by Ryan Somma
My clone was my only hope.
We woke up at 0600 sharp. Thean took a single aspirin and I a double dose. I additionally took my diuretic, laxis, and captopril to relax my arteries. We put on our sweats, jogging shoes, and ran through some routine stretches in front of the house to warm up.
I set the pace for the first kilometer, which was merely a warm up for Thean. When I dropped to a quick walking pace to cool down, she took off to elevate her heart rate into the cardio training zone for an additional twenty minutes. This translated into four more kilometers, passing me six times as she circled the lake. I used the privacy to pop some nitroglycerin for the chest pains.
A shower at this point in the day was unnecessary. Neither of us had anywhere else to be except around one another, and neither of us could detect the other’s body odor. We theorized this was because our identical genes and diet also made our personal scents similar.
Oatmeal for breakfast, although the “heart-healthy” reputation of this staple was no longer certain. A multi-vitamin, an aspirin, a banana, and decaffeinated green-tea rounded out the meal. I took lasix to thin the blood in addition.
Morning mental warm up: phylogenetic taxonomy. I found tracing the millions of evolutionary paths along this system furnished me with greater insight into biochemistry. Seeing not only how life’s outward expressions of genes progressed, but the refinement of its molecular complexity was the thought exercise that showed me what lay ahead in the road.
“Is that a new subject?” I asked Thean.
She nodded, “Cyclic and noncyclic photophosphorylation.”
“Ah,” I smiled, remembering when I first tackled the subject. I was eight years older than her at the time, “the molecular pathway to generating energy for all plantae. Welcome to the plant realm.” The photosynthetic process would produce the oxygen necessary to support the first vertebrates 2.5 billion years further down the timeline.
I silently envied the intellectual journey my daughter was progressing along and the wondrous feeling of discovery that would accompany it. She was still decades away from the quagmire of applying all this data. I was now marking my fifteenth year into just this, my days on the intellectual playground were long gone, and now my life was running on borrowed time.
Seven kilometers with the sun just reaching the sky’s apex. I power walked the dirt path for nearly as long as Thean jogged it. The mountain air was cleaner and the higher altitude’s lower oxygen levels made the heart work harder. I was holding a perpetual debate with my doctor over whether or not this was a good thing, with her sending me weekly research into high-mountain disease and enlarged hearts, and I responding with the positive cardiovascular effects. I would eventually let her have the last word over my gravesite.
Farm-raised albacore was more expensive than the free-range tuna inhabiting the ocean, but the latter’s mercury content offset its heart-friendly nature. Fresh, uncooked greens sprinkled with lemon juice and a pint of orange juice rounded out our lunch. With more lasix and captopril for myself, and, when Thean was distracted, more nitroglycerin for what were becoming ever-present pains below my chest plate.
“Have you seen the research on the effectiveness of this tumor necrosis factor alpha inhibitor?” Thean asked me, pointing to the 3-D model of a molecule rotating on her screen.
“A peripheral membrane protein,” I noted, trying to stave off her line of inquiry, “we are looking for something more integral. That molecule is too water-soluble.”
“Correct; however, if I modify the electron spin orbitals in a few places…” she drifted off, considering the possibility.
“That’s quantum chemistry,” I said, bringing her out of it, “purely speculatory. We must adhere to concrete scientific solutions to maintain progress.”
“Mmmm,” she intoned, unwilling to forsake the possibility simply because I said so. I would do the same thing at her age, “Too bad we can’t evolve a new kingdom out of halophiles. I bet they could benefit from such research.”
“Now you’re delving into xenobiology,” I said with a smirk to let her know I appreciated her humor. “I’m sure some of my discoveries would benefit unicorns and dragons, but we don’t have those on this planet. So we deal with what chance has given us.”
She shot me an odd look, not accusatory, but knowing, at this statement.
Fifteen minute break. I ran through some yoga stretches while Thean buried herself in her favorite intellectual pastime.
“I’m having trouble with this proof,” Thean said and I looked over her shoulder at the textbook. “I’ve followed it nearly to completion, but am stalled at this transition.”
I smiled, “Another proof of Pythagoras’ Theorem? What is this, the hundredth one?”
“I’ve got a thing for Pythagoras,” Thean shrugged. “After all, you did name me after his wife. Most proofs are pretty easy, but this one is frustrating.”
I returned to my yoga mat and resumed warrior one stance, saying, “Feeling frustrated is usually an indication that one is about to learn something.”
Nine kilometers. I don’t know how she did it, and in under an hour no less. Breathing heavily, I ambled back to the house. If could not even walk for as long as my clone could jog, then I could at least make her a nice dinner. Maybe salmon or mahi mahi, with fresh Portobello mushrooms.
I was still steaming the asparagus when Theano came in and set the mail down on the kitchen table. I saw her toss several letters into the trash.
“What are those?” I asked.
Theano retrieved them from the garbage and set them down in front of me without a word. The handwritten addresses meant they weren’t junk mail. I looked them over, not needing to open them.
Instead I held them up to Theano, “You may read these, if you like. You have that right.”
Theano shook her head, refusing to even look at them, “Unnecessary. Those people have no understanding. Their time would be better spent tending to their own lives.”
I nodded and walked the hate mail over to drop the letters in the trash, “I was wondering why I wasn’t seeing these letters anymore.”
“They aren’t worth our time,” Theano said, studying her calculus text.
“So you decided to dispose of them,” I observed neutrally.
“I did,” Theano replied without looking up.
“I realize I’ve told you this before,” I said, “but there are many people who believe having myself cloned, knowing you would inherit my fatal heart defect, was a selfish act of cruelty.”
“You’ve told me,” Thean replied, keeping her head buried in her work. “You had to find a clinic in the East to provide the service because no Western clinics would permit it. I’ve given it much thought, and you know what?” She looked up at me, “I don’t care what other people think. Our work is too important. I’m with you on this.”
We took turns showering after dinner. This was the best time of day for it hygienically, not to soil our bed sheets with the day’s activities. Tooth brushing, flossing, and a half hour or so reading for enjoyment until drowsiness made it the opportune time to turn the lights out.
“Mom?” Thean whispered in the darkness a few moments after putting her copy of Marie Curie’s doctorial thesis Radioactive Substances on the nightstand.
“Yes Thean?”
“What if the cardiomyopathy kills me too early to complete our work?” she asked.
The corners of my mouth ticked upwards involuntarily at her calling it ‘our work,’ and I replied, “Highly unlikely. If you discipline yourself to maintain the strict lifestyle I’ve prescribed, you should live twenty, maybe thirty years past my expected expiration date.”
Her eyebrows lowered slightly, and her mouth followed suit, “Or the lifestyle might have no effect at all, and the heart defect will kill me the same time it does you.”
“A very real possibility,” my eyebrows raised, and I nodded my head in acknowledgement, “but I have also lived long past the doctors’ estimates on my lifespan. I
should have died over five years ago, but here I am. I attribute that to changing my lifestyle patterns, eating a proper diet, exercise, and drug regimen.”
“It is possible you would live this long regardless,” Thean noted.
I half-nodded and shrugged, “Possible, yes, but the correspondent science supports my hypothesis.”
“Only through corollary examples,” Thean countered. “The specifics certainly differentiate our case from studies others have conducted on median survival rates.”
“Of course it would seem improbable that we would fall within the statistical median,” I argued, “but research conducted on average human beings provides the best data we have to base our decisions on.”
We lay in silence. Despite the prolonged lapse in dialogue, I knew our conversation was not finished. I could feel Thean’s mind still churning away in the darkness. There were epic thought processes taking place inside her teenage mind, and I waited patiently for them articulate through her vocal chords.
“You should have made multiple clones, not just place all your hopes on me,” Thean said at last. “You could have tried a variety of lifestyles and observed their different outcomes on our lifespans.”
“I considered… or rather, I entertained such a possibility,” I said, “but I lacked the resources to carry it to fruition.”
Thean frowned, “You could afford five, maybe six clones easily.”
“I was referring to time.”
I could see Thean’s eyes widen in the moonlight, recognizing her naivety, “Ah.”
I nodded, “To conduct such an experiment would require too much of my attention and would have detracted from the quality of my research. Even the effort of raising a single genetic copy of myself was an immense distraction. Imagine raising six more just like you, testing out different diets and lifestyle choices. It would be abandoning my line of research for a completely new, and fairly narcissistic, line of inquiry.”
Silence in the darkness resumed. I knew this topic was only peripheral to what was really vexing her, and again I waited as Thean’s mind sorted out what was bothering her. It was obvious she did not know herself, but would not sleep until she understood. Until then, I would remain awake as a vigilant sounding board for her thoughts.
“My point…” Thean tried jumpstarting the articulation process with this, diving into the formulation of her argument, “is that you have very likely placed too much faith in me. I am still fifteen years, at the least, from even beginning to pick up on your work wherever you leave off at death.”
I blinked, “If the weight of responsibility is your concern—“
“I will rise to the challenge,” Thean interrupted. “I will excel at continuing to solve this puzzle you have spent a lifetime decoding, but only if I live long enough to carry on the work. That possibility relies on many factors all out of our control.
“And then what happens if I cannot see the end of our lives’ work?” she asked. “Will I then also place all my faith in a clone, raise it to maturity, and hope that it lives long enough or even desires to continue our research?
“You see,” she continued. “This a very precarious situation we find our lives’ work in. My point is that there might be ways to reduce the risk.”
“I have exhausted all those possibilities in creating this life we are presently living,” I assured her. “There are no more precautions for us to take.”
“No cure then,” she whispered. “No certainty.”
“The human body is a very complex system,” I replied. “There will always be factors beyond our control.”
“And there is nothing else we can do,” she said, and then added, “beyond what we are presently doing.”
I only answered, “The world is a very complex system.”
After breakfast, I clicked the dropdown menu of recent web addresses to locate my e-mail. One of the cached entries was familiar, but I had not entered it.
“Thean?” I asked. “Were you researching heart transplants?”
“Yes Dana,” came her simple reply.
I swiveled my chair to face her back, “I thought I explained this. We have preformed antibodies that disqualify us for transplants. Our bodies’ immune systems would attack any foreign organs.”
Thean looked over her shoulder at me, “Consider this a peer review of your findings.”
We regarded one another with that same neutral expression.
“While I maintain, and will continue to maintain, the primacy of your freedom to choose your own academic pursuits,” I said, standing up, “I must also communicate my perspective that your preoccupation with our mortality is not constructive.”
Thean did not take her eyes off me as she swiveled her chair around to bring the rest of her body around to face me, “Any research I conduct in my own free time to increase our lifespans is constructive.”
“Life is not important,” I asserted, “only ideas are important.”
Thean’s eyebrows raised slightly in appreciation of this statement, “That is the truth, as we both understand it, and also my sole reason for pursuing this line of inquiry. You detract from the productivity of your own research with these distractive concerns for mine.”
Again we regarded one another with that same neutral expression. Finally I resumed my seat and returned to browsing papers online.
I recognized the heart attack early enough for Thean to drive me to the emergency room. Although I was always taking aspirin, the doctors gave me more and heparin additionally. Thean and I tolerated these feeble attempts at medical care, patiently waiting for my heart specialist to arrive and explain how futile they were.
This was far more serious than a simple blood clot, and I had waited for it all my life. My heart rhythms were far too abnormal. I could see it on the heart monitor. There was no restoring their functions. It was merely time now to wait and die.
Every step of the way, Thean was at my bedside, and I tried to explain everything to her as my strength would allow. Perhaps there was something she could learn here, something additional she could take into the experience herself, when it came for her. This was, after all, her staring into her own future, the sights, smells and sounds, what she would look like lying on her death bed.
This last must have been fairly grim; although, she tried not to betray how much it disturbed her. She could dissect cadavers with ease, but this was herself she was looking at. She took my hand and squeezed it in hers, rubbing my arm with her other hand.
“Just doing my part to get the oxytocin flowing through your bloods stream,” she said with a warm smile, referring to the pleasant-feeling hormones produced in the human body through affectionate contact. Apparently sexual intercourse produced the greatest surge of the hormone in the bloodstream, but I and Thean were asexual.
I squeezed her hand as much as my weakened state would allow. “Just adding a little prolactin as well,” I said, referring to the opiate-like hormone generated in women as a reward for performing motherly activities.
“Does it feel good?” Thean asked.
I nodded.
“But that might just be a placebo effect,” we said simultaneously and laughed.
“Unfortunately,” I paused to administer another dose of morphine, “the organ is finally damaged beyond recovery. I will not leave this bed with it. I have a broken heart.” I smirked, “A more poetic mind than mine might come up with something special to say about that.”
Thean squeezed hard, “We both have broken hearts. It’s just that time has worn yours down a little further.”
“I perceive more than one level of meaning in that statement,” I nodded, and my eyes fluttered closed momentarily with exhaustion and morphine. “Perhaps there is an emotional dimension to what you just said?”
Thean nodded, “Of course.”
“Me too,” I whispered and fell asleep.
The ceiling was moving. No, I was moving, being rolled down a hallway on a gurney. A bag of something was dangli
ng just above and to the right, jostling as I was jostled, a tube leading from it to somewhere on my body. It was difficult to tell where. There were so many tubes.
“She’s awake,” a male’s voice said beyond my periphery.
My heart specialist’s face filled my vision, upside down, “Dana. Can you hear me?”
I nodded. The gurney was jostled as we passed through double-doors into a brighter room. Spotlights filled my vision, casting my doctor’s face into darkness.
“We’re taking you to surgery,” her voice was gentle. “You’ll be going under systemic anesthesia momentarily.”
“Cardiothoracic surgery?” I asked weakly.
“Yes,” she answered--too simply--and pulled a face-saver surgical mask over her features.
I looked around for answers, and noticed the sternal retractor waiting to spread my rib cage apart. This was major surgery. Amid the nurses prepping, I saw one bring in an ice box.
“Not orthoscopic surgery?” I asked the doctor, who was now drawing a scalpel line between my breasts.
“Heart transplant,” she said without pausing in her work.
“But my preformed antibodies—“ I began, but someone slipped a mask over my face, and my olfactory receptors were overwhelmed with the strong smell of anesthetic gas.
“Take deep, steady breaths,” the anesthesiologist was gently urging me.
“No,” I protested. “My daughter. Give the heart to my daughter, don’t waste it on…”
I woke up, I would later learn, three days after my surgery. The doctor kept me in a drug-induced coma during that time. My heart specialist was present when I woke up. She was not smiling.
“Welcome back Dana,” she said simply. “The transplant was a complete success, but of course it would be, the organ was perfect for you.”
“Thean…” I whispered. “You should have given it to Thean.”
The doctor shook her head, “Thean…” She cleared her throat, “Dana, there was only one heart in this entire world we could have given you.”
She looked at me expectantly, waiting. The drugs were still hindering my cognitive capabilities, so it took me a few moments. I drew a sharp intake of breath when the pieces finally fit together in my mind. The drug-induced coma made perfect sense then. The stress of this news would have killed me immediately post-op.
“But… But I…” I blinked, shaking my head. “I didn’t want this… Not like this…”
The doctor nodded and patted my hand, “We know. The suicide note she left us was very clear on the fact that she conceived the idea entirely on her own.”
“H-how… How did she--?” I stammered. My vision was blurring with something my body had not produced since early childhood.
“She was very meticulous,” the doctor said. “She called the ambulance just before she committed the act. She used a gun purchased within the last year and was careful so that the bullet wound would damage enough of the brain to prevent resuscitation, but keep the heart beating slightly longer to make sure we would retrieve it, along with her instructions for giving it to you and why your body would not reject it.”
“I see,” was all I could manage.
“She left you this,” the doctor handed me a small sheet of yellow paper, folded over once.
I took it and she walked out, leaving me alone in the room. I held the paper between my thumb and forefinger, considering it. What could it possibly say? Something to assuage the guilt hanging so heavily on this unfortunately acquired heart? I unfolded it with closed eyes, and then opened them.
All it read was, Continue our work. Love, Theo.
My hand fell aside with the note, and I looked away from it. My eyes fell on the nearby heart monitor. One could set a watch to its perfect time.
It was strong, the heart of someone who jogged 21 kilometers daily. The woman who owned this heart took great care of it, eating healthy and not smoking. She babied it with routine aspirin doses to thin the blood and prevent putting any undo pressure on the organ. She researched the uniqueness of her particular heart, the defects her mother intentionally, however reluctantly, made her inherit along with her otherwise brilliant genetic expression. She learned what made it so irreplaceable in a world where medical science had overcome so many other obstacles. She cared for it very dearly over 15 years of life, and then she gave it to me.
There was thirty years of life left on this heart, easily, but there was no time to ruminate on all of this any longer. It was wrong and dishonored Thean’s memory to do so. I called one of the graduate students at the University, and told them to bring me my attaché case with the latest findings it contained.
I had a great deal of work to do.
ryan’s clone
