Hippo Campus

This story contains substance abuse, explicit language, and mention of brain surgery.

You saw it floating in a jar before the doctors did the procedure. One of the best brains money could buy. A bioartificial brain. They took stem cells from your bone marrow which to be brutally honest hurt like a bitch.

Then the doctors put the stem cells into a plastic sac to allow them to grow into the brain that would be inserted. What grew is a brain that is grey with a long brainstem; it looked strong. 

` A specialized neuroscience team then had to go through the memories stored in your original brain. They picked out any memories connected to substance abuse, taking away your memories of what it feels like to be drunk, high, or tripping along with emotional and physical trauma throughout your lifetime.

In a way, it was almost like rapid therapy and cost more than it would have been if you just put in the time and energy to get your shit straightened out. But you fucked up hard and you wanted to mitigate the amount of responsibility you had just been given. 

You don’t know anything about brains. All you know is that this new brain is going to be connected to your spine. You will then have your original consciousness transferred.

The dude who is doing the surgery, you met him once. He seemed almost more nervous about the procedure than you; as if it was his skull that was going to get cracked.

Maybe he just understood the cost a lot better.

This wasn’t your first choice. Your first choice was to continue to live your life, do whatever you want, and enjoy yourself. Granted, it’s been hard ever since your mother died and your father decided that getting regular sex was way more important than his daughter’s sanity. Or at least that’s how you saw it.

Maybe he actually does love your stepmother, but it doesn’t seem like he loves you enough to stop her from being an emotionally abusive bitch. You never completely understood how in just one day, at the age of 12, you lost both of your parents. A piece of your father went into the incinerator with your mother. The person that you knew growing up as a kid faded. Then you became the problem, the chip that never fell off his shoulder. Your stepmother hoped that once you left the house, maybe your father would repair himself. 

***

The paper gown did nothing for the coldness of the gurney which made my ass feel numb, even with underwear. They have me in a room with no windows which does wonders for my anxiety. I’m already hooked up to an IV, just waiting for them to start the process. A bruise is forming from the nurse being incompetent and missing my veins multiple times.

I close my eyes to try to center myself after counting ceiling marks does nothing. I’m getting a new brain. I’m getting a new brain and consciousness.

Fuck.

They are going to crack open the back of my skull and take it completely off. That 3ish pound mass. This old one is “contaminated”. It’s interacted with too many hormone imbalances and chemicals. Too much acid, shrooms, coke, and other substances. Once the new brain is in place they will reattach my skull, sew me up, and transfer my consciousness into my new brain or some shit like that.

Of course, I’m scared. I don’t even know what consciousness looks like. Does it have a form? Is it a specific color? A few months ago was the first time I heard about the possibility of it being transferred. The doctors said this has worked before; in the beginning stages but they still have good results.

 I think I want to have a stable life; maybe that will be nice. Not needing to forget. Maybe meet another stable human being who has never dealt with any hardship and we fall in love like a fairy tale, then get married and have all the kids and shit. I’ll admit, now before I get knocked out and possibly no longer myself, that there is a deep hole in my chest that goes as deep as the Earth’s core with no possibility of getting filled despite my trying.

All these years resenting my parents and this is what it has brought me; a cracked skull, new brain, and consciousness that is no longer completely my own. Quite a hefty price.

I should have just taken more responsibility for myself and who I wanted to be in this world. Hopefully doing this won’t cause me to have to start from zero all over again. I hold this, lungs crushing down, throat closing, eyes holding back tears, and then three nurses come rushing in. One wearing glasses with golden hazel eyes peers down at me. 

“Please stand up slowly. We are going to wheel you to the surgery room.” 

Those words surely don’t help. And the chair isn’t comfortable it’s colder than the gurney. I feel like my ass is showing but I doubt they care; they’re about to see the inside of my fucking skull. They quickly move me into the surgical room. The lighting is darker and the music of beeping machines surrounds me. I stand up slowly to sit back down in the surgical chair. 

“Ok, breathe into this mask and count back from 10.”

Ten. ok, what do I want to think about last? Eight. I hope to still like crab rangoon, bbq chicken pizza, avocados smashed on top of a cheese quesadilla Six. Hopefully, I can still masturbate and have sex as I used to Four. Despite the ending that snapped like a string, causing me to lose myself, I’ve grown, I think...

To be honest, I didn’t want to be cured. My depressive thought process was every bit a part of me as my right hand or the dimple on my left cheek. In the past ten years, the craving to escape has been as commonplace as my cravings for sour patch kids, sex, or a cup of morning coffee. That burning that appears in the back of my throat, similar to when I try not to cry. There’s a knot in my gut and those thoughts that burn roads in my brain go haywire.

I always thought it made it easier to be a person alone in a studio apartment without a future trying to escape my past and present. Not enough sunlight from the windows. A marketing job that pays to survive.

It was only a crime after I smashed the car into the Smith’s bright green mailbox. The mixture of tequila, anxiety and a sweet, little calico cat slowly crossing the road led to me swerving right then left then right into the mailbox. I just really didn’t want to kill that innocent cat.

But no one cared that I was drunk at Aunt Claire’s funeral and it was only a quarter afternoon. Or that summer I just sat in the backyard, in the sweet Philadelphia heat, and drank white wine while binge-watching The Handmaid’s Tale.

There is the whole breaking someone else’s property that comes into play and I paid for their new mailbox; it’s now bright red. The police also had to escort me to jail because I passed out in the driver's seat of my car after breaking the mailbox.

That was some embarrassing shit. To have someone wake up at six in the morning to start their routine and find their drunk neighbor passed out in her car after crashing it into their mailbox. I mean, I was sleeping like a baby, drool all over my steering wheel.

Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Smith felt some empathy for me at first but once it was understood that I was quite frankly fine, they were livid.  That phone call to dad was unpleasant, I could hear my step-mom yapping in the background. 

“That drunken daughter of yours! How many more times are we going to have to save her ass?”

Shrill as fuck. One of the most embarrassing nights of my life but I definitely could not foresee myself getting to where I am now. 

There was first the court visit where the judge went through my file and history of drinking from various accounts; my family was never outspoken in their disapproval of my drinking before but they certainly are a bunch of silent grudge holders or I was really too far gone to even notice how displeased they were.

The order by the judge was to either do time and be on house arrest or go to a medical treatment facility. I choose the latter; the thought of something else on my record didn’t sit well with me. It felt final and I still had hope that I could change. 

The first doctor that I met was stern, monotone, and tired Dr. Farmer. He went through a series of questions that ranged from upsetting childhood memories to how do I feel when I’m drunk. I tried to answer honestly because I was curious; curious to see how ill and disturbed I was.

It ended up being that I’m a perfect candidate for a particular study. I was intrigued. After spending so many hours reading stories on reflections of the human mind and various hypothetical experiments on brains, I agreed to be a part of the study. If I could go back, just quit cold turkey, and do the whole 12 steps, even if it was complete bullshit, I would. 

***

My mind is tangled in thoughts. I feel my limbs but they are not connected. I’m afraid to move. What if I can’t open my eyes? Where am I? A hospital. There was surgery. I got surgery. I got surgery on my brain. I got a new brain! Wait, am I still myself?

I pause for a minute and take a couple of deep breaths. Let’s try to open my eyes. The overhead light is fuzzy and blinding. I want to stop but the need to open my eyes is urgent. Finally, I succeed in opening my eyelids. It takes a moment to stabilize my vision but I can finally see the room. 

The window shows a sky outside that was close to reaching night with the egg yolk sun breaking down, into the other side. I can’t move my body but mainly because there is a cloak of pain that has fallen over me. I can feel my body start to pulse as sweat begins to appear around my forehead, neck, and back. Anxiety. 

The beating of the machines matches my heartbeat going faster. My mind can’t make sense right now. I keep looking over at the chair across the room for a while then later stating “chair”. Something is not right with my brain. I would call for a nurse but I can’t move my arm.

My chest feels like there’s a small demon sitting on it. I want to pass out but I also want to get help, figure out what the hell happened, and if I’m ok. Deciding to close my eyes and possibly get some sleep because at least then the radiating pain would stop, I start to breathe deeply, in and out. I drift off into unconsciousness. 

***

The air is wet and warm in the room with the smell of freezer burnt ice cream. A fan is facing directly where I’m sitting but it does nothing to alleviate the humidity.  Marlow and I are spread out on the couch glued to our iPhones. The last two months of our time together has been like this, sometimes with music but rarely talking.

With greasy jet-black hair down to her shoulders and dull, hazel eyes, Marlow has few words. We met during the therapy group circle where we discussed ways of relearning how to work our minds and know our bodies. They are mandatory after having brain transplant surgery.

I never paid attention during those circles; my mind forever drifting. The doctors said my ability to concentrate would build up as I got stronger from the surgery but it’s been almost a year and a half yet doing basic mental work is still hard. So Marlow and I go on Facebook with our phones for hours, mindlessly scrolling. This is better than alcohol, right?

I haven’t had a solid human connection since the surgery, mainly because forming words and thoughts are not skills I’ve remastered. For a bit, my old friends did try to reach out to me to see how I was doing or if they could visit. It was hard to do that though because of all the therapy on top of forgetting many of the memories I had with these people.

I even forgot about Amy; I forgot about someone I considered another piece of my soul. Yet alcohol rarely prevented me from speaking and connecting with others, in fact, I’m a chatterbox when I was drunk. Drunk, drinking, drinks.

It’s so hot and my throat is constricting with a slight itching sensation in the back from the lack of moisture. The only thing Marlow has in her fridge is milk that might have gone bad. There is tap water but I crave something more. Scrolling for a few more moments, I begin to get up to leave. 

“You goin’?” Marlow’s voice is a light string barely flying over the fan and into my ear. I cough to clear my throat before speaking and to get my tongue ready to say something.

“Yeah, I need to get something to eat and drink.” 

I walk closer to the door with my phone still in my hand. Marlow grunts, meaning it’s all good and she’ll hit me up tomorrow or the next day; hanging out is never urgent. 

Once I am in my car, I see a bottle of Coca-Cola and take a swig, realizing way too late how hot it is, causing the bubbles to burn down my throat. While the air conditioning starts up and I slowly recover, I connect my Spotify to my radio, put on sunglasses, and begin to drive home.

The first year after my surgery I lived with my father and stepmother in their hellish suburban house. I was able to talk them into allowing me to get a place of my own after proving that I was not brain dead nor itching for a drink. While his toxic antics definitely watered down since I became a cyborg, his wife has continued to ride the bitch train. This is funny because I’m barely verbal enough to fight back.

I can ride a bike and run for a good ten minutes but make me give a thirty-minute lecture and I’ll start spazzing out. That’s the most annoying thing about this whole situation. My body has healed but my mind is still fucked. Was this the doctor’s plan all along? Leave me so fucked up I wish I was brain dead? 

The driveway to my cottage is guarded by trees. Strong Oaks, Weeping Willows, and vibrant Japanese Maples. When you don’t have the urge to spend all your money on boozes and drugs it’s easy to save. And when your parents feel a small urge of shame for fucking up your mind, they buy you a cottage in the middle of the woods.

I open my door and Greta is there to greet me. This silvery Maine Coon gives me all the affection I can receive. You can’t mumble yourself through a Tinder date. And then try telling someone that you can’t drink because your brain has been repossessed. Guys want unique, not batshit crazy.

They must have fucked up some other shit because I don’t even get the need to find a hookup or even masturbate, which is truly the more fucked up reality. Probably reprogramed all my pleasure centers or some shit.

So for now all I have is ice-cold lemonade, microwave dinners, shit reality tv, and Greta. After I’m finished eating, she sits on my lap and purrs; reminds me I’m still a loveable being