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A terrible thing to waste | page 1, 2
My problem now was that I was picturing myself brainless in a coffin, seeping spinal fluid onto my satin casket pillow. Vincent assured me that no one would even be able to tell that my brain was missing. He assured me in a way that assured me and at the same time didn't bring me any closer to being a committed brain donor. "First," he began, "they cut the skin like this." On his head he traced a line from one ear back around to the other. "Then they pull the skin up over the face." Here he made a motion as though taking off a (particularly effective) Halloween mask. "They use a saw to cut the top of the skull off, the brain is removed and the skull is put back and screwed in place. Put the skin flap back, and comb the hair back over." Vincent used the peppy how-to language of an infomercial host, making brain harvesting sound like something that takes just minutes and wipes clean with a damp cloth. Mary Roach Mary Roach's column appears in Salon Health & Body every other Friday.
Vincent sensed I was slipping from his grasp. He went earnest on me, talking of how the bank got only 40 "normals" a year, and how less than 15 percent of the people he sends brochures to wind up being donors. "A lot of people think they're signed up but they're not," he said. "They ask for information but they never send the form back. They have the papers, so they think they're signed up." Clearly, I wouldn't want for company in the little-tiny-brain freezer. Vincent inquired as to whether I was still game. I considered. "Can I have one of those Brain Bank refrigerator magnets on your file cabinet?" He handed me a stack. On his monitor sat a gray squishy Brain Bank miniature brain, one of those palm-size squeeze toys. Vincent followed my gaze. "Oh no," he said. "We have a very limited promotional budget, and those are being used to motivate the mental illness community." "Which would of course include journalists." Vincent tossed me a squeeze brain. I promised to keep the donor card in my wallet. Before I left, Vincent advised me to talk to my husband, for next-of-kin have final say about brain donations. When you die, your body becomes the property of your spouse. Legally, spouses can do whatever they please with their dead mate's body. So I talked to Ed. He had some lively and novel ideas, but brain removal wasn't on the list. Ed is a squeamish guy: "Ixnay on the ainbankbray." Unless, he added, there was a chance they could one day revive my brain and put it on someone else's body. "Provided I get to choose the body."
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