The Colander Treatment

March 16, 2026

Those of you who know me know I have …well, let’s be honest…a big head.

Some of you are nodding. Some with your hands up. That’s okay. I have it coming. My head is big.

In several ways.

First, there is my inflated ego. 

This dates back to elementary school. It was the Spring Parent Pageant of 1962 and our first-grade teacher Mrs. Durling decided our class contribution would be a May Pole. 

Kinda like this one but…class size being a perennial problem…with more like 25 kids.

The pole consisted of what must have been an eight-foot-long dowel on top of which was nailed a tin pie plate. Crepe paper streamers, attached to the pie plate, stretched out to each member of the class who, pacing themselves carefully so as not to trip over the student in front of them, walked in a circle to some …I don’t know…jaunty, “Spring-like” melody. Probably “Teddy Bears’ Picnic”

Unfortunately, the May Pole had a structural flaw which went undetected in Mrs. Durling’s careful construction of the prototype. If the pie plate did not spin on the nail attached to the top of the pole, the crepe paper streamers would begin to wrap around the pole as my classmates…still focused on the heels of the kid in front of them…continued to circle. 

Centrifugal force, being what it is, the kids out at the end of the streamers would either have to pay attention, slow and adjust…this was just too much to ask… or the class would gradually be drawn closer and closer to the pole as their crepe paper leashes grew shorter and shorter.  This happened repeatedly in rehearsals, prompting Mrs. Durling to throw up her hands in despair and cast about for an answer.

The solution was obvious. 

She needed Chuck Yaeger. A steely eyed test pilot to hold the pole. 

The kid holding the pole must have “situational awareness.” He or she must have the wherewithal, uncommon in the First Grade, and especially uncommon in front of a crowd, to look up, monitor the status of the pie tin and crepe paper, and if the design flaw manifested itself, adjust, improvise, rotate his body at just the right speed, so as not to send the pole, the pageant and Mrs. Durling into a tailspin.

To this day, I remember the head-inflating exhilaration of the moment when, after another failed rehearsal, I saw Mrs. Durling’s eyes first squint in consternation and concentration, then widen as the solution dawned on her and then…scanning the class searching for the kid capable of such a tall order…her gaze settled with a look of relief…

On me.

“Rob? You think you could do this?”

“Yes ma’am… [taking the pole]…I got this.”

Thus, was born an inflated ego. 

But ego is not the only measure of my big head. Anatomically, I have a big head.

In this day and age of adjustable ball caps, we’ve lost the need of hat sizing. But when a fitted hat is required, it is good to remember that a small hat size is 6 ¾ to 6 7/8 A medium is 7 to 7 1/8. Large is 7 ¼ to 7 3/8. And extra-large is 7 ½ to 7 5/8.

Put me down for an XL. Something in the Lord Big Helmet size.

Let’s see…Ego? Check. Circumference? Check. How about thickness? The general consensus among those who have studied me, in the wild and in captivity, is that I have a thick skull. This seems to be based on deductive conclusions drawn from observed behavior rather than actual measurement.

Which begs the question…where are you going with this Herr Big Brain?

Well…hopefully…here.

What I call “The Colander Treatment.”

If you want to cut down on the shakes and the good ol’ yabba dabba medicine isn’t dabba-doing the trick anymore, you have two options. The first is called Deep Brain Stimulation or DBS.

DBS is brain surgery. The docs shave your head, bore a hole in your skull the size of a dime, insert wires that travel from deep in your brain to a “pacemaker” installed beneath the skin in your chest. These devices can later be “tuned” to KFRC, probably Dr. Donald D. Rose, and programmed over time to maximize the benefits. This requires follow up visits to change the batteries and fine tune the gizmo. And the surgery runs the risk of a nasty thing called brain bleeds. And…oh yeah… it can further screw up your balance.

Another alternative is called Focused Ultrasound. Here’s how the folks at UCSF describe it.

“During this outpatient procedure, high-intensity sound waves, guided by MRI, are focused on [a tiny spot]. These sound waves pass painlessly and safely through skin, bone and brain to reach their target. Much as a magnifying glass can focus sunlight to burn a hole in paper, the focused ultrasound generates enough heat to burn cells in [the spot] without harming surrounding tissue. Recovery time is short, and the treatment can significantly reduce tremor, improving the ability to perform daily activities, such as eating, drinking and writing. “

It’s an outpatient procedure. And I do mean OUT patient. You’re awake during the whole thing. You actually help by responding to “tasks.”   My grandsons Jackson and Finn love tasks. A task might be something like “Count how many letter “Ts” you can see from where we are sitting in the bleachers here in the Rincon Valley Little League Park” or “Turn around, look at that family in the pizza parlor; study everything about them; now turn back toward me and tell me…what color eyes does the dad have?”

Check this out…this is one of the tasks I’m told you are given while in the machine:

I call it the Spirograph Test. 

“With your right hand, Rob; I want you to draw as smooth a line as you can inside the channel from the center to the outside. Now draw a straight horizontal line…keep it smooth and straight…from left to right. Now do the same thing again with your left hand.”

Kids, try this experiment at home.

Here’s what happens when I do it now…

So I am told…so I hope…once shaved, strapped into the water cooled colander and clamped onto the sliding table, I will be given this “task” and my line will…by the miracle of modern medical magic…be as smooth as a baby’s butt. And when it’s over, I will sit up and walk away. 

It has its pros and cons.

You must get your head shaved, just as with DBS…I think I’ll go for the Yul Brenner rather than the Telly Savalas…but they don’t have to drill a hole in your head. It’s not as precise as DBS. It is a “one-and-done” procedure and doesn’t always work. You can’t adjust later and tune into KFRC, but you also don’t have to pack a transistor radio around in your chest. There is the chance for side effects (apparently the most common being a “softened” voice which, curiously, Cathy seems to think is an acceptable risk). And, if I do it, we can rule out the remote possibility of joining in a stem cell trial in San Diego.

One thing is certain. It might not work and it sure as hell is not a cure. 

It will not stop the progression of my Parkys. It won’t bring back my sense of smell, restore my balance, correct my swallowing problem, stop all the autonomic shit that is gradually shutting down and making other parts of my life like peeing and pooping, emptying my stomach and my bladder difficult. It won’t make my icy cold and dead-to-the-touch ankles and feet feel warm again. It won’t stop this fucking Restless Legs Syndrome which every night, just when I might hope to find some comfort in sleep, kicks in…I mean KICKS in… and permits more rest for me standing up and walking than lying down and sleeping.

There’s a boatload of tests I’ve had to pass to qualify. An MRI of my head. A psych evaluation by a shrink in Walnut Creek. An off-med night from hell. (More about those to come).

But I should know soon if I’m a candidate and there might be a chance…I’m not getting my hopes up…okay, I am getting my hopes up…that maybe, just maybe the hand tremors will ease. And maybe, just maybe, I might play some golf without embarrassing myself entirely or make some sawdust without hurting myself terminally.

A boy can dream.