyone around me made it feel easy. With them by my side, I’d welcome that colored spectrum of lightning again, even if I were the only one who could see it.