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Wow! I Didn't Know That
-1-
I met Vincent when we started kindergarten together. We lived quite close to each other, and we became childhood friends, then good friends, and then apparently, BFFs. I can say that with authority. We are now twenty-nine years old, and share an apartment. Please don't misunderstand. We are not roommates. We are gay, married, and still very much in love. The idea of cheating on each other is repulsive to me. I'm sure that Vincent feels the same way. I have no reason to believe otherwise.
We started "playing" with each other when we were eleven years old. We did the usual kiddie stuff; whacked off together, then did it to each other, then experimented with oral and anal sex, etc. We had no idea what we were doing, other than playing games with each other, and having lots of fun.
By the time we were fifteen, we knew exactly what we were doing. We knew that we were engaged in very lustful homosexual activity. It was more loving than lustful. Unfortunately, at fifteen, we didn't know the difference between lust and love. By the time we graduated college, got good jobs in the same advertising firm, and began to cohabitate, we were fully aware that we were gay, and that we loved each other, madly and exclusively.
I know it sounds like we lead idyllic lives, and we pretty much do, but Vincent does something which drives me crazy. Others might not find it annoying, but I do, and I have labelled it a very bad habit. I have begged him to stifle it, but it's a habit, after all, and Vincent can't seem to be able to control it. I love him too much to threaten to leave him, but his nasty behavior is really bugging me. Maybe I'll present him with an empty threat, and advise him that I'll leave him if he doesn't knock it off. He was not always possessed by this demon inside of him. It started about a year ago.
I'm going to tell you now about how he is driving me crazy. I know you will think that I'm overreacting, and that his behavior is not so terrible, but when he repeats the act over and over again, ad infinitum, it eventually leaves you wanting to tape his mouth shut. Secure in the knowledge that you will think that I'm the nutty one, I have delayed long enough, so here goes.
Whenever we are alone, or socializing in company, every time someone says an interesting word, Vincent interrupts that person in the middle of a sentence. Even worse, he might be interrupting a thought. Then he says something like, "That word comes from the French verb such and such, or the Latin word, or the Hebrew word, or the Spanish word, or even Old English, but it has morphed."
The other party will be polite AT FIRST, and say something like, "WOW! I didn't know that," but by the fourth interruption in as many minutes, it becomes monumentally annoying. We had friends who are no longer our friends because of it. They don't care to socialize with us. I called our last available coupled friends a few days ago. I wanted to make a date to have dinner together. They turned me down flat, and had the nerve to tell me that Vincent had become a total boor.
He has even spouted his nonsense while we are making love, and I have wanted to strangle him. He's interrupting our most intimate moments together. He was down on me recently, and I was close. I started yelling, "Fuck, Fuck, Fuck." suddenly, he stopped his labors, sat up, and gave me his crap. He began to recite the origin of the word, fuck. I lost my desire to orgasm. I lost my erection also, and as far as I was concerned, our romantic night was over, finished, kaput. Can't he see what harm he's doing to our relationship? Can't he see that nobody is interested in his useless information?
I have no idea where Vincent got all this knowledge. I'm not even sure if the information that he is sharing is accurate. I don't care. I just want him to stop, but he can't seem to. It just comes out of his mouth like pellets from a BB gun.
Reluctantly, a thought started to germinate in my brain. If Vincent couldn't control his outbursts, and interruptions of useless information, he might be mentally ill. He seemed healthy otherwise, but the probability of him being ill began to gnaw at me. I didn't know what to do about it.
The other day, we were sitting down to dinner, and I was opening our mail. A big grin crossed my face.
"What?" Vincent asked.
"Do you remember my cousin, Mike? He's getting married on June 3rd and we're invited."
Suddenly, Vincent stared into space. His face was a blank canvas. He almost looked like he was in a trance. In a monotone, he said:
"The word, marry, goes back to about 1300 AD. It's from the Latin, maritare. It remained maritare in Italian. In French it became marier. In Spanish and Portuguese, it became marida."
I couldn't hold back. "Who gives a fuck?" I screamed out.
Vincent looked hurt. "I thought that information would interest you," he said forlornly.
"No, it doesn't interest me, and it bores our friends to death. In case you haven't noticed, you've driven them all away."
I was going to present Vincent with my empty threat, and tell him that I was going to leave him, if he didn't stop sharing all this useless information, which interested nobody. Before I could say anything, he started to cry, and ran to our bedroom.
I ran after him, and found him on our bed, crying his eyes out. He had curled into a fetal position, so I took him in my arms to comfort him.
"I can't help it," he said. "It just comes out of me. I can't control it."
I became more convinced than ever that the dearest thing in my life was mentally ill.
Lying in bed together, wrapped up in each other's arms, we started to make love without even realizing it. We both undressed quickly, and I went down on Vincent. He begged me to fuck him. No problem.
"Oh, Tim," he said. "That was so wonderful. I really needed that."
After we made love, Vincent seemed to be fine. Nevertheless, I vowed to take him to our doctor. We had our annual physicals coming up in the very near future, so I called Dr. Kirsch, and made an appointment to see him prior to the physical. I told him that I was concerned about Vincent's behavior and mental health. I made an appointment for the next day, on my way home from work.
Like all of you, Dr. Kirsch couldn't understand why I was making such a big deal about it. Nevertheless, he promised to examine Vincent thoroughly from the perspective that he might have a mental illness.
Vincent and I always stayed in the room together for our physical exams. The day of our exams was no exception. Dr. Kirsch examined Vincent first.
"I want to listen to your heart and lungs with my stethoscope," he said.
Immediately, Vincent got that blank look on his face, and then he blurted out, "The origin of the word, stethoscope, is from the Greek, stethos, meaning the front of the chest."
Dr. Kirsch looked at me as if to say, "I see what you mean."
Vincent blurted out several more word origins, before the doctor was finished listening to his heart and lungs. Now the doctor was impatient with him, and I had an ally.
Then the doctor held up his forefinger, and instructed Vincent to follow his finger without turning his head. The only thing he could move were his eyes.
When the test was over, the doctor said, "Vincent, you have no peripheral vision at all. I'm going to arrange for an MRI as soon as possible. Something is wrong."
Vincent didn't seem to understand what the doctor told him, but I began to shiver, and I suppressed a few sobs. My worst fears were being realized. Vincent was sick.
-2-
Thank God we're married. That status gave me the right to be privy to everything going on. If we weren't married, I'd have to call his parents in Florida, and involve them. Worse yet, worry them to death. It was enough that I was a basket case.
The MRI technician came out of the lab, and sought me out.
"As soon as the neurologist reviews the findings, he'll call you," she said. In the meantime, take your husband home, and don't do anything different other than your usual routines."
On the third morning after the procedure, I grew angry and anxious, so I called the doctor's office. I had to leave a message. It took another two days for him to call me back, and we made an appointment for Vincent and me to see him the following afternoon.
My worst fears were confirmed. The doctor addressed Vincent. "You have a tumor growing on your frontal lobe. It may be the cause of your strange behavior, but I can't be sure. The good news is that it's in situ, which means that it hasn't spread."
"I know what in situ means," Vincent interrupted. "It's a Latin phrase, meaning in the same place."
The doctor looked at him, and smiled. "That's right," he said. "Let me continue. In situ growths are usually benign, but benign or cancerous, it must come out. It's growing rapidly from what I can see. I believe it's causing you to remember everything you ever read or heard, and you are forced to repeat that knowledge, even though it's involuntary. I can arrange for surgery early next week."
He reached into his desk, and pulled out a sheet of paper. "These are instructions for neurosurgery. My office will call you with the day and time of the procedure. Follow all the instructions, and be at the hospital on time."
It appeared that he was about to dismiss us, but I wasn't satisfied. "What's the prognosis, doctor? What are the worst and best-case scenarios?"
"Well, obviously," he said, "the best-case scenario is that when the tumor is removed, Vincent will become his old self. Hopefully, that includes elimination of his strange behavior."
"And the worst-case scenario?" I asked.
"Well, brain surgery is very delicate. He could suffer a stroke or a heart attack during the procedure. Either one could cause permanent disability or even death."
I gasped.
"Don't worry about that," the doctor advised. "It hardly ever happens, but you asked for the worst-case scenario, and that's it."
"How do you excise the tumor?" I asked.
"I'll drill a couple of tiny holes into his cranium. Then I'll pass a light through one opening, and a laser through the other. We'll dissolve the tumor with the laser. Here's where it becomes tricky. We must lase a little bit more than the tumor to make sure we get it all, and that no growth cells are left behind. That's the delicate part of the procedure. It's the point at which brain damage becomes a viable possibility."
I couldn't wait to get out of the doctor's forbidding office, and home as soon as possible. For the next few days, all Vincent wanted to do was make love. He acted like it would be our last few sessions together. I didn't argue. It might well be the end for us. I had more orgasms that week, front and back, than in the six months before that put together.
The neurologist, who would be performing the surgery, should have been a heart doctor instead of a neurologist. His name is Robert Harte.
When Dr. Harte emerged from the surgery, he came out into the waiting room to speak to me. "Everything went very smoothly," he said, "but it will be several hours before we know anything for sure. In the meantime, he'll be in ICU for at least six hours, and then he'll be transferred to a room. You might as well go home, freshen up, have something to eat, and try to nap. I suspect you were up all night."
"We both were," I said.
When I returned a few hours later, Vincent was in a double room, and he was awake.
"Hi stud," I said.
"Hi super stud," he replied.
He slurred his words, and I figured that he wasn't all back to us yet. He dozed off, and I told myself to be patient. He woke up about a half hour later. When he spoke to me, he seemed a lor more awake.
I started to sob, and Vincent asked me why I was crying. I didn't want to tell him yet, so I merely answered, "Because I love you so much, and I'm relieved that you got through the operation with flying colors."
"I love you also," he said, and dozed off again.
-3-
Two days later, when Vincent's mind was clear, Dr. Harte discharged him. He seemed to be cured of his desire to dispense information nobody wanted to hear. On the first night that he was home, we abstained from making love, but the next night we went at it all the way, and everything seemed to be normal. In fact, I believe that Vincent was better at making love than ever before.
I called three couples who had spurned us during Vincent's illness. I described the nature of his problem, and I assured them that surgery had done its magic. I invited them to a dinner party at our house on Saturday, and they all accepted. They also expressed their regrets that they had not been more understanding.
Vincent seemed to be his old self again, and the party was very successful. He announced joyfully that he was going back to work on Monday. He got a round of applause.
Vincent had a follow up visit with Dr. Harte a month after the surgery. It was the first time in our long relationship that he requested that I not be in the room during his examination.
"I want to talk to the doctor privately," he said.
I was terribly hurt, and I wanted to comment. In the end, I decided to say nothing. After all, Vincent had just been through an ordeal. I decided to cut him some slack. If he ever wanted to tell me about his private conversation with Dr. Harte, he would have plenty of opportunity.
The doctor examined him, and declared him to be healthy. He had even regained his peripheral vision.
"What did you want to talk to me privately about?" Dr. Harte asked.
`I'm not completely back to normal," Vincent said. He buried his head in his arms.
"Okay. Tell me what's wrong."
"When I'm listening to people talking, I still get flashes of information, which everyone seems to think is useless. The difference is that now I can control myself from sharing that knowledge out loud."
"Well, that's a good thing," Dr. Harte said.
"It would be, but all this knowledge is more than I can handle. It's like my brain is on overload. I find it difficult to concentrate on the things that are important."
"Let me do a few tests," the neurologist said. He took a text book from a shelf, and opened it. "This book is full of brainteasers designed to roughly determine IQ. I usually give the patient paper and pencil to solve the problems, but I'm going to give you an oral exam."
"Okay," Vincent nodded.
Dr. Harte began to ask Vincent questions, which he answered quickly and succinctly. After two dozen or so enigmas, the doctor closed the book, and consulted a chart.
"Unbelievable," he murmured.
"What's unbelievable?"
"You have the highest IQ of anyone I've ever tested. I think it might even be a little higher than Einstein's. Now let me ask you some every day questions."
"Sure," Vincent nodded.
"Are you able to control the urge to impart your knowledge to others?'
"Yes, since the surgery."
"Are you able to function at work? Has it impaired your ability to earn a good living?"
"I'm doing fine. In fact, I find my work is too easy. It's not challenging anymore. Fortunately, my income has not been impacted."
"Are you able to function sexually with Tim or any other male?"
"Tim is the only one I make love to, and if I have to say so myself, I think we're better together since the operation."
"Then stop worrying so much. I think the problem is that you haven't learned how to handle being a genius. I don't know how the tumor made it happen, but you'll just have to work hard and get used to it. You're gay, and you've learned to accept it, and live with it. Now accept the fact that you're a genius, and learn to live with that also. If you don't, it might have a negative impact on your work and your marriage. If you want to worry, here's something you can brood about. Worry about how being a genius might affect your everyday life. You have the power to make sure that nothing bad happens."
"Thanks, Doc," Vincent said. "I feel so much better."
"You know," Dr. Harte mused, "the area of the frontal lobe where the tumor grew, must somehow determine intelligence. If I knew where to begin, and if I were twenty years younger, I'd try to do some research on the matter, but I'll let sleeping dogs lie."
"Whatever you think is best," Vincent said.
"Now go into the waiting room, hug your husband, and tell him that I gave you a clean bill of health."
Vincent started to laugh.
"What?" the doctor asked.
"Immediately you said it, I got a flash regarding the origin of the phrase a clean bill of health. For sure, I wanted to shout out and share the information with you, but I restrained myself. I believe you, Doc. I'm sure that with practice, I'll get better and better at self-control."
-4-
Try as we might, things were never quite the same for me and Vincent after the surgery. Don't fret. We love each other more than ever. Our love making is off the charts, and we are in touch with all our old friends. Still, it was bound to happen. Vincent got bored silly with his job in advertising, while I continued to enjoy my work.
The love of my life studied hard, took some courses, and got a second degree as an aerospace engineer. He now works for a consulting firm whose major client is NASA. He's as happy as a lark, except when he needs to travel on business, and is separated from me. I must remind him that our income has more than quadrupled, and we shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.
We still live very frugally in our old apartment. Our retirement nest egg is growing by leaps and bounds. When the day comes that we do retire, and we have the time to travel, it will always be together.
Nobody, not even Dr. Harte, will ever be able to explain the strange phenomenon which befell my beloved husband, but it ended well. Both of us have adapted. He has learned to function as a genius, and I have learned to live with one. We never complain.