I Need That Like I Need a Hole in My Head

April 8, 2026

When Cathy and I eloped to Northern Ireland, we went for a hike along a stream in the Tollymore Forest west of Newcastle. It was a magical walk with ancient yew trees, and arched 18^th century stone footbridges spanning the fast-moving water flowing from the Mourne Mountains to the Irish Sea.

We stopped for a picnic and, being the hopeless romantic that I am, I thought it would be…as the Irish put it… “brilliant” …to set up my nifty iPhone tripod and take a photo from behind while we gazed at Foley’s Bridge in the distance.

Nice metaphor, don’t you think. Two days before our wedding. The river. The passage of time. I even thought of a caption, “Watching Time Go By.”

I know what you’re thinking. It’s okay. You can say it.

Cheesy. 

All of it.

The menu? The photo? The caption? All cheesy. We’re talking smelly level cheesy. Roquefort, maybe Limburger. 

Spontaneity? Hell, it took me 20 minutes to set the shot up, walking back and forth trying to catch us without obscuring the bridge. 

“Just a sec, Cath; I’ve almost got it. Could you scooch just a little to your left?” 

Finally, after exhausting Cathy’s patience, I plopped down beside her and activated the countdown on the remote-control shutter release on my iWatch.

5…4…3…2…1…CHEESE!

“Nice framing” I said to Cathy after retrieving my phone. “Look, I even captured the dandelions in the foreground.” She rolled her eyes.

We’re talking Gorgonzola level cheesiness.

I wonder if the Greeks had a god of cheese. Let’s look it up.

Yep.  Apparently a buff fella named Aristeaus.  Says here that he was the son of Apollo and Cyrene and that he was in charge of cheesemaking, beekeeping, sheep herding and olive oil production.

Diversified, yes, but otherwise we don’t know much about him. Not a lot of press. Quiet guy.  Kept to himself. 

Now the Catholics…they knew how to fill in a back story. This is Santa Lucio, Patron Saint of Cheesemakers. 

So the story goes, ol’ Lucio was stabbed by the farmer he worked for because he pilfered  too much provolone to give to the poor.

Stabbed to death? For that?

Seem’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? How about a reprimand? A note in his personnel file? Maybe dock his paycheck a few liras for every wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano he gave away gratis.

Poor guy is probably running around heaven with a charcutier board pissed that his reward was to spend eternity looking out for cheesemakers and pointing out to the other gods and goddesses that the prosciutto wrapped melon and mozzarella is “particularly good this year.”  Not exactly a corner office for a patron saint.

Here’s how I see it. 

Either Olive Oil Ari or Lucky Ten Fingers Lucio, maybe both, didn’t care for my bit of unlicensed cheesemaking and decided to have a bit of feta fun.  Not a lightning bolt. Nothing flashy. Just the ol’ post-it note prank. 

A pink post-it note.

I didn’t see it at first. It wasn’t until the flight home, as Cathy slept beside me and I was looking through our photos that I noticed it. 

Uhh, Rob…see the bridge?

Yeah.

See Cathy?

Yeah.

You?

Yeah?

YOU!!

Yeah, so wha…?

Good god, Jackson.

You’re getting a bald spot.

Ditch the L.L. Bean and throw on a smock and you’re a dead ringer for a fat friar at one of the nearby abbeys.

When the hell did that happen? Why wasn’t I told? You mean to tell me I’ve been walking around like this, probably for years, and no one said a word?

Talk about a cover-up. 

My own wife? My stylist. The one who cuts my hair. The one who teases me to hold still while she takes scissors to my unruly eyebrows. 

She’s known. For years, she’s known. Yet all this time she’s never said a thing about the Friar-Tuck-look growing…I mean not growing…on the back of my head. 

How about a little “heads up” honey?  A hint? Maybe, a passing comment? (“You might want to wear a hat.”) An innocent question? (Was your dad bald?) You didn’t have to be harsh like “You’re going bald old man.” You could have been subtle and said, “You might want to use a little sunscreen up there.”

Up where?

There!

I only mention this because the good folks at Kaiser have declined my fitting for an ultrasound colander and propose instead to bore a hole in my head roughly where my bald spot is. 

Lucky Lucio and Oily Ari were way out in front, paving the way, marking just the right spot for a cranial skylight. One of those tubular models to let a little light in a dark place.

I’m all for enlightenment, but…

You know the expression, “I need that like I need a hole in my head?”

Well, apparently, I do.

I mean the hole.

In my head.

I need one.

Let me backtrack.

After the off-med ordeal…you remember that? My night of living hell…Dr. Nandipati told us she would make a presentation to a high fallutin Kaiser committee in Redwood City to get the green light on the colander treatment. This is no small committee. We’re talking a whole lot of brainiacs who know their brain shit.   Brain surgeons. Movement disorder neurologists. Neuropsychiatrists. Physical, occupational and speech therapists. Engineers.

Engineers?

The plan was to show them videos of me scribbling, shaking and wobbling.  My psych test results. My history. My meds. My CT and MRI’s. She told us she would give it her best shot, but the decision was not hers to make. It was the committee’s and, as soon as she knew, she would write. 

Sure enough, that afternoon I opened my email to find a letter from her.  

Hi Rob,
We had a helpful review of your case today…it turns out…

“Helpful”, huh?

That doesn’t sound good.

I’m no Belgian, but I know a waffle when I see one.

Brace for impact, Berto.

“Turns out” that for a variety of reasons…good reasons, caring reasons, persuasive reasons…the brain folks at Kaiser (and the colander gurus at both Kaiser and UCSF) think deep brain stimulation is a better option for me. After consulting with Cathy and the fam, I’ve decided to give it a try.

Hell, why not. We’ve been to Kaiser Santa Rosa, Kaiser Petaluma, Kaiser San Rafael, Kaiser Walnut Creek, and Kaiser Oakland. Why not Redwood City?

Forget the ultrasound colander; fire up the Makita.

We know the spot. Those jokesters Oily Ari and Lucky Lucio were just clearing the way.

Sometime this summer, we’re going in.

Be good for the place… let’s let in some light and spruce up the place.