How do we feel when we lose our sense of self? Sometimes, a slice of the scalpel leads to a personality reset
She came in wearing a Sabyasachi silk sari the colour of pomegranate peel, her salt-and-pepper hair twisted into an efficient bun, and carrying a Bottega handbag that probably cost more than my last holiday. “I’m not mad,” she announced before I could say a word. “I just forget things I don’t like,” said 70-year-old Mrs. Gandhi.
Her daughter accompanied her. Far less flamboyant and living up to her last name in a khadi kurta that was more Fab India than haute couture, she did most of the talking. “She’s been acting odd for a few months. Forgetting appointments, asking the cook if he’s single, putting her keys in the fridge… I know they’re small things, but it isn’t like her,” she declared, glancing at her mother, who looked like she’d just walked out of an art auction. “And I’ve been baking too much cake,” her mother added with visible irritation. “Apparently, that’s a symptom now.”
She was a feisty lady, single-handedly managing the family business up to a year ago until the kids decided to step in and take over. They had already been to a psychologist and a psychiatrist. Both had offered the same diagnosis of early-onset dementia, which, for someone in their seventies, is neither early nor a diagnosis anyone wants to hear. They had even started joint therapy — the new South Bombay substitute for family dinners.
“She needs help,” the daughter said gently. “She’s changed.”
“And you,” the mother interjected, “need a less boring therapist.”
There was something off. But not in the way I’m used to seeing with dementia. She didn’t have that blankness behind the eyes. There was sparkle. There was mischief. She remembered the name of her school principal but couldn’t recall why she had tried to bathe the cat in coconut oil last week; I guess she wasn’t named Velvet for nothing. I checked on her smell and vision and both seemed fine. So, I did what I often do when things don’t add up: I scanned her.
The MRI showed a 5-centimetre tumour sitting smugly on the base of the brain, nudging her frontal lobes upward like a snob in a sea-facing duplex. Frontal lobe tumours are curious things. They don’t always announce themselves with seizures, strokes, or headaches. They slip in quietly, altering personality, judgment, and behaviour with the subtlety of bad politics. People become more impulsive, disinhibited, indifferent – just like regular politicians. They make promises they can’t keep and tell neighbours what they really think of their children. They sleep in meetings. They laugh at funerals. They start baking (the country) obsessively.
When I showed her the scan, she examined it like a Sotheby’s catalogue. “So that’s the little fellow causing all the trouble?” “It’s not little,” I said. “And it’s not trouble. It’s pressing on parts of your brain that control personality, planning, and memory.” She looked at her daughter. “That explains your father,” she rued. I guess every South Bombay family is dealing with the same problems – chic on the outside and chaotic within. Where the saris are Sabyasachi but the souls are slightly scrambled. Where the bags are Bottega but the baggage, bhaari.
“These tumours are typically benign — polite in nature, even if disruptive in behaviour. But they’re often vascular and can be tightly adherent to the surrounding structures. The key is to debulk them from within, cauterize the blood supply, and peel the capsule away without harming the brain or the nerves. It’s like scooping malai off the surface of chai without disturbing the rim of the cup,” I explained. They decided to go ahead with surgery.
We made an incision hidden within the hairline and reflected the scalp forward. I drilled two burr holes and fashioned a frontal craniotomy, lifting the bone flap with care. Once we opened the dura, the frontal lobe came into view — pale, glistening, gently pulsating. We placed cotton patties and started the slow process of brain retraction; more than a forceful act, it was a conversation with the anatomy, with gravity doing most of the work. The tumour revealed itself. Yellowish-white, slightly lobulated, mildly vascular. I buzzed the base and began removing it. It felt soft, almost apologetic, like it knew it had overstayed its welcome. The ultrasonic aspirator hummed away as we cored out the central mass, shrinking the tumour from within. As it collapsed, the capsule started peeling off like the rind of an overripe fruit.
We removed it cleanly. No brain contusions. No bleeding. The dissection felt like a polite negotiation, not a battle. The frontal lobe relaxed back into place, grateful, as if someone has lifted an invisible burden. The microscope lights glistened off a clean, dry surgical cavity.
She left the table warm, stable, and intact, and it was as though we had pressed a reset button on her personality. She woke up from anaesthesia already halfway into a joke about the ICU nurse’s eyebrows. Over the next few days, the transformation was nothing short of cinematic. Her memory sharpened, her language regained nuance, and her sarcasm returned to its pre-morbid potency. By day four, she was giving unsolicited life advice to the junior doctors and correcting their Hindi grammar. By day six, she asked if she could run my clinic reception. “Clearly, your current staff can’t spell ‘meningioma’ correctly!”
I saw her two weeks later, in yet another silk sari but with none of the earlier confusion. She handed me a chocolate cake. “Only three layers this time. I’ve calmed down.” The final biopsy had confirmed what we had expected — a benign meningioma. No radiation needed, just annual scans to ensure it doesn’t return. “Doctor,” she asked, pausing as she got up to leave, “do you think I should go back to therapy?” “Only if your therapist asks to see you instead.” She laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”
23 thoughts on “The surgical awakening”
Your analogies are hilarious, they point towards the elephant in the room without any noise.. Amazing read! Keep writing 😊
Dearest Dr Mazda sir ……
Very very humorous article describing South Bombay mentality & style in form of sabyasachi & Bottega
The new variant of frontal lobe tumour with different types of symptoms were explained well
Only Lord All Mighty can create a complicated brain & only Mazda can repair it 🥰
I love the way you Handel & explain patients & their relatives In joking way about the complexities of brain related problems in such a simple terminology 🌹
God bless sir with your wisdom & fingers ❤️
I like the way you share your experience.
I can definitely see you have an amazing method of writing where I can actually picturise everything.
I have loved and love reading all your very humorous and sometimes serious write ups Dr. Mazda. I now have such a clear picture of the human brain functioning related to other body parts.
You are brilliantly explicable showing us non doctors how neurology plays such an important role in living and breathing. Thank you 🙏🏼
I have no words to express how Beautifully this article is written. Honestly, I’m not someone who usually enjoys reading articles, but yours are something I just can’t skip. Most of the time, I need to keep a dictionary handy while reading, but thankfully, this time I could manage without one!
Absolutely captivating. This story powerfully illustrates the silent devastation a tumor can inflict—not just on the brain, but on the soul and the family—and the surgeon’s role in restoring everything that makes a life whole.
Pr. Turel, you don’t just operate; you awaken existences.
Thanks you very much for sharing !
With every article, my knowledge of the human brain gets better.
And with each punch line, my urge to reach out and give Mazda a hug gets more pressing!
Do you think there’s a swelling (of pride) somewhere?
Would surgery be the answer?
Amazing Doc..
One more feather in your cap! You are so descriptive.Enjoy reading your writeups,some taken with goosebumps,some with a pinch of salt,and some with teary eyes too. You are incredible.God Bless!
Doc,
Great, great, just great.
The more I read your ‘true life’ articles, the more I yearn for a continuation of your cases description for us.
Waiting eagerly for the next ……
Dr. Mazda, I have read many of your articles with a lot of appreciation. You write very well, with humour and wit, deprecating your own surgical skills.
I am a surgeon, and when I did my neurosurgical rotation as part of my MS in general surgery in the early 80s, imaging like CT, MRI were not available. The investigations for a head injury were 6 burr holes, 3 on each side. And I have seen the effort it took for our seniors to do the surgery you just described.
With admiration and best wishes.
A Sabyasachi sari, a Bottega handbag, and a benign brain tumour walk into Mazda’s clinic… and come out with a punchline.
South Bombay may be losing its memory, but never its flair for drama. Thank God you speak both fluent couture and cortex 🤣
Amazing write up as usual Doc.. very engaging and descriptive to the T.South mumbai analogy is apt and humourous indeed as i can relate the same with some family aquintance.One more feather in your cap! You are so descriptive and such a serious surgery like most you perform seem like one is watching from sideline. Reading your writeups,never fail to bring up emotions,as if you are taking about someone we know well. You are incredible in every way. Stay Blessed Dr.Mazda!
Dear doctor mazda,hats off to u for ur dedication and intelligence in all ur cases.ur readers r totally in awe of u .
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Dear Dr. Turel,
Thank you for your wonderful, flavorful, rich, creamy, hearty, comforting, delicious, savory, satisfying, and warm “Soup for the Soul”. South Bombay (no – never Mumbai) and especially that rusting 😂 Rustom Baug bawas most certainly need more of your wisdom.
Thank you once again. God bless your family and you.
Another marvel Sir..
Your Literary humor and trendiest gupshupp with an Aura of Author and diagnostic niche’ with master like precision in Era Of Surgery as Neurosurgeon is Epic!
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Just Superb !!!
Enjoyed each one of writings ! Eagerly waiting for the next one ! Just keep writing . Every field of medicine is fascinating ! U r making yours amazingly simple !
The write up is as sophisticated as the lady herself!
Just a pic of the tumour is missing .. rest all is in place!!!
How did I miss it last week. Anyway enjoyed the education and the way in which it was narrated. Regards
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I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease four years ago. For over two years, I relied on Levodopa and several other medications, but unfortunately, the symptoms kept getting worse. The tremors became more noticeable, and my balance and mobility started to decline quickly. Last year, out of desperation and hope, I decided to try a herbal treatment program from NaturePath Herbal Clinic. Honestly, I was skeptical at first, but within a few months of starting the treatment, I began to notice real changes. My movements became smoother, the tremors subsided, and I felt steadier on my feet. Incredibly, I also regained much of my energy and confidence. It’s been a life-changing experience I feel more like myself again, better than I’ve felt in years.If you or a loved one is struggling with Parkinson’s disease, I truly recommend looking into their natural approach. You can visit their website at www .naturepathherbalclinic .com