4/13/2025 — I was pretty sure I was having a stroke. My wife did the responsible thing and called 911. By the time the paramedics arrived, my body apparently decided, “Just kidding!” and the symptoms vanished. Paramedics left, wife drove me to the ER, where doctors confirmed: “No stroke.” Great news, except the right side of my body still felt like it was auditioning for the role of “Novocain Patient #1.” Hours later? Still numb.
Diagnosis for numbness? Nada. bonus diagnosis: A brain aneurysm. Surprise! I’m like, “Cool. So I came in with a flat tire, and you found a bomb in the trunk.” Also, my dad died of an aneurysm at 40. I’m 57. So, thanks, Dad, for the genetics. Couldn’t leave me money or a fast metabolism, huh? No — just the cranial pipe bomb. As months pass, cue a battery of tests: X-rays, MRIs, MRAs… basically everything short of a tarot card reading, an exorcism, and a magic 8-ball.
Fast-forward to July 31, 2025 — diagnostic cranial angiogram. Results of angiogram delivered 8/19/25. My neurosurgeon tells me: “You have an irregularly shaped anterior communicating artery aneurysm, ~5x6x8mm, with the aneurysmal neck significantly incorporating the proximal inferior A2 segment.” Which I think is medical Latin for: “Your plumbing is jacked up.”
Bonus fun fact: my brain’s arteries don’t talk to each other across hemispheres — like divorced parents who refuse to co-parent. Again, thanks, Dad.
Now for treatment options:
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Do nothing just… live my life like a walking piñata, waiting for the swing.
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Try a stent and coil, which has a 50/50 chance of working. So basically Vegas odds, except the prize isn’t money — it’s “not dying.”
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Craniotomy and clipping, which means they take out my orbital bone and part of my skull, then put it back together like IKEA furniture and hope they don’t have leftover screws.
Both procedures come with a 5% chance of “catastrophic injury,” I asked what that meant, and he just stared at me. You ever been stared at by a neurosurgeon? Yeah, not comforting.
So, my choices are:
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Walk around with a live grenade in my head.
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Gamble on a stent with coin-flip odds.
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Or let a surgeon play Jenga with my skull.
Oh, and remember that right-side numbness from scalp to toes? Still unexplained. “Really? You can separate conjoined twins, replace a face, even 3D print a new jaw… but you can’t diagnose why my right ass cheek is asleep?”