The good news, explained the doctor . . .

"We're going to slice open the top of your head, rummage around the brain until we find what we're looking for, take it out, and staple you back together."

"And how long might that might?" I enquired.

"Roughly six hours," he replied.

That's the good news?

And the bad news?

"Ah, we need you to be wide-awake!" he continued.

As those before me who might have travelled a similar route know, at Baltimore's Johns Hopkins Hospital they don't beat around the bush.

On my first visit to this much respected institution — considered by many as the best of its kind anywhere on the globe, a reputation apparently backed up by numerous surveys — it became clear this wasn't quite the summer holiday I'd envisaged.

Almost three months down the road since that meeting with neurosurgeon Dr. Alfredo Quinones-Hinojosa — now there's someone who has a real story to tell (more about that later) — I'm back at The Royal Gazette sports desk, left to reflect on an experience I'd rather have skipped but not surprisingly has put a different perspective on life's values.

Being diagnosed with a brain tumour can be a real headache.

The first signs came during a trip to cover Bermuda's national cricket team in Kenya almost a year ago (come to think of it, their ineptitude in the field might have been enough to trigger the initial collapse — at least doctors have attempted to deal with my headache, coach Gus Logie's is constant).

An overnight stay in Mombasa hospital — another experience best forgotten — where food poisoning seemed to be the general consensus reached by those on duty, left no cause for alarm.

It was some months later, following an ill-advised decision to come out of retirement for a golden oldies' football match, that the symptoms became more apparent.

Ignoring friends' advice, as one does, to seek medical attention, it took seizures in the middle of night, a short stay in King Edward's where the initial diagnosis was that of a stroke, and an air-ambulance trip to Johns Hopkins to convince me there was something up top not quite right (a conclusion those who know me well might have arrived at several years previously).

There, MRI scans detected the tumour — something that goes by the name of an oligodendroglioma (try pronouncing that after a couple of cocktails) and a date was set for surgery.

As with other aspects in life, the days before and days after proved far more traumatic than the actual event itself.

Nobody looks forward to brain surgery with a sense of anticipation, and after having had the skull prised apart can-opener style, there's nothing to recommend the initial days of recovery.

But the op itself? Surreal would be a fitting description.

Conscious, albeit sedated but aware of those around you and exactly what they're attempting to do, it's difficult to explain what goes through the mind when that very same mind is being invaded by a team of doctors.

Fear? Not really. At the likes of Hopkins, there are constant and convincing reminders you couldn't be in better hands.

Pain? Not at all. There are no nerves in the brain.

Anxiety? Perhaps.

You hear what sounds like drilling (although I understand the din was actually being created by something more closely resembling a circular saw).

Not unlike a visit to the dentist's.

Then it's time to get to work.

The whole purpose of being awake is to indicate those performing the procedure that they're not venturing into territory that might make the initial problem even worse. And to avoid that, the patient is required to read from a computer screen ... again, again and again.

Repetition is the key, against an overriding desire to fall asleep.

Ironically, sleep, lots of it, is a recommended part of the recovery process.

But there's no chance of snatching 40 winks during the surgery itself, and even through the immediate hours afterwards, persistent nurses in ICU monitoring the initial recovery period, eliminate any notion of sweet dreams.

Fortunately after a transfer 24 hours later to somewhere aptly named the Brain Recovery Unit, matters gradually improved.

Other than the half-moon style scar that stretches from one side of the head to the other, the incision neatly closed by a succession of staples — more noticeable on this patient's follicly challenged scalp than on others — the telltale sign during post-op recovery is a frustrating inability to speak normally.

That in itself can lead to some embarrassing moments. What a swollen brain might be thinking has a habit of losing its way during interpretation on its journey towards the lips.

As an example, anyone and everyone who popped by the ward in the immediate days after surgery was for some reason referred to as "Neville" — male or female. Don't ask why.

Funnily enough, curse words came out loud and clear. Again, don't ask.

Now weeks later, following several sessions of speech therapy, there's a marked improvement, although telephone conversations can still leave those at the other end wondering whether they've dialled the wrong number.

Other than recognising the obvious, that life can throw you a "wobbly'' when least expected, the experience perhaps offers confirmation that here in Bermuda in the event of medical emergency we're luckier than most.

Access to Johns Hopkins through medical insurance, in my case through the staff at BF&M who couldn't have been more helpful or accommodating both before and after surgery, is a privilege to which millions around the world aren't afforded.

And once at Hopkins, there's the comfort of knowing that the problem is about to be addressed by the likes of medical geniuses such as Dr. Quinones and his team.

Even in a profession which accounts for a high percentage of the world's most brilliant minds, Dr. Quinones is regarded as something special.

His biography almost defies belief, one that has been documented on TV's Discovery Channel and in numerous newspaper and magazine articles.

An illegal Mexican immigrant, he arrived in the US in 1987 as a 19-year-old with less than five dollars in his pocket and spoke not a word of English.

Graduating from Harvard with first class honours, he has gone on to become one of the pioneers in modern brain surgery, currently holding down the lofty position of assistant professor of neurosurgery and oncology and director of the Brain Tumour Surgery Programme at Hopkins Bayview.

What perhaps endears Alfredo to his patients — he's referred to by his colleagues as Dr. Q — is that rare human quality of communicating a highly complicated procedure in terms which we can all understand, and at the same time doing so as if he's been a lifelong friend.

But while Dr. Quinones took the lead role in this entire ordeal, there were others to whom I owe a great deal of gratitude — not least my longtime girlfriend Jill Faulks, who endured probably more stress than the patient himself, other close friends, family and work colleagues whose support made a difference.

And it would be remiss not to mention get-well messages from the likes of Bermuda Football Association general secretary David Sabir and Bermuda Cricket Board chief Reggie Pearman, whose respective organisations over the years have been on the receiving end of some pretty harsh criticism within the weekly Friday Forum column for which I'm responsible.

Their words of encouragement, as did all of the others, meant a great deal.

Recovery, although the doctors might not entirely agree, could be as psychological as it is physical, with such support making the entire episode far less traumatic.