The doctor is the equivalent of Dr. Nick. Unfortunately the doctor is one of my father's friends or a customer or whatnot and that makes the doctor's opinion carry enormous weight. When I return to my old bedroom there's no furniture or clothes or anything except for kipple and scattered junk with the odd spider.
Impending death with an absolute deadline was frightening and calming all at once. Instead of going out, causing chaos, fucking everything I see and gorging myself beyond what is considered humanly possible I just lay down on my red carpet and stared at the ceiling.
My sister came in,smiled and knelt beside me, "Spivvy, you're going to die tomorrow. What do you think about that?" and other inane shit questions in a condescending and mock-concerned voice. I continued to lay there in my catatonic state watching other people step over me and wander around my bedroom. Reckon it was going to be rented out as soon as the death certificate was issued by the physician.
Time is always subjective. The blinds in my bedroom were full of the light of the setting sun only to fade to darkness broken by the lonely street light outside my open window. I could hear the birds singing their praises to the newborn sun heralding a new day. My father knocked softly at my door and came in without being invited.
"It's time to go."
Dad drove me to a mall in my mom's old blue gray Chevrolet Caprice. Neither of us spoke a word which is strange for him because he always has something to say. Inside the mall I saw the back of Dr. Nick but my father wasn't going in his direction. "I want to see about getting a second opinion."
A second opinion. A SECOND FUCKING OPINION? NOW OF ALL TIMES WHAT THE CHRIST!?!?!?
The new doctor seemed to be more knowledgeable about medicine. He looked like Harald Schmidt. You know, the fgsfds guy. Use Google if you're completely lost. Thanks. In five minutes he determined that my situation wasn't terminal and he could easily remedy the situation.
The remedy required sawing a square into my forehead, opening the hood and digging out gobs of fat around the rim of my brain. When one has spent the last 24 hours faced with the prospect of eternity this kind of meatball surgery is a relief. So I watched the doctor saw open my head, root around and slap it back together. My father and I drove home again in silence. He told me while I was under the knife that Dr. Nick told him that my sister wasn't looking too well.