The Day My Brain Exploded Read online

  “An AVM is not caused by anything,” Dr. Santanorexic said quietly. “It is a congenital birth defect—a defect that develops in the fetus during the third month of pregnancy. Behavior didn’t cause it. Ashok was born with it.

  “The AVM hemorrhage was going to happen someday—turns out today was the day. It usually bursts in a person between the ages of twenty and forty. Many brain hemorrhages and aneurysms are urogenitally based, meaning that they usually happen when a person’s having sex, giving birth, going to the bathroom. In your case, your brother told me you were masturbating.”

  He turned to me. “The second you orgasmed, your blood rushed to the brain with severe pressure. The AVM ruptured because of it, causing your brain to bleed, flooding your head with septic fluid. Ashok, AVM bleeds can be fatal.”

  He then looked at my family and said gravely, “It’s a wonder he’s still here.”

  The fog in my head scattered with this new information. So this disgusting tangle had been hiding in my brain since I was in Mom’s womb. It was my inheritance: a murderous genetic inheritance.

  One would think this news to be the perfect antidote to Prakash’s scolding, the medical information to absolve me of any responsibility. But deep down, I still believed I was at fault. I had been bad, playing with myself on my brother’s wedding day. I had caused the hemorrhage. But, of course, I hadn’t.

  Pre-explosion

  Oddly enough, I was able to regain consciousness temporarily. Much later, I found out through a neurologist that most people who suffer brain hemorrhages fall into unconsciousness briefly after their explosion, then return to lucidity for a few hours, and then lose it once again.

  This would explain how I could later remember assessing the enormity and seriousness of what had happened, while at the same time recalling bits of my life leading to the bleed—namely, my home, which at the time was a huge top-level Chelsea studio apartment, complete with fireplace.

  My job in public relations was quite lucrative, which was why I could afford such an apartment. I loved that flat of mine. A major problem, however, was my insurance. I had just recently left one job and taken a higher-level position at another public relations firm—but that was just a week or so before my explosion. Which meant I had no health insurance from the new company yet, as they only doled that out some months after employment commenced. Which meant I was left to rely on the COBRA insurance from my earlier job. The only problem: I didn’t recall signing the COBRA form.

  Though awake, as my lucidity began its disappearing act, I was still unable to absorb the reality of it all. Everything seemed to be in slow motion as Prakash, Mom, and I looked at each other in silence. Then Dad entered the room, visibly angry, his thinning hair askew, gray plastic glasses nearly falling off his sweat-soaked face.

  “What’s happening with your insurance?” he demanded. There it was, the insurance issue. I knew it was a problem, but had no idea how it would affect me so much at that exact time—in the midst of my brain bleeding away.

  “Huh?” I said to Dad, my head still aching fiercely. I couldn’t believe I was being interrogated.

  “I just called your former employer. The goddamn office manager informed me that you never signed your COBRA insurance form when you left. You had sixty days, you moron. Now we might have to pay millions just to keep you alive!”

  “Dad, are you psycho?” Prakash intervened. “Ashok could die any moment!”

  Mom said nothing, her round moon-face wilting. Not yet changed for the wedding, she was wearing her faded jeans and loose gray sweater. Her lush black hair was untied, messily falling around her shoulders. Her face was without makeup, the dark brown skin naked as she began crying softly. Mom’s Estée Lauder eggplant lipstick—her cosmetic trademark—had been smudged away.

  “Have common sense,” Dad replied in a voice betraying an equal mixture of anger and fear. “This will be his deathbed if we can’t afford to keep him alive. Insurance is all that matters at this point.”

  Prakash, Mom, and even the doctors appeared stunned at Dad’s outburst. Moments after having my brain detonate, I was having another medical emergency: I was being ripped a new asshole.

  Luckily, Prakash was an attorney. He quickly called the office manager for my old employer and insisted that I was still entitled to full insurance even though I hadn’t signed off. After much arguing between them, she finally agreed. I was saved.

  I looked with gratitude at my big brother. Prakash, over six feet tall and skinny, was still in his tuxedo slacks. His long-sleeved dress shirt was now unbuttoned, wrinkled and sweat-stained.

  The last few hours had aged him beyond his twenty-eight years. His chiseled face was pale and looked downright skeletal. His eyes were swollen and dark.

  But his hard work on the phone paid off. Now that I was insured, Dad could breathe again, safe in the knowledge that his bank account wouldn’t be emptied.

  Hell Begins

  Immediately after dealing with the insurance debacle, the real nightmare started. Thoughts churned wildly in my damaged mind as the effects of the explosion made their way through my body. All I really understood was that I was losing my freedom to move. I later learned that, right at this moment, my exploded brain had exposed my body to a tidal wave of murderous bacteria. I was moved immediately from the ER to the Intensive Care Unit.

  Though unaware of my actions, I had become hysterical from the hemorrhage, and like an animal caught in an unforgiving trap, I tried to pull my arms free of the IV pole, and tried to kick myself off the bed. The doctors were forced to strap me in.

  I began burning with a high fever and started vomiting. And as the raw torture caused my consciousness to slowly descend into delirium, my earlier shocks of confusion were lessening, transforming into horror and fear.

  My insides felt scalded, with the shockwaves brought on by the hemorrhage unleashing too much radiated heat for my body to handle. The pain caused my damaged brain to shut down; I felt my mind rapidly slipping away. The doctors then decided to administer a spinal tap to check the amount of noxious blood and fluid swirling inside me.

  I sensed my head being split apart, the middle a bloody yolk. My torn brain was continuing to spill itself into me, flooding my internal organs with an excess of unhealthy cerebrospinal fluid, or CSF.

  Another CT scan was performed. While it showed no new complications, this was little consolation; CSF continued its deadly flow throughout my brain.

  I sensed I was now bypassing purgatory and going straight into the lake of fire.

  Nonbloody Events of the Day: 2000 (II)

  Spanking my monkey into a brain-bleed, of course, was not how the wedding day had begun.

  When I first arrived in D.C., on Thursday, I had not felt well. My throat hurt, my nose dripped, my ears ached. Everyone else was excited about the nuptials—but I only felt miserable. I went to a nearby pharmacy, bought some over-the-counter cold syrup, and hoped for the best.

  The wedding was set for the next day at 5 p.m. But when I awoke that morning, there was little change in my condition. As the others headed downstairs to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, I begged off and stayed in my room. I told them I still felt ill.

  Most of our family—aunts, grandparents, cousins, et cetera—lived in India. Here in America, we only had a couple of uncles.

  Our blood representatives for the marriage, then, were few. Only my mother’s brother, Sunil Uncle, and his two-year-old daughter, Supriya, had come for the wedding. For most people, having so little family in attendance might be depressing, but we were grateful just to have these two. Like abandoned children in an unvisited neighborhood, my small family—Dad, Mom, Prakash, and I—had been alone in America throughout our lives.

  After breakfast, the five came upstairs to my room with plans to tour D.C. They would take a trolley to the White House, the Lincoln Monument, the Smithsonian, and the Arlington National Ceremony. My father had it all planned. I just shrugged. I still felt like shit and was going
to sleep in.

  Prakash and Karmen, his bride-to-be, were delighted that the family was leaving. After all, they had their own plans: Prakash wanted to hang with his boyz around the hotel; Karmen wanted to have a “beauty” day: spa treatment, massage, and skin pampering. She would meet up later with her dad and brother who had flown in from Florida.

  Months after my hospitalization, Mom dutifully described to me the events of that unimaginable day. It was an especially chilly day, unusual even for March. The group left the hotel at 10 a.m. with Dad determined to see as much as he could. I learned later that he kept everyone on the tour despite the cold—even though Supriya, unaccustomed to the frigid weather, was clearly uncomfortable. When Mom asked that they return to the hotel, Dad brushed her off.

  “The next stop is Arlington Cemetery,” he said with fervor. “We can’t miss it, I’ve heard so much about it.”

  “Why are you so obsessed with that place? Supriya’s not feeling well. Let’s go back.”

  Only after they had walked through the miles of monuments and acres of white stone crosses did Dad finally give in. At 3 p.m., they returned to the hotel.

  Upon reaching the hotel room all four were sharing, the first thing they noticed was the telephone. Its red light was blinking furiously, insistently, as though it was caught in a seizure. The answering machine display read twenty-five messages. Dad quickly punched the PLAY button.

  “Come quick,” Prakash shrieked. “Ashok is in the hospital!”

  That was followed by: “Ashok is in the ER, he had an aneurysm, Oh my God!”

  The next twenty-three messages were variations of the first two, each transmitted in Prakash’s most frantic voice.

  After discovering that Dad’s cell phone had been off during the entire tour, Mom turned on him, her eyes blazing.

  “How could you waste time in the goddamn cemetery?!” she screamed. “How could you be so oblivious and not turn on your cell phone?!”

  Dad didn’t respond, but simply opened the door and raced out into the hall. The others followed him downstairs, through the hotel lobby and next door to the hospital. They found me in the emergency room, lying in a bed, Prakash watching over me.

  Sari Bride

  This was not to be Prakash and Karmen’s only wedding ceremony; after all, Karmen was a devout Christian and Prakash a Hindu.

  The authentic Hindu ceremony was held the day before in a temple in Maryland. Nevertheless, for most invitees, this Christian, All-American hotel version was still considered the “official” ceremony.

  The Hindu ceremony had come off perfectly. Karmen was the daughter of a Filipino mother—who had passed away years before—and a white father. Genetically, it was a lovely combination. In traditional Indian bride fashion, her dark-chocolate hair was parted down the middle, and tightly knotted in a heavy, stupa-formed bun. She was quite tall, nearly matching my brother’s six-foot frame.

  Karmen had adorned herself in an extravagant red sari with gold border. On her forehead was a circle of brilliant crimson powder to signify her entry into wifehood. Rich red henna had been elaborately painted on her bare feet.

  After Prakash placed the holy wedding necklace, the mangal sutra, around her neck, Karmen clasped hands with him. A priest stood before them. They took seven steps around the sacred fire, symbolizing their commitment, respect, and honor for each other. Prakash and Karmen chanted holy mantras, and the ritual was completed. No wank-induced brain-bleed disrupted the happily-ever-after scene. Not that day.

  The Wedding

  The big event was less than two hours following my untimely orgasm, but once I reached the hospital, it was clear I wasn’t going anywhere. Sunil Uncle and Supriya had just joined Dad, Mom, and Prakash by my ER bed.

  Mom was in a hellish bind: attend the wedding of her older son or stay with her younger son as he fought for his life?

  She turned frantically to the doctor, wailing, “What am I supposed to do? My son’s wedding is about to take place!”

  “Ma’am, no need to worry,” he responded calmly. “Go to your son’s ceremony. We will take care of Ashok.”

  Mom was now sobbing uncontrollably, forced into making her own Sophie’s Choice. She shook her head no.

  “Ma’am, I promise you that everything will be fine. Ashok is perfectly stabilized at this point, trust me. Absolutely nothing can happen to him right now, especially in the next few hours.”

  “I’ll be back in half an hour,” she promised. She prepared to leave, full of guilt.

  I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

  Prakash had delayed telling Karmen of the emergency; she was still relaxing in her hotel room. When he called to explain about my hemorrhage, his bride-to-be started crying. Prakash was suddenly unsure whether to go ahead with the ceremony.

  Mom had been standing next to him, and she quickly grabbed the phone.

  “Karmen,” she said. “This is Mother. Ashok will be fine, stay calm.”

  “No, he won’t,” she yelled. “Ashok is dying! Getting married is the least of our worries. . . . I won’t do it!”

  Mom barked back, “You’re going to get married! You’re the one who has to be strong for Prakash!”

  She handed the phone back to her son. “Trust me,” she told him. “It’s going to be difficult, true. But your brother will be okay. This wedding will go on as planned. After all, Karmen is wearing Vera Wang”—she paused for emphasis—“and it’s not a rental! Think of the eighty guests!”

  That was Mom, always Martha Stewart, even if her baby was dying. Of course, Karmen and Prakash caved in. As we Rajamani men know, Mom always gets her way.

  Mom ordered Prakash, Supriya, and Sunil Uncle to head back to the hotel, as she and Dad turned to the task of informing their friends who had come for the wedding: three married couples, all from America’s India Central—the tri-state area—who were staying in a hotel down the road. They were our “aunts” and “uncles,” terms of endearment often used by Indians to address elders. The three couples were instructed to gather in one room where they were joined by Dad and Mom.

  While Dad drank a glass of water to steady his nerves, Mom explained about my brain pop. Their friends all gasped in unison, but she quickly added that the wedding would continue as planned. They all knew better than to argue with her.

  “How can we help? We’ll do anything,” Sunita Aunty said.

  “Just do one thing,” Mom said. She looked all of them in the eye, one by one. “I won’t be there for the reception. Promise me you’ll act like surrogate parents and keep Prakash and Karmen in an upbeat mood.”

  They all nodded.

  At that point, Dad got up and announced, “I will be missing the reception, too. I have to be there for Ashok.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mom responded angrily. “Prakash needs at least one parent, and you’ll be there to support him.”

  At 4:30 p.m., the wedding was about to begin. Mom and Dad changed clothes. Dad wore his tuxedo. Mom emerged wearing a grand violet-red gold-brocaded sari made of Kanjeevaram silk, India’s most luxurious sari material.

  And her eggplant lipstick was back on.

  They went down to the lobby to join all of the guests. Later they told me of the day’s events.

  The wedding room was lush and romantic, and the ceremony was held in a gorgeous gazebo in the hotel’s largest ballroom.

  Prakash entered the room with Mom and Dad, seating them in the front row. His dress shirt had been reironed. He stood inside the gazebo, flanked only by the minister—an orthodox, silver-haired Catholic priest.

  Prakash’s best man was not at his side today, but lying in a hospital bed next door.

  At long last, Karmen entered, walking down the aisle in her Vera Wang with her father, a naval officer, at her side. The ivory gown had a perfectly fitted square-necked, sleeveless bodice and a flowing full-length skirt.

  The minister performed the routine ceremony, reciting the typical Christian ceremonial speech: “Dearly beloved yada
yada I now pronounce you yada yada.”

  Besides the immediate family and the aunties and uncles, no one knew that I was lying in a hospital bed next door. Prakash had decided not to say anything, and most guests at the reception weren’t close enough to the family to ask where I was. When I found out later, I was surprised: I would have thought they would ask. Then again, tact and I have always been strangers. At the reception, however, a couple of guests finally asked the obvious.

  “Where’s your mom anyway? And your brother? Why couldn’t they be here?”

  “They couldn’t make it,” was Prakash’s blunt answer. Simple, yet stern enough to prevent any further dialogue on the subject.

  As she had promised, Mom had left right after the wedding ceremony. When she arrived at the hospital, the sari was gone. Hello, jeans and a sweatshirt. By the time she appeared at my bed, the signature eggplant lipstick had again rubbed off completely.

  Grudge Match: Krishna v. Jesus: 1974–1989

  My parents are both from India, having come to the States in 1968 from Mumbai, then known as Bombay. When I was one, Dad wanted to go back to India. He packed up everything, wife, kids, and possessions, and he left America’s suburban sanctuary of Indian restaurants and desi neighborhoods. But in returning to the motherland, Dad wasn’t greeted the way he expected. Despite an MS in biochemistry, nobody would hire him.

  Mom’s father—quite wealthy, the president of Mumbai’s biggest electricity corporation—offered to take care of our family. Dad, insistent upon his self-respect, firmly turned down his proposal and scoured the city streets for a possible job. He looked at labs, hospitals, research centers. He was rejected by all of them. At the end of a three-month, dead-end job hunt, Dad decided to return to America for good. However, his old New Jersey job was gone, and no other plants were hiring at the time. A headhunter eventually found him a job in a pharmaceutical company in Deerfield, Illinois, a suburb near the heart of Chicago.

  We, however, lived in the cornfieldy village of Grayslake, which was firmly situated in the buckle of the Bible Belt. Barely considered a suburb, it was, at the time, a rundown, right-wing Christian fundamentalist Midwestern town, far from Chicago. Pat Robertson would have considered it Eden. We found a townhouse in a low-income development, Quail Creek, and lived there for sixteen years. Since Deerfield was just outside of Chicago, we could easily have lived in Devon Avenue, the city’s Indian neighborhood, but my father was adamant we stay in Grayslake.