Lemon-Head Time Bomb

I have a brain tumor.

A wad of cells the size of a lemon

that I never noticed 

until I realized that other people

don't get severe migraines once a month.

I remember the shock,

my wife's hand on top of mine.

Her tears.

My denial, then anger.

After 3 months of the 9 that I had left,

the doctors said there is a procedure

where they could cut the lemon out of my head

with a minimal risk of death being 40 percent.

It was only when I was faced with the prospect of the end

that I stopped to ask what my life meant.

The procedure will me done on my prefrontal cortex,

the area of the brain that houses creativity, ambition,

personality,

everything that makes you- you.

See, more than the fear of death,

I fear something going wrong in my head.

I fear the thought of losing my personality

to the lemon.

More than death,

I resent the thought of living the rest of my life

as someone I'm not.

I've grown to accept that truth as life.

Waking up every morning 

and experiencing the world a different time

isn't what gives life its meaning,

rather life is what you see the world as

when you wake.

Who you are manifests into something that gives life purpose.

I'd rather die in 6 months

being the same man I was this morning,

than living one day as somebody else.