Magic, Machines and the Awakening of Danny Searle

by John McWilliams

  “You mean Ms. Danny Searle,” my father said.

  “David Levinson is Ms. Searle’s husband, is he not…? Is very confusing.”

  “They’re friends,” I said.

  “Well, husband, wife, friend—relationship does not matter. We need to see patient right away.”

  “Dr. Bourilkov?” Dr. Harris said as we turned the corner. “Ms. Searle is being attended to, and I can assure you she is getting the very best care—”

  Dr. Bourilkov came to an abrupt halt. He glared at Dr. Harris. “I can assure you, doctor, there is no one here as qualified as I am to deal with brain trauma.” He turned toward the elevators where a door had just opened. We followed as he continued: “I am Director of Neurological Studies at University of Arizona Medical Department. With brain trauma, every second counts.” The door closed and we started down.

  Dr. Bourilkov looked at me. “You are Tyler Cipriani, are you not? I have read much about your early neurological development. I understand you suffered head trauma as well?” He held my chin, looked into my eyes. “Nausea? Loss of memory? Hallucinations?”

  “He was examined by one of our doctors,” Dr. Harris said as Dr. Bourilkov poked the bump on my forehead. I had the urge to poke him back—just in case I was hallucinating him. But then the elevator door opened and Dr. Bourilkov charged out.

  “Only forty-two minutes to get here,” Dr. Bourilkov said as he scanned the nameplates above the doors. “Traffic was not so bad, but ambulance driver was maniac.”

  “You took an ambulance?” my father asked.

  “Mr. Levinson made arrangements. I was in middle of lecture at Brook Howard University when paged with big emergency.”

  “You walked out on your lecture?”

  “Once I knew it was Dr. Saito’s famous patient, I—ah, here we go.”

  “Famous patient?” my father said.

  “Certainly famous in my world.” Dr. Bourilkov leaned his beefy shoulder into the radiation department’s door and plowed into the room.

  “I am Dr. Yuri Bourilkov,” he said to an official-looking gentleman in a peach shirt, brown tie and pressed lab coat. “I must see my patient, Daniella Searle, immediately. I must see charts, scans—any information pertaining to her.”

  Unfazed, the man in the peach shirt just stood there, arms folded. “Hello,” he said finally, calmly, patiently. “I am Dr. Swanson.” He unfolded his arms in order to shake my father’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Cipriani. I’m just sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” Then, patiently, he turned to Dr. Bourilkov. “Dr. Bourilkov, you must realize there are certain protocols to which we are obliged to adhere. I would be only too happy to assist you in whatever way I can within those bounds; however, this is a professionally run medical department and we do things here by the book.”

  “Dr. Swanson is quite right,” Dr. Harris said. “It’s the way we do things here at Brooklyn Regional.”

  Dr. Bourilkov put his hands up in surrender. He inhaled deeply—filling his barrel chest up like a balloon. Exhaled. “The young lady, Ms. Searle, has been unconscious for approximately three hours, is that not correct? And her condition remains unchanged?”

  “She is still unconscious, yes,” Dr. Swanson said.

  “Then you must get out of my way.” Dr. Bourilkov attempted to sidestep Dr. Swanson.

  “She’s comatose.” Dr. Swanson stood his ground.

  Comatose? I took a step back. That sounded so much more serious than unconscious.

  “On what do you base diagnosis?” Dr. Bourilkov asked. “No, no, do not bother with explanation. You force me to bring out big guns.” Dr. Bourilkov fumbled for his cellphone, placing a call. “Yes,” he said into the phone. “You asked me to call with roadblock. Here is roadblock.” He started to hand the phone to Dr. Swanson, but reconsidered. “You work for her.” He handed the phone to Dr. Harris.

  Dr. Harris, after a moment, took the call into another room.

  All eyes turned toward Dr. Bourilkov.

  “Is David Levinson—naturally.” Dr. Bourilkov raised his bushy eyebrows. “Is man who gets what he wants.”

  Dr. Harris returned after several minutes and handed Dr. Bourilkov his cellphone. “Give these gentlemen whatever they want,” she told Dr. Swanson. “I’ll get the paperwork for you to sign, Dr. Bourilkov—at which point the patient is yours.”

  “Carol?” Dr. Swanson said, sounding like a wounded lover.

  “Just do it, Jim.” Dr. Harris backed her way out the door. “Your budget just got that injection it needed.”

  Dr. Swanson stared at the door as it closed.

  “Nice lady,” Dr. Bourilkov said, stepping around Dr. Swanson and then through the imaging room door. We followed. “I need whatever results you have, Dr. Swanson—x-ray, CAT, MRI, EEG. Did you discover any lesions? I trust you have some form of functional scan capability?”

  “We have a GE Healthcare PET/CT 600.”

  “Good. I need to see scans.”

  “They’re in the control room.”

  Doctors Swanson and Bourilkov went into the glass-walled control room while my father, Mohamed and I went straight over to Danny. She was on a gurney next to the donut-shaped GE scanner. She appeared to be merely sleeping, wearing what looked like a swimming cap with wires attached. My father touched her cheek, a parent testing a child’s fever.

  “Danny,” he said. “I know you don’t like being the center of attention, but somehow that’s where you always end up. Don’t worry, we have the very best resources and we’ll have you up and around in no time.”

  I wanted to say something too, but was worried the shakiness of my voice might destroy the positive vibe my father was now building. I held her hand in both of mine.

  “That’s Tyler holding your hand, as I’m sure you know,” my father said. “And Mohamed is here. And Dr. Bourilkov, an excellent neurologist, is here as well—”

  “Scientist,” Dr. Bourilkov said. He had just come out of the control room. “I am primarily neuroscientist, but also medical doctor. And you may all call me Yuri.” He came over to my father’s side of the gurney and examined Danny’s eyes, moved her limbs, tickled her feet. “Our best indications of brain activity, at present, are these electroencephalographic waveforms.” He indicated the monitor next to the gurney and then sat down in front of it.

  A moment later, Dr. Swanson came out of the control room and handed him a stack of PET and CT printouts.

  “How does she look?” my father asked, hovering over Yuri’s shoulder.

  “Unfortunately, PET scans were performed without stimulation, so minimal activity is not unexpected. But these electroencephalographic readings”—he glanced at the machine in front of him—“are not encouraging.”

  “Like I said,” Dr. Swanson spoke up from behind my father. “She’s comatose. On the Glasgow Coma Scale she’s a five. The lowest a person can be is a three on a scale up to fifteen. And the two points we did give her were for a questionable arm abduction in reaction to pain.”

  “But people come out of comas all the time, don’t they?” I asked.

  “They do,” Dr. Bourilkov said, looking reproachfully at Dr. Swanson. “You should be using CSR-R coma scale. And stimulation tests should be performed during PET scan.”

  “The radionuclide is still in her system. If you want we can rescan and do whatever tests you want.”

  “Nyet.” Yuri looked thoughtfully at Danny and then addressed my father. “Mr. Levinson insisted that no expense be spared, and these passive scans are waste of time. I need my equipment and team if we are to effect her recovery. We need to talk with Mr. Levinson immediately.”

  “Dr. Swanson,” my father said. “Do you have a room with a speakerphone?”

  “There’s a phone right here.”

  My father tilted his head toward Danny.

  “She can’t hear anything.” Dr. Swanson returned my father’s stare, but quickly acquiesced. “Okay, okay, follow me.”

  “I
want person by Danny’s side at all times,” Yuri told Dr. Swanson. “Read book, sing song, talk about weather—does not matter. Interaction is important.”

  “I’ll stay with her,” I said.

  “Actually, I’d prefer it if you came with us.” My father looked at me. “Don’t you think you should be in on these decisions?”

  After Dr. Swanson found Danny a nurse—reluctantly—I followed the others into the hall.

  “My research,” Yuri was telling my father, “involves neurological feedback using resonant inductive tomography in conjunction with pulse-charged magnetic probes. Magnetic probes are mounted directly to RIT detector ring. I call it the Bourilkov Neurofeedback System.”

  “Has it worked in other cases like Danny’s?” my father asked.

  “Uh…” Yuri scooped at the air as if literally trying to uncover his words. “Cases are generally unique. But works, yes. Would you like copies of relevant papers?”

  “I would—right away.”

  We entered a small room with a table and phone. At Yuri’s request, Dr. Swanson left to go download a number of research papers for my father from the University of Arizona Medical Department’s website.

  We all remained standing while Yuri dialed David’s number.

  “Mr. Levinson,” Yuri said. “I am here with Dr. Cipriani, his son, and…”

  “Mohamed.” My father rested a hand on Mohamed’s shoulder.

  “Yes—my apologies—and Mohamed. Based on initial findings, there is no intracranial, intra or extra-axial, hemorrhaging; no skull fracture; possible, though slight, indication of right temporal cortical contusion—though this may be extracellular diffusion from preexisting lesion. I need to review this later with Dr. Saito. Danny is in possible comatic state consistent with condition following her prior trauma.”

  “Prior trauma?” my father asked.

  “Yes,” David said above the staticky jet engine noise. “Two years ago Danny had an accident that put her in a coma for twenty-two days.”

  “She never mentioned anything about that to me.” My father looked at me.

  “Me neither. What happened?”

  “I’ll explain all that when I get there,” David said. “It’s… complicated.”

  “Complicated? How complicated could it be?” The last thing I wanted to hear at that moment was that he and Danny shared some kind of secret, medical or otherwise.

  “Tyler,” David said, “let’s just focus on what needs to happen next. I promise I’ll explain it all when I get there.”

  “He is correct,” Yuri said. “We must focus on urgent needs of Danny.”

  “Yuri, whatever you need,” David said. “Just let me know.”

  “In current situation, using low-resolution imaging, we are only skimming surface of neurological ocean. If I were to have my system available, I believe that we—”

  “Yuri, hold on,” David said. “You don’t have to sell me; I’m sold. Just tell me what you need and I’ll make it happen.”

  “In this case, I need Bourilkov System and two technicians flown from Arizona to Brook Howard University Hospital in Manhattan. At Brook Howard, I will need two-thousand-square-foot facility in East Building on fifth floor, next to server room—is perfect.” Yuri looked at us guiltily. “I took tour of facility yesterday. Oh, and I need helicopter to transport Danny to Brook Howard.”

  “I can arrange that,” Dr. Swanson said, entering the room, handing my father a stack of papers. “When do you need that chopper?”

  “Immediately,” David said before Yuri could answer. “Just have them on the pad and ready to go. Yuri, as soon as I get off the phone, I’ll make the arrangements at Brook Howard and call you back.”

  “What about Danny’s family—her parents? Don’t we need their consent?” my father asked.

  “That’s all taken care of,” David said. “Dr. Bourilkov has all the authority he needs.”

  “So when do you land?”

  “In… one hour and forty-seven minutes.”

  “All right. We’ll get everything moving on our side. Stewart’s still in surgery—we’ll have to figure that out if we’re relocating to Brook Howard. Ishana’s in a private room, sedated. And Janice is on her way in.”

  “What about the A.I. XPRIZE presentation?” David asked. “Do you want me to call them? Given the circumstances, I’m sure they’ll let us reschedule.”

  “I doubt it. Those board members are flying in from all over. Let me worry about that. Just get here as soon as you can.”

  “How’s Danny… otherwise?” David asked hesitantly. “I mean, I know she’s unconscious, but were there any other injuries?”

  “No, no, she’s fine,” my father assured him. “A bit sleepy, but pretty as ever.”

  “She is regular sleeping beauty,” Dr. Bourilkov added.

  For a long solemn moment, we all stared at the speakerphone, just listening to jet engine noise.

  “All right then,” David said. “I’ll be there soon.” The line went dead.

  My nerves were on edge from the accident, I was worried about Danny, and I was jealous of David (though at the same time thankful for his help). And then, just to add to my emotional maelstrom, my father gave me a hug.

  “So,” he said, clearing his throat, “we should probably go check on Ishana and Stewart.”

  In Ishana’s room, minutes later, we found that our luggage had been delivered by the company that had towed away the limo. Ishana was still asleep and Stewart was still in surgery. We cleaned up and changed our clothes, and, not too long after that, my mother arrived.

  After her barrage of hugs and kisses, I brought her up to date while my father took a call from David. He returned to tell us what was going to happen next. My mother and father sat on the couch, Mohamed and me in vinyl chairs.

  “In about twenty minutes,” my father explained, “a Med-Lift helicopter will be flying Danny to the East 34th Street Heliport where an ambulance will take her over to Brook Howard University Hospital. Dr. Bourilkov will be traveling with her, and before you ask, Tyler, he’s the only one who can go.”

  “Shouldn’t someone she knows go?” The thought of Danny being airlifted across New York with a bunch of strangers stabbed at my heart.

  “He’s the only one they can take. Believe me, I checked. Sorry.”

  “What about Stewart?” Mohamed asked.

  “I’d like you to stay here with him and Ishana.”

  “What if Ishana wakes up?”

  “He’s right,” my mother said. “If you’re not here when she wakes—”

  “She won’t be waking up.” My father glanced at Ishana, out cold on the bed. “Yuri has ordered enough drugs to keep her under for at least twelve hours.”

  “Sheesh, is that legal?” My mother furrowed her brow. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. So, you want me to drive you to Manhattan?”

  “No, we’ll take a cab. I’ll come back later for your car.”

  “I’m going with you? Remember, I have to get back for the girls.”

  “Well, that brings us to the second part of the plan: the A.I. XPRIZE presentation.” My father turned to more directly face her. “Peter will be on his way to Chicago shortly, but there’s no way he can make the presentation alone. I can’t go—not with Danny and Stewart and Ishana in their present conditions. So—”

  “Postpone it.”

  “I can’t. It’s either tomorrow or we sit it out another year.”

  “Here we go.” My mother took a deep breath. “You want me to do the presentation?”

  “You know the material, and you won’t be intimidated by the board the way Peter will. Of course, he’ll be there to assist you.”

  “What about the twins? And clothes? I have nothing with me.”

  “Well, now we get to the perks,” my father said.

  “Perks?”

  “David will be taking an ExecuFlight helicopter from JFK to the East 34th Street Heliport and you’ll be taking that same helicopte
r back to JFK. From there, David’s pilots will fly you out to Gabreski Airport where a limo will take you home—and then, later, back to the airport so you can fly out to Chicago.”

  “My own private jet? Will they fly me home afterward?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will they fly me to Paris?”

  My father frowned.

  “And what if I blow it?”

  “We’ll have forfeited anyway.”

  “I sure wish Tyler could come.” She looked at me. “But you need to stay here with Danny.”

  “You can conference us into the presentation at any time,” my father said.

  “I’m not worried about the presentation. I’m just still a little freaked out about the accident.” She looked around the room, thinking it over.

  “I hate to rush you, but…”

  “Oh, fine—whatever. How often do I get to fly in my own private jet?”

  “Thank you.” My father hugged her, trapping her arms at her sides.

  “Just don’t get your hopes up too high,” she warned as we all stood.

  “Mohamed,” my father said, “call me the second Stewart gets out.”

  We shook Mohamed’s hand, grabbed our bags, including Danny’s, and headed for the elevator.

  In the lobby, minutes later, two officers intercepted us on our way to the door. There wasn’t much we could tell them about the accident, but they were able to tell us that, according to witnesses, our limo had swerved to avoid a damaged vehicle in the outside lane. Apparently, that car had just been sideswiped by a red Mustang.

  “That had to be the lunatic who flew past us,” I said.

  “I believe that makes Jack a hero,” my father said as we walked out of Brooklyn Regional’s red brick building into a crisp, sunny afternoon. Without a trace of snow on the ground, it almost seemed as if it had been a dream. Almost.

  “Great, is that ours?” I said, referring to the black limo that had just pulled up.

  “I asked for a cab,” my father said. “They probably thought they were doing us a favor.” He handed our bags to the driver.

  The passenger area was similar to Jack’s, only this limo had light gray upholstery as opposed to beige.