The Man with the Hole in His Brain-Chapter 2

The Man with the Hole in His Brain- Chapter 2

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. ~ Theodore Roosevelt 

Ms. Baker knew The Man with the Hole in His Brain before he was a man. And presumably before there was a hole in his brain.

Ms. Baker knew him as The Boy with Blue Eyes.

Their story, like all human stories, sewn with a subtle yet remarkable thread, crossed its first stitch early one morning, twenty-four years ago, in a loud and stuffy classroom.

Ms. Baker was locked in screaming match with her first period class when she felt the hot-rush realization that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She stopped screaming, locked her knees, jerked her right hand up to her heart as if she was pledging allegiance for the second time that day.

Her first year teaching 9th grade English simulated a car crash, everyday

Screaming, clutching, tightened lips, big eyes and a sudden loss of gravity as if her white Corolla spun through faculty meetings and parent-teacher meetings and back-to school night at dangerous speeds causing her jet black hair burst from their bobby pins, her axles snapped and she collided head-on with an 18-wheeler hauling bushels 14 year-old ramrods.

“What is wrong with you people? Why are you so disrespectful?”

She wanted to do something dramatic with her hands, point a finger, pound a desk, but she couldn’t. No bra.

“Are you going to cry Ms. Baker?”

“That’s enough. Quiet!”

But quiet never came. Her yelling only fed their fires. Someone threw a ball of paper across the room. Someone screamed fuck.

Ms. Baker, still pledging allegiance, verged on something wild. Clearing her throat, she felt a violence boiling in her gut however, she caught the blue eyes of the boy who would grow up to become The Man with the Hole in His Brain and the boiling settled and simmered.

The Boy with Blue Eyes was writing a story about a boy who ran away from his unruly high school and found refuge in a New York City hotel with a green-eyed prostitute during the blackout of 1977.

The Boy with Blue Eyes reminded Ms. Baker of her younger self. Quiet, friendly, imaginative. When she jockeyed with the class, he would sit at his desk and write. His assignments were always completed on time and done  exceptionally well. In fact, they often took him hours to complete. Not because they were difficult but because he was obsessed with achieving a sort-of written perfection.

Ms. Baker spun to her desk, picked-up a pack of papers, held them to her chest, turned and faced the classroom.

Embarrassment, yes, but it was the end of September, and the classroom was still warm, as if summer was coming and not going. And the streak of sweat that rushed down her spine was a combination of internal and external forces in the classroom.

Ms. Baker moved to his desk and stood before The Boy with Blue Eyes. The classroom roared.

A kid with a marijuana leaf painted on his backpack stuck his head out a window and barked at a squirrel dashing across the courtyard.Two football players arm wrestled in a corner. A group cheered. Someone threw a dollar bill down on the desk. Two girls stood in the back of the classroom by a bookcase lined with dictionaries talked fast like they were in a smoky night club.

Ms. Baker looked down at The Boy with Blue Eyes, smiled and handed him a piece of loose-leaf printed with a recent assignment where he wrote about an innocent Puritan woman accused of witchcraft.

“Nice job! You have a strong writing voice. Keep writing!”

Mrs. Baker smiled, and The Boy with Blue Eyes smiled but before he could respond, sitting behind him was a kid known as Fire Hydrant, who Ms. Baker legitimately feared, and who said things like, “Ms. Baker,  you’re sexy when you’re angry.” Leaned into the ear of The Boy with Blue Eyes and whispered “faggot.”

Ms. Baker is Mrs. Clearly now.

When she married, her and Mr. Clearly moved to Virginia where he still sells insurance and she teaches a little private school where she stills teaches English and supervises the school’s poetry club.

Mrs. Clearly’s classroom is quiet now. She hasn’t screamed or forgotten her bra in years. She was awarded Teacher of the Year at her school. Her skirts are longer now and her words have a seasoned, weighty quality to them. They are clear, direct and poised. Her teaching methods have been featured in education magazines and she facilitates a program for first year teachers in her district.

She tells first year teachers about her first year of teaching. How it is was a daily car crash.

She tells them new teachers get in trouble when they try to over complicate teaching. When they try to do too much, they often forget the fine details, like wearing a bra.

The teachers laugh.

Then Mrs. Clearly sits down and gets serious, almost sad. “I heard Fire Hydrant call The Boy with Blue Eyes a faggot. I saw his bright blue eyes dull to gray. Then, he quietly closed his notebook, put down his pen, and lowered his eyes.” Mrs. Clearly shifts her weight, “I knew he had given up. I should have said something. But I didn’t. I was afraid.”

She tells the teachers she heard Fire Hydrant graduated high school, graduated college, scored a job selling pharmaceuticals, got married and had two sons. “He has a good life. But– but I’m sure he’s ignorant of the damage he caused that day. I guess, from time to time, we’re all guilty of such ignorance.”

The Boy with Blue Eyes stopped turning in writing assignments, his grades dropped. At the end of the first semester he transferred to another school and never saw Fire Hydrant or Ms. Baker again.

The notebook remained closed for almost a half-century, until a doctor found something wrong with the boy’s brain and The Boy with Blue Eyes became The Man with the Hole in his Brain.

Finally, with nothing to lose, he opened the notebook, picked up the pen, and started writing again.

He’s a writer again. His words walk a tightrope of transparency and vulnerability while attempting to maintain a masculine balance. He writes to entertain. He writes to discover truth. He writes to feel strong. He writes to fill the hole in his brain with imagination instead of hopelessness and resentment. He writes secrets he can’t tell his wife. He writes to make his father proud. He writes in case he dies young. He writes so his voice may one day comfort his children when they’re older and far from home. He writes for Ms. Baker/ Mrs. Cleary. For Fire Hydrant. For himself. Because twenty four years ago he gave up on a dream. He let an opinion dry his pen, quiet his voice. When he was a boy he let the critic win.

He now understands how Ms. Baker, Fire Hydrant, and the fictitious boy who ran away from high school to find a green-eyed prostitute in the sitting confidently cross-legged in lobby of the Warwick Hotel in the violent heat of 1977, stitch his story.

He’s thankful now for Ms. Baker’s silence, for Fire Hydrant’s mockery, for a green-eyed prostitute who taught him how to remain still in the cold glare of the critic.

When perspective broadens, gratitude becomes profound.

It took years for the boy’s eyes to light-up a wondrous blue again. Years to pick up the pen and open the notebook.

Years to stare back at the things he was once afraid of.

Checkout Chapter 1 of my serial story “The Man with the Hole in His Brain”

“The man turns back to the mirror. His eyes are deep blue like the child’s.  Below his soft chest,  beats the heart of a child–boundless and wild. A heart that yearns to play outside again. To run, jump, tackle, and swing. To sweat, to bleed, to get dirty again. A heart that is much younger then the body that holds it.”

This summer I’m writing a serial story entitled, “The Man with the Hole in His Brain”. This is Chapter 1.

The Man with the Hole in His Brain

And he judged of others by himself, not believing in what he saw, and always believing that every man had his real, most interesting life under the cover of secrecy and under the cover of night.– Anton Checkov

Chapter 1

A man is standing alone and shirtless in front of his full-length bedroom mirror.

He’s 38 years old and knows, with bone-certainty, he’s lucky to be alive–let alone have a doting wife, three lovable children, a warm and spacious house to live, parents who are still alive and still love him, a job he enjoys, food in the fridge and two cars fat with gas in the driveway.

He knows he’s blessed and that his world is a good place to live.


…of course there’s a however. There has to be a however.

I recently taught a fundamentals of storytelling seminar at a local university. I will not lecture you on said fundamentals but your conviction to this story, and to all stories for that matter, hinges on the gravity of the however. However indicates a change, a conflict, a turn.  And if the however is big enough, desperate enough, it may compel people to do two extraordinary things: listen and feel. 

Tiger Woods was once laser-focused on his golf game however…


The man in this story, like characters in all stories–whether fact or fiction, has a secret.

He has a good life, one others often envy. And he’s a good man too. Loyal and honest. Quick to buy a frustrated friend a beer and listen to his worries.

However, when he’s alone and shirtless in the mirror he trembles with shame.

He’s ashamed his arms lack the thickness and sturdiness of a father’s arms. Ashamed his chest, sunken and poorly muscled, looks like two deflating balloons. Ashamed his shirt, when it’s on, is more like a pillow case hiding the soft and lumpy pillow underneath.

Five years ago doctors discovered a hole in the man’s brain. A hole that, doctors labeled, “potentially fatal.”

The doctors fed the man a daily diet of steroids and pain medications that the man willfully ingested and, in turn, willfully weakened his all his muscles, not just the ones hidden under the pillow. Soft and stretched, his body looks to be owned by a much older man.

The man stares long enough in the mirror to forget about his good life.

If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all, he thinks.  He worries, as he often does, about the hole is brain. Will it get bigger? Will it kill me? Or like a hole on the beach, could the hole in his brain be filled sand, the bottom of a soda can, a broken flip-flop heel? Or maybe it could be filled with more scientific things like neurons and dendrites and axons.

He gets mad at himself, which he often does.

He blames himself, which he often does

He curses the hole in his brain, stares into his own eyes and wonders how his good world would look like without him in it.

Little footsteps rush down the hall and the man tosses on his shirt, turns to his dresser, pulls open a drawer and pretends to be looking for something.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Just looking.”

“Looking for what?”

The man pushes around some papers in the drawer.

“Something I lost.”

The youngest child, a boy, almost five with short brown hair, freckles doting his nose and who, when he tilts his head and smiles, reminds the man of himself. “My teacher said that when we lose something we care about we should just keep looking for it.”

The man turns back to the mirror. His eyes are deep blue like the child’s.  Below his soft chest,  beats the heart of a child–boundless and wild. A heart that yearns to play outside again. To run, jump, tackle, and swing. To sweat, to bleed, to get dirty again.  A heart that is much younger then the body that holds it.

However, there’s a hole in his brain. A hole that makes the man cautious, off-balance, and afraid.

The child stops in doorway, turns, “Dad, can you go outside and play with me?”

For five years the man has filled the hole in his brain with excuses and fear.

The man thought when he became a father he would be a big kid. Hat spun backwards, t-shirted ringed with sweat, playing in the backyard with his children on a hot Saturday afternoon.

“Not right now.” The man winces at his boy, “When I’m done looking for the thing I lost.”

The boy looks up and appears older then when he crossed into the room, “Dad, keep looking. I know you’ll find it.” The boy leaves and the man thinks about all the big things adults spend their lives trying to hide.

The backdoor opens then closes.

The man moves to the window, looks down, and sees the child, alone, kicking a soccer ball in the backyard.

Catching his reflection in the window’s reflection, the man pledges to his faded self to do something this summer to fill the hole in his brain so he could one day play with his child in the backyard again.

Post Script…

I want to thank everyone for being patient with me. For the past few weeks I’ve been experimenting with some different writing forms, as I continue the laborious process of discovering who I am as a writer.

Today, I consider myself a creative nonfiction writer. Tomorrow, however…

I gravitated toward creative nonfiction because I want to tell you a true story that mixes literary styles while producing both an entertaining and factually accurate story.

If you’ve been reading write on fight on for any stretch of time you’re familiar with my health struggles. In fact, you may even be tired of hearing about them. But, as weird as it sounds, I’m thankful for my health struggles. They’re what inspired me to pursue my lifelong dream of being a writer.  So I find it almost impossible to write about anything else right now.

Since summer is the season for trying new things,  The Man with the Hole in His Brain is a more ambitious, literary complex approach to what I’ve been trying to tell you for years.

I have an autoimmune disorder, sarcoidosis, which atrophied my muscles, weakened joints and vacuumed a hole in my brain.  A hole I often fill with excuses and self-doubt. The hole is where this story begins.

My goal this summer is to figuratively remove the trash festering the hole and fill it with moxie and resolve.

This summer I’m committed to regaining my coordination and balance, my ability to run and jump again. I’m committed to playing soccer again with my children and running a 5k in September.

The Man with the Hole in His Brain is a literary retelling of the successes and failures I endure this summer as I attempt to disbelieve the excuses I made for myself and believed for the past 5 years.

write on fight on’s tag line is “Stories told. Lives changed.” When I first started this blog my vision was to share other people’s stories to help change other people’s lives. And I did, but as altruistic as that was, I failed to recognize that you can’t change other people without learning how to change yourself.

I never realized that my story was the story I was trying to tell. And that it was my life I was trying to change.

Be well,


The struggles are real

Daily life is ripe with struggles.

The glowing check engine light, the dismissive coworker, slow Wi-Fi, the wavering religious faith, a snarky Facebook comment.

Yesterday’s struggles have been replaced with today’s struggles. And today’s struggles will be replaced by tomorrow’s struggles.

However, you must learn to separate struggles in two categories: empty and meaningful.

Empty struggles are pedestrian and often easily fixed.

Don’t entertain empty struggles. Let empty struggles entertain themselves. Empty struggles are also trivial. And if you devote time to the trivial, you yourself become trivial.

Meaningful struggles compromise your principles. They challenge your integrity, your creed, your philosophy, your ability to emotionally and intellectually grow.

Meaningful struggles don’t go away on their own. They breathe and wait for you to engage. So when you do engage– I recommend leveling your eyes, flexing your muscles, snarling something wild and fighting like hell until you’re victorious.

Be well,


About that email no one responded to…

You develop a meaningful idea that excites you.

A practical idea with positive benefits. An idea, you’re convinced, people will appreciate and support.

So you write an email, send it, and wait.

And nothing happens. Nobody replies.

Don’t take it personally.

Remember, just like you, people are busy. They have they’re own passions and pursuits. Don’t be insulted by their lack of enthusiasm and never let their silence discourage you from doing meaningful work.

Be well,


Don’t be an indifferent student.

You will not love all of your subjects. You will not love all your teachers.

You will question the importance of the subject and it’s significance on your current life, your future life and the world-at-large.

In fact, you will rationalize some subjects are pointless and insignificant.

You will fall asleep in class. You will look for shortcuts. You will procrastinate and cram and stress and possibly, fail.

But whatever you do, don’t be indifferent.

Indifference makes many capable students incapable.

Your teacher is passionate about the subject. Respect their passion.

They attend workshops and seminars and take advance classes on the subject you dismiss. They think about the subject while eating lunch, driving to work, staring at themselves in the mirror.

No matter the subject–don’t be indifferent. Your indifference is impossible to hide.

Inside, outside a classroom we’re all forever students.

Respecting another’s passion allows you to forge connections and build relationships while indifference is the quickest, safest way to be forgotten.

Be well,


Disarm the audience

People often ask how I could teach teenagers. Stereotypes find teenagers to be arrogant, rude, and scary.

If I learned anything from performing stand-up comedy it’s to survive on stage, you have to disarm the audience by criticizing yourself and your absurdities.

When teaching, I’m quick to poke fun at myself. Self-deprecation is one way to win over a crowd or a classroom full of judgmental teenagers and get them to do something miraculously subtle–listen.

By taking away their ammunition, you doubly encourage the critic to support your cause.

Be well,