My Brain Purchase

I've had some mild obsessions with particular human body parts off and on during my life.  Not my own body parts, but just the parts in general.  One of those body parts was the brain.  I felt like I just had to find one, aside from the one (or half o' one) I already had inside my head.

I remember as a small girl watching a 1962 movie called The Brain That Wouldn't Die.  My sister Colleen and I saw it on afternoon TV's Creature Feature while we were at Grandma Rose's house for the weekend.  It was a really stupid movie, and now rates about a 3 out of 10 on the "good review" scale.  But it effectively scared my 6-year-old self to death.  It disturbed me in some ways, like when the guy got his arm ripped off at the end of the movie.  It intrigued me, too.  Like when the lady's decapitated head was sittin' on that table, all wired up to some laboratory contraptions, and all of a sudden her eyes popped open and she started talking wickedly to passers-by in the lab. 

I wondered at the time if you could really keep a person's head alive with the right electrode wires and blood circulation tubes running in and out of it.  That got me to thinking about basic brain function in general, never mind the head that encased it.  As years progressed, I watched and was smitten by repeats of the 1931 James Whale/Carl Laemmle version of the movie Frankenstein, with Boris Karloff as the monster requiring home assembly.  The subsequent 1935 Karloff version Bride of Frankenstein rings in as my second favorite, although in that one the doc wasn't as interested in a brain as he was in finding a "young" heart.  Third favorite has to be the Mel Brooks' 1974 farce Young Frankenstein.  Then there have been strings of movies since, spin-offs and weird unrelated stories, that all had that one special mesmerizing prop in them:  A brain in a jar.

I guess that brain fascination business led me to take Psychology in college, and after the lectures and films on mental institutions' unsavory histories, and especially on the lobotomy procedures, my interest was further piqued.  All of it was casual interest in the sense that I never became a brain surgeon, or a psychotherapist, although I did later get a minor in Psychology.   

When VHS movies came out, I bought the Karloff Frankenstein and Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein.  I would sit and watch them repeatedly, especially enjoying the "brain" focus.  You know, where lab assistant turned thief Fritz/Igor scares himself and drops the jarred brain onto the floor, thus transforming it into a pile of busted glass and upchucked scrambled eggs.  Then, only trying to cover his error, he sneaks back to the castle-bound laboratory with the "abnormal/'Abby Normal'" jarred specimen.  I enjoyed these movies over and over.  But still, something was missing for me.  The brain "hard copy" as it were; a tangible specimen that I could have and hold as my very own.

Then I remembered a catalog that I had from which I had ordered insect pins, jars and insect display boxes (another hobby) a few years before.  It was the Carolina Biological Supply Company, and I recalled that you could order animal fetuses, human skin slides, disease in vitro dishes, human and animal innards, skulls and skeletons.  And yes, you could buy human brains--sliced, quartered, or whole--and by gosh I was going to get one, a whole one!  

I dug out the already old catalog--a 1982 version--and there it was, a human brain, and the description said I could buy the "Entire brain with most of the cranial nerves intact.  Mounted in a clear acrylic museum jar with a removable screw top".

The cost in that #52 Catalog was $194.50.  But by 1994, it was gonna' cost me $465.00 (dang the inflation!), so I had to save up for it.  I began putting money away every week into my "brain account", and when I had it all, I placed my order.  There was one drawback, but that didn't hinder me:  You weren't allowed as an individual to buy a human brain.  You had to be affiliated with an educational institution or a medical facility.  I wonder...Why do you reckon that was??  

So I got a doctor friend to order it for me in his name, and I just reimbursed him--it was that easy. 

I anxiously waited for the Arrival Alert call to come from the doc's office.  Then on the day it finally came--"I'm on my way!" I told them excitedly.  When I arrived, the doctor's office was all abuzz with excitement, too.  The brown cardboard box had been delivered by UPS, and marked "fragile" and "this side up".  I opened it very carefully while we held our breaths.  As I slipped the clear, brain-filled canister out of the box, we all heaved a big sigh of awe at the fresh, flesh-colored jewel inside. 

It was beautiful!

I knew from my layperson's studies I had done that, being without any smoothing out of the convolutions of the thing, this was not from a chronic alcoholic, nor from someone afflicted with Alzheimer's, nor any other major mental disability.  Other than that, I knew nothing else about its origin.  Gender, age, ethnicity, I.Q., etc. were all classified info--known only by the doctor who had removed it from it's skull casing, and by the records monitor of the Carolina Biological Supply Company. 

I took it home and placed it on top of my television set.

The next few times I watched the Frankenstein movies, I sat with it on the couch next to me.  I carried it to my son's school one day during the "pick-up-your-kid" hour, and drove around back to the gym where I knew his coach, a.k.a. science teacher, was at that moment.  "Look at what I've got," I lured with a coy "come here" head-jerk.  He walked over to peer into the driver's side of the pickup I was driving.  There I had it, in the seat right next to me.  He asked the questions, and I gladly, proudly gave him the story behind this prized possession--my brain.  I told him he could borrow it sometime for his science class, as long as I could deliver it personally and stay with it the whole time.  For some reason, he never did.

Now, twenty years later, what used to be a fleshy-beige-colored brain is now a cloudy-gray-brown clump of a specimen.  And it rests thoughtlessly on my bookcase in my living room.  I have moved it around the room over the years to keep it as a focal point, but some time several years ago I had stopped placing it near any windows for fear that the sunlight was doing it harm.  The last 5-6 years I have been more aware of the discoloration of the formaldehyde in the container.  I also noticed the organ's dregs in the bottom of the canister becoming more numerous as the years go by.  Whenever I move it now, and that's rarely, I do it so slowly and carefully so as not to shake any more "matter" loose.  

Dead tissue does tend to deteriorate quicker than live.

I still have the receipt from my purchase of this donor/cadaver tissue.  And, despite that the canister has a threaded top that can be twisted open after the removal of three large screws, I have never opened it.  For some reason however, I worried that someone else would.  So, I always left threatening, forbidding notes taped to the thing, to make sure nobody tampered with it in my absence.  And I'd drape little hairs over the top of it to provide evidence of tampering, in case someone did.  

In truth, I never really had any problem with people wanting to handle it, open it, feel it, examine it, or otherwise fondle it, nor even shake it into cerebral smithereens.  Nobody really cared about its presence as much as I did, besides of course, its original owner.     

My other body part obsessions, and pursuits thereof, I will tell at a later date.  Some will be after certain statutes of limitation have run out.             

     

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Take All Day

Before you read the "take all day" post, put in your mind that I was 18 years of age at the time that the story started, and I had only been to Jasper, AL a couple of occasions before this.  I was not yet aware that there were organizations that catered to particular "groups" of people, or that those organizations utilized various health, recreation and well-being resources about town.  As I write this, I relive the ignorance I had then, and the humor that went with that ignorance.  I do not write it to make fun of another person.

Don't you know it has to be at least mildly interesting when the writer has to make "excuses" at the very beginning?    

Around 1977-78, I used to go just about everywhere with my older sister, Colleen, and her two toddler boys.  More than half the time, I would be the chauffeur for her errands around town, most often being trips to the grocery store and to the laundromat at Bruno's/Jack's parking lot in Dora, AL.   We also visited the county Health Department in Jasper fairly regularly.  We would go there for Colleen's checkups, which were provided at that time for low-income women, and we would also go for my nephews' required vaccinations.

Dora, I knew very well.  Jasper, I knew not.

One such occasion we went to the Health Department for the boys' shots.  After waiting in the crowded lobby for a little while, Colleen's name was called, and she and the kids went back with the nurse.  I stayed out in the lobby to wait.  Just after they went back, in came a large group of people--about ten or twelve in all.  This diverse assemblage of adults consisted of men and women, black and white, and young and old.  It seemed like one or two particular women were coordinating the seating arrangements for the group, and after some inconspicuous maneuvering, everybody was settled.  Although I was mildly curious about this eclectic-looking mix of people, I didn't pay a lot of attention to them because I didn't want to stare.  

After about ten relatively peaceful minutes of waiting went by, I heard someone say "take all day" in a low tone.  I immediately thought "oh great, a complainer in the crowd".  Three or four minutes more went by, and again "take all day".  Hmm......that time he was a bit more vocal.  

I knew by the voice that the speaker was African American and male, and I knew (or thought I knew) that we now had an agitator in the room.  You know, like those people who start vocally complaining to themselves in a bank or checkout line, and they hope the person in front of and behind them will join in on the malcontent, and next they can all gang up on the teller or cashier to "hurry up".  Yeah, that's what I mean by "agitator".  I also knew this "agitator" was one of that diverse group of newcomers that had come in.

Well, another 3-5 minutes went by and "take all day" again, and then  "take all DAY!" and "take ALL day" and  "TAKE ALL DAY" and so it went every 3-5 minutes.  I thought it odd that nobody in the lobby displayed any reaction to him one way or the other.  Nobody helped him "agitate", nobody told him to be quiet, nobody looked at him, ...nothing.  Nobody even seemed to hear him.  But for me, I tensed up with every "take all day" because I felt like he was peer-pressuring all of us to join in and rally with him against the implied slow service.  

Finally, a name was called and one of the "in charge" women in the diverse group got up and escorted two other women of her group into the back with the nurse.  As the women passed in front of me, I realized the situation--that this group was from a facility that served physically and mentally challenged individuals, and they were here for their checkups or vaccinations or whatever.

I felt quite a lot better about the fact that the vocal "take all day" man was not an agitator.  He was just a man who innocently liked making one particular verbal statement, and who just happened to have a mental impairment of some sort.  This was the first time I had seen this group of people, but I deduced that everybody else in the lobby who seemed oblivious to the "take all day" man had at least seen him before.

After a short time and several more "take all day" proclamations went by, Colleen and the kids came out and we left.  I didn't even mention the "agitated man" story to her, and I thought nothing more about it.

Nothing, that is, until about three years later.  

At 21 years of age, I was a fresh member of St. Cecilia Catholic Church in Jasper.  I am sitting in the Mass listening to Father Jerry Deasy's homily.  Father Deasy, an Irish priest with a soft-spoken manner and a great disposition, had gone on for a few minutes, when "take all day" came out from about two pews behind me.  I caught my breath and felt my whole body stiffen.

Now, if you don't know the Catholic Mass, it is a quiet affair, with a particular format.  It is a solemn, reverent service without any unscheduled audible "amens", "glories", or otherwise out of order shout-outs, unlike some other types of church services where it is allowed and even expected.  But at no church service is "take all day" expected, nor particularly enjoyed.

I hope Father Deasy didn't hear that!  Surely everyone around me did, but not one person looked around to see who complained.  Three tense minutes I waited, then "take all day" was louder.  Now I know everyone must have heard that!  But Father Deasy did not miss a beat with his homily, and nobody made a scene by turning around to stare at the vocal man.  

I was on edge with worry because I knew what was up with this guy--I knew he really was not an agitator, but I did not know if anybody else in the church knew it.  I held my breath through the rest of the homily, and through a few more "take all days".  The remainder of the Mass sort of drowned out the final "take all days", thanks to the congregation's songs and scripted vocal queues.

Evidently Father Deasy had seen these folks before, because after Mass I saw him shaking hands with them, including the "take all dayer", as they left the church.  Father had never once suspected that an "agitator" was at Mass, and even if he had, he would not have tensed up over it as I had.           

That has all been thirty-plus years ago, and I wonder what became of the "take all day" man.  I hope everything worked out with him, and that he has enjoyed a happy life all this time, despite his seemingly restless eagerness.  He wasn't really an impatient person, he wasn't trying to rush people or hurry-up life, he was "just sayin'..."

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