Vince Murdock is going to be a lab rat next Monday. He doesn’t want to be, of course. Who does? But the UFC featherweight also doesn’t have much of a choice.

So on Monday, against his better judgment, doctors at Stanford University are going to inject “a year’s worth of radiation” into some water, and Murdock is going to drink that water. That’s probably a gross oversimplification of the process, but he isn’t eager to hear too many details. All the 28-year-old knows is they’ve assured him the experiment is safe, “and I’m kind of at their mercy,” he says with a sigh. Murdock is volunteering himself because those same doctors said that if he did, a special $15,000 brain scan he desperately needs to help save his life would be paid for as part of his compensation. It’s hard to worry about what radioactive water will do to you 25 years down the line when you have to worry that you may drop dead from a stroke in the next five minutes. So for Murdock, any option is a good option right now, even if that option sounds terrible.

He’s nervous. Obviously, he’s nervous. Very nervous.

But scared? No, Murdock isn’t scared. He’s much more scared about what’s going to happen two days later, on Nov. 13, when — if the Team Alpha Male fighter is lucky — a different Stanford doctor will remove part of his skull and reroute the circuitry on the left side of his brain.

He’s terrified about that, to be honest. It’s all he’s able to think about these days.

It’s been this way for Murdock since June, a slow downhill slide in which the news has grown worse and worse since the plug was pulled on his scheduled UFC octagon debut at UFC Minneapolis just two days out from fight night. People often talk about the highest of highs and lowest of lows in combat sports, but no cliche in the world comes close to describing the torturous ride Murdock has ridden. Because within a span of nine days this summer, the young UFC fighter finally fulfilled a lifelong dream by signing with the MMA leader, and he then had that dream violently ripped away when scans from his pre-fight medicals discovered something horrific. After months of follow-up doctor visits, Murdock came to learn that he suffers from a rare brain disease called moyamoya, a condition so rare that it is found in fewer than one out of every 100,000 people worldwide.

Moyamoya is most easily described to the layperson as a life-threatening blockage of blood to the brain. One comparison that Murdock has found helpful is to liken the blood flow in his brain to a garden hose. When it comes to the left side of his brain, “it’s like someone’s basically stepping on the hose,” he says. “So think of a really narrow hallway that blood is supposed to flow down, right? And the hall just gets narrower and narrower and narrower. And then eventually the walls just touch each other — and that’s basically where it’s at. So I have what’s called, basically, an inclusion, which is 100 percent, a 95 to 100 percent blockage.”

That means the blood flow to the left side of Murdock’s brain is closed off entirely.

What’s keeping Murdock functioning right now are his “reserves,” the term doctors have used for the scant few blood vessels that crept over from the right side of his brain. Without exaggeration, those reserves are the sole reason Murdock is alive, and have been for God knows how long. But they’re also in short supply — and at any moment, Murdock’s body could either run out or decide to stop compensating altogether, which would lead to a likely fatal stroke. Which is exactly why doctors have insisted that Murdock needs to get surgery this month. Right now urgency is imperative.

In other words, Murdock’s life is currently dangling off of a cliff, being held up only by the feeblest of fingertips — and unless he can cobble together $195,000 for his surgery next week, or take out a loan that would cripple him financially for the next several decades, his outlook isn’t optimistic.

“It scares the shit out of me,” Murdock says.

“Every day I’m just like, why me? But at the same time, it’s like, because I can handle it — that’s why. I can come back from this. I can make something of this. That’s why. And obviously it sucks. But I don’t think it’s over.”

Something Murdock realized recently is that most people don’t really know how to talk to a person stuck in a situation like his. How could they? What could they possibly say?

It’s part of the reason why, until a few weeks ago, Murdock was hesitant to even let go of his secret, to let people know about his condition and his plight. This may sound like nonsense, but he was self-conscious. MMA is a prideful sport, and the regional circuit is far from the most lucrative space. He didn’t want to be seen as a charity case or be known as the guy with the broken brain — until Team Alpha Male founder Urijah Faber stepped right in and put a stop to that.

“He’s the one that started the GoFundMe and kind of forced the hand on that,” Murdock says. “Because at first, I was embarrassed. You know, talking about having a head injury, or something wrong with my brain. And then I was embarrassed asking for help. And he’s like, ‘Man, look. This isn’t like putting a new engine in your car. This is your brain, your health and your life. It’s not like going to the doctor’s for stitches.’ He kind of made it a little easier for me to open up about, because I’ve known for a little bit, but I just didn’t know how to, like, speak about it, I guess.”

A longtime member of Team Alpha Male, Murdock found his way to the Sacramento-based squad seven years ago when an old friend, Rizin Fighting Federation fighter Daron Cruickshank, introduced him to Faber after “The Ultimate Fighter 15.” Murdock was only a year removed from making his professional MMA debut, and his story was a familiar one for the fight game. His father was incarcerated and had been throughout most of his life. Growing up an hour out from Detroit, Murdock spent a majority of his own childhood barreling down the same path. He wasn’t used to having someone around like Faber, a figure in his life who, as he puts it, “saw something in me and believed in me.”

“I was the kid that, you know, you ask the teacher where I’d be right now, and it wouldn’t be here,” Murdock says. “And that’s putting it nicely.”

His path to the UFC was a long one, spanning nearly a decade, and fraught with ups and downs. But Murdock never lost faith. His focus stayed singular, and this past summer, when he signed as a short-notice replacement for Chas Skelly against Jordan Griffin at UFC Minneapolis, that belief in his own hard work finally paid off.

“Fight week was something that I’ve always looked forward to since I got into this sport,” he says. “I was like, man, I can’t wait until it’s my day, you know, to sign all the posters. And Francis Ngannou was on the card. I was just so excited. That that whole week was like, I got to do the photo shoots, and I got to do everything that I wanted, man. I was so excited. And then within the next four days, I fucking just got hit right in the face with it.

“And that went from being the best week of my life to the worst.”

Since then, doctor after doctor has referred to Murdock as a “ticking time bomb.” Invariably, each has said that by surviving as long as he’s survived, well, is already somewhat miraculous.

Because realistically, Murdock should probably be dead a hundred times over by now. He’s a walking billboard for what not to do when you suffer from moyamoya.

The biggest thing a person living with his condition needs to avoid is brain trauma or the loss of blood circulation to the head. Murdock, of course, spent the past decade engulfed in a sport where brain trauma and loss of blood circulation to the head is just another Tuesday afternoon. “That’s the absolutely worst thing that you could fucking do,” Murdock says. “And I’m just sitting here thinking to myself, like, every day that I was on the mats doing grappling and getting my neck wrapped up, easily could have been my last.

“The reality of it — yeah, it’s crazy that I have not died.”

What’s funny — or at least funny only in the most macabre sense — is you know the old platitude, the one about how getting into combat sports saved a fighter’s life? For once it actually literally applies. It’s one of the few things Murdock can laugh about throughout this whole stressful chapter, if only because it sounds so trite. But it’s true. “How many people have you heard like, ‘Oh, fighting saved my life’ — like (Jorge) Masvidal or (Nate) Diaz, or guys like that, these tough people that are like, ‘If it wasn’t for fighting, I’d be doing drugs and be in the jail and shit,’” Murdock says.

“But fighting did save my fucking life. I made it to the UFC just for the UFC to give me that test and show me something, if that makes sense. If I did not fight and I did not make it into the UFC, I literally would probably be having a stroke. Or I would just be walking around until that happens, and probably be a lot worse along too. It’s really rare for someone of my age to have this and make it as far as I have. And even so, to find it without any complications. I mean, usually people find this by having a stroke, and if it happens later in life, you just can’t come back from it.”

Still, time is of the utmost importance. Murdock can feel it. He says his symptoms have ramped up in frequency over the last few months, especially since he stopped training. Without that distraction, the signs have become easier to recognize. Headaches. Spotty vision. Numbness or tightness on the right side of his body. It’s unnerving. Every time Murdock feels it coming on, a chill runs through his heart. How much longer before the inevitable strikes? No one has an answer.

Murdock got married this past Saturday. His wife, Kira, didn’t even see it coming. On the same day the rest of the MMA world quarreled over bad motherfuckers and cut stoppages, Murdock organized a massive surprise ceremony that he lovingly pieced together on just five days’ notice.

The couple had already been planning a wedding before Murdock’s moyamoya diagnosis derailed their year, but once it became apparent that surgery was the only option — and a dire priority — the Murdocks postponed their plans. But Vince still worked away in secret and pulled it all together — somehow, he pulled it all together — and for one night, he and Kira were able to find respite from the dread that’s loomed over their family since the summer.

It was a Vince move through and through. Ask anyone at Team Alpha Male, and they’ll tell you. Or just ask them about the Mush Award. That’ll tell you enough.

The Mush Award — pronounced like the word mushy — is something Faber cooked up a few years ago and bestowed upon Murdock, because it felt like an award that should belong to him. At the time, Murdock was helping new fighters at Team Alpha Male acclimate to the transition to Sacramento. Helping get them to practice. Showing them the ropes around the city. Even housing them if they needed housing. “And eventually, Urijah, they surprised me one year with the Mush Award, which is basically for like the biggest sweetheart, because I get all mushy,” Murdock says.

“The biggest sweetheart or the biggest heart. And I’ve always tried to lend a helping hand, at least that’s what they tell me. I’ve always tried to do my best to help anyone along in this sport and this career and this gym. If there was something that I could do, and I could do it for somebody, they didn’t have to ask — I would do it. Like, I get all sensitive. I’ll tell you I love you and that I’m there for you and stuff like that. That’s just how it’s always been. I’ve always tried to make myself available to anyone that needs aid on the team. And this was given to me like four or five years ago, and now it’s an award that I get to hand out every year at the banquet.”

ONE Championship fighter Sage Northcutt won the Mush Award last year, because of course he did.

This year, Murdock might be a little more distracted than last, but he still intends to fulfill his duties once banquet time rolls around. He just needs to get there first.

His brain surgery is scheduled for next week, but it could be pushed back to Nov. 20 if Murdock is unable to meet his fundraising goals of $195,000. Right now, he’s a long way away.

The procedure was initially supposed to cost more than twice that amount, not even counting his hospital stay and all of his post-surgery expenses, but Murdock was able to work with the doctors at Stanford — where Dr. Gary Steinberg, the world’s leading researcher on moyamoya, resides — in order to shrink the costs as much as possible. But it’s happening in November one way or another, and Murdock is already exploring options to take out a sizable loan if that scenario comes to pass. Team Alpha Male has also organized a benefit event on Friday to help raise funds, which will be open to the public.

While he was hesitant to thrust his situation into the public eye, Murdock says he’s been blown away by the support he’s received from the MMA community. It’s been overwhelming. “I’m not really trying to push for the money. It’s something I’m still really not that comfortable about,” he says. “But it’s amazing, to be honest, because I feel like it’s a reflection of MMA and the community, and knowing that we’re kind of a tight-knit sport even though it’s an individual sport.

“I have guys from when I was in Michigan, like, Myles Jury donated to my campaign. He was one of the first guys from Michigan to really do MMA, and I’ve only met him a handful of times. I did a seminar with him when I was like 20 years old. That was eight years ago. And this guy didn’t even say anything, but I go and look on the donations — and there’s his name with a donation of $100. And old coaches, people I haven’t talked to, kids I went to school with, other MMA people from all the way over the world. And some of them don’t even say anything. It’s just so cool, because I want to be able to say something to all of them. Even if you can’t donate, man, just share or just say something, say a prayer, reach out to me. Like, it all means so much.

“It’s just so cool to see that — that I’m not alone.”

As you could imagine, the prognosis for Murdock’s case is uncertain.

Doctors have told him that it could take anywhere from six months to an indefinite number of years post-surgery for his brain and his body to regulate the new blood flow. It’s scary. Every patient is different, and some patients never fully reclaim their old selves. “I’m young enough to where, my body’s in a really healthy state to take surgery,” Murdock says, “meaning that it’s in the best position to learn how to compensate. But they just don’t know until it happens.

“But if you look up the doctor, I’ve come to find out that I’m really lucky to be this close to Stanford. (Dr. Steinberg) is super, super confident that I will be able to return to competing. And that was the UFC’s requirements, that I would need a university doctor to sign off on it — and he’s not only a university doctor, he is the doctor to sign off on anybody that (has moyamoya). He’s signed off on athletes with this that have returned to any kind of contact sports, and police officers, SWAT, people like that. They go into high-performance situations and need to perform. And he was more than confident (in my chances). Obviously I’ll have to have some tests, like I’ll need to pass some things to see that through. But he’s confident, which makes me confident.”

Murdock acknowledges that the thought has crossed his mind, the thought that his UFC dream may have ended just as it finally began. Of course it’s crossed his mind. This is a cold world.

If that happens, he knows in his heart that he’ll figure something out. He’s not sure what, but he will. He won’t have much of a choice, after all. Whether at age 28 or age 38, everyone’s time in this sport ends, and Murdock has always been the kind of guy to make the best of a bad hand.

But right now, that’s a far-off worry. Something for next month, for after his surgery.

Right now, the young UFC fighter is simply trying to stay positive. Because that’s all he can do.

“I’m confident that whatever fork in the road is going to lead me to the right destination, I’ll make the best out of whatever scenario that I come to,” he says. “That’s my biggest thing that I live by. There’s no way I’ll lose sleep over something that I can’t fucking control, and what I can control is my attitude toward coming back. A healthy mind, right? That’s just as important. So whether it’s fighting or whether it’s something else, I believe that attitude is going to carry me to something.

“And that would be my main goal. I’ve got a big heart, I think. Half a brain but a full heart.”

If you want to help save Vince Murdock’s brain, you can do so in his GoFundMe campaign.

(Top photo: Ethan Miller / Getty)