Robin Cook - Seizure

“My guess would be an hour, perhaps a little more,” Daniel said.

“Glory be! A little more than an hour is all that modern biotechnology needs to bring this boy back from the precipice and career disaster. I am impressed. Praise be to the Lord on high!”

“Most of the time will be spent fitting you with the stereotaxic frame,” Daniel explained. “The actual implantation will only take a few minutes.”

“There you go again,” Ashley complained. “More incomprehensible doctor’s jargon. What in heaven’s name is a stereotaxic frame?”

“It is a calibrated frame that fits over your head like a crown. It will enable Dr. Nawaz to inject the treatment cells into the exact location where you have lost your own dopamine-producing cells.”

“I’m not at all certain I should be asking this,” Ashley said hesitantly. “Am I to believe you will be injecting the treatment cells directly into my brain and not into a vein?”

“That’s correct,” Daniel started to explain.

“Hold it right there!” Ashley interrupted. “I’m afraid at this point the less I know, the better. I am an admittedly squeamish patient, especially without being put to sleep. Pain and I have never been compatible bedfellows.”

“There will be no pain,” Daniel assured the senator. “The brain has no sensation itself.”

“But a needle has to go into my brain?” Ashley asked in disbelief.

“A blunt needle, to avoid any damage.”

“How in God’s name do you get a needle into someone’s brain?”

“A little hole will be made through the bone. The approach in your case will be prefrontal.”

“Prefrontal? That’s more doctor gobbledygook.”

“It means through the forehead,” Daniel explained, pointing to his own forehead just above his eyebrow. “Remember, there will be no pain. You will feel vibration when the hole is made, somewhat like an old-fashioned dental drill, provided you are not asleep from the sedation, which happens to be a strong possibility.”

“Why aren’t I going to be definitely asleep through all this?”

“The neurosurgeon wants you awake during the actual implantation.”

Ashley sighed. “That’s quite enough!” he remarked, raising a trembling hand protectively. “I felt better laboring under the delusion the treatment cells went into a vein like a bone-marrow implant.”

“It would not work for neurons.”

“That’s unfortunate, but I will deal with it. Meanwhile, tell me my alias again!”

“John Smith,” Daniel said.

“Of course! How could I have forgotten? And you, Dr. D’Agostino, shall be my Pocahontas.”

Stephanie managed another weak smile.

“Now!” Ashley said, marshaling his enthusiasm. “It’s time for this old country boy to put the concerns of his infirmity aside and head down to the casino. I have an important date with a group of one-armed bandits.”

A few minutes later, Daniel and Stephanie were on their way down the hall en route to their room. Stephanie acknowledged their bodyguard as they passed, but Daniel didn’t. Daniel was demonstrably irritated, as evidenced by the way he slammed the door when they entered. Their suite was half the size of Ashley’s. It had the same view but without the balcony.

“Vigorous! Give me a break!” Daniel snapped. He’d stopped just inside the door with his hands on his hips. “You couldn’t think of some better description of our treatment cells than ‘vigorous’? What were you doing in there-trying to get him to back out at this juncture? To top it off, you acted like you didn’t even want to shake his hand.”

“I didn’t,” Stephanie said. She went over to their single couch and sat down.

“And why the hell not? Good God!”

“I don’t respect him, and as I’ve said ad nauseam, I don’t have a good feeling about all of this.”

“It was like you were being passive-aggressive in there, pausing before answering simple questions.”

“Look! I did my best. I didn’t want to lie. Remember, I didn’t even want to go in there. You insisted.”

Daniel breathed out noisily. He stared at Stephanie. “Sometimes you can be aggravating.”

“I’m sorry,” Stephanie said. “It’s hard for me to pretend. And on the subject of aggravation, you don’t do so bad yourself. Next time you are tempted to say ‘good girl’ to me, restrain yourself.”

10:22 A.M., Sunday, March 24, 2002

If, over the years, going to a physician had become emotionally difficult for Ashley Butler because of its unwanted reminder of his mortality, going into a hospital was worse, and his arrival at the Wingate Clinic had been no exception. As much as he joked about his generic alias with Carol in the limo en route and used his Southern charm on the nurses and technicians during admission, he was terrified. The thin veneer of his apparent insouciance was particularly challenged when he met the neurosurgeon, Dr. Rashid Nawaz. He was not as Ashley had pictured, despite having been told his plainly ethnic name. Prejudice had always played a role in Ashley’s thinking, and it was operative now. In his mind, brain surgeons were supposed to be tall, serious, and commanding figures, preferably of Nordic heritage. Instead, he was confronted by a short, slight, dark-skinned individual with even darker lips and eyes. On the positive side was a lilting English accent that reflected his Oxford training. Also on the positive side was an aura of confidence and professionalism leavened with compassion. The man recognized and sympathized with Ashley’s plight as a patient facing an unorthodox treatment and was gently reassuring, telling Ashley the upcoming procedure was not at all difficult.

Dr. Carl Newhouse, the anesthesiologist, was more in keeping with Ashley’s expectations. As a mildly overweight Englishman with ruddy cheeks, he looked like the Caucasian doctors Ashley had encountered in the past. He was dressed in OR scrubs complete with a hat and a facemask. The facemask was tied around his neck but dangled over his chest. A stethoscope was draped around his neck, and a collection of pens protruded from his breast pocket. A tourniquet of brown rubber tubing was coiled around his pants’ tie.

With exhaustive thoroughness, Dr. Newhouse had gone over Ashley’s medical history, particularly in relation to allergies, drug reactions, and episodes of anesthesia. While Dr. Newhouse auscultated and thumped Ashley’s chest as part of a cursory physical examination, he also started an IV with such practiced ease that Ashley hardly felt it. Once it was flowing to Dr. Newhouse’s satisfaction, he told Ashley that he’d be giving him a powerful intravenous cocktail that would make him feel calm, content, possibly euphoric, and definitely drowsy.

“The sooner the better,” Ashley had silently voiced. He was more than ready to feel calm. With his fears about the upcoming procedure, he’d had difficulty falling asleep the night before. And on top of the psychological stress, it had not been an easy morning. Following Daniel’s advice, he’d avoided his Parkinson’s medication, with consequences more severe than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t appreciated the extent to which the drugs had been controlling his symptoms. He’d not been able to stop his fingers from an involuntary rhythmical motion as if he were trying to roll objects in his palms. Worse yet was the stiffness, which he likened to trying to move while totally immersed in gelatin. Carol had to get a wheelchair to get him down to the waiting limo, and two doormen had to struggle to get him from the wheelchair into the car. The arrival at the Wingate had been equally difficult, with equivalent indignity. The only good part of the ordeal was that no one seemed to have recognized him, thanks to his tourist disguise.