My experiment doesn’t really change that, I know, but it comes close. Who knows how long a brain can function? If kept free of disease and fed by a fresh blood supply, how long can gray matter keep thinking?
That’s what makes my accomplishment so phenomenal.
Physicians don’t run down the hall of the hospital shouting, “I did it! I did it!” That’s not what I did, but it’s what I felt like inside when I confirmed that Howard had feeling in his shoulder. It was an amazing, single-vision moment of pure clarity. The heavens opened up and shined upon me, and I was blinded by their brilliance.
It was as if all my chips came due and for a single instant the entire world was watching and feeling this moment. I felt light on my feet, certain that, for just a second there, I was rising off the floor. The feeling of invincibility didn’t last long, because in the same instant I was worrying about the reporter and his probing questions, as well as the donor’s wife. It was as if a cauldron of unknown terrors was about to splash onto the floor.
After testing Howard with the needle and ensuring that his sensations were indeed real, I left him and immediately tried to find Dr. Stanley Gardner. I had him paged. As luck would have it, he was across the street from the hospital in his office seeing patients.
In a brazen state of euphoria and worry I dug my hands into my white lab coat and headed downstairs, through the lobby and into the light of a day like no other. It was a fantastic, concentrated light that had no clouds for competition, and I shielded my eyes with my hand and looked up and smiled, perhaps even said a little prayer of thanks. Then I pushed on and threaded my way through the cars in the parking lot and to the street, where I had to wait for the traffic light to turn green.
It felt strange standing by the intersection, the cars whizzing past, none of their occupants realizing how their world had changed so significantly and how I’d been mostly responsible. Old and young, women and men, all rushing somewhere. To appointments, to work, to grocery stores and errands, to see their husbands and wives. All of them glancing at their watches, trying to beat the clock and make up time. How would Howard affect them? How would their lives change when they knew the potential of extending their hours on Earth through my procedure? Would they rush a little less frantically? Would their lives gain or lose purpose?
I crossed the street in slow motion, turning my head to look at the stopped drivers. They glanced at me, but didn’t really see me. They saw a person in a white jacket. Probably correctly judged me a doctor. Then they were looking beyond me. Waiting for the light to change. Checking to see if I would make it all the way to the corner in time.
In their faces I saw hope and fear and some kind of life drought. They were empty inside, I could tell. The vehicle in the center lane was a blue truck. Behind the wheel was a middle-aged man with baseball cap and a mustache. I looked hard at him and wondered where he was going and how my gift to Howard would change his life. How would he view my breakthrough?
To him, Howard would mean very little. He wouldn’t see the procedure as directly touching his life. It would be something expensive to complain about and a bizarre story that he and his friends would discuss and make jokes about.
I suppose he’d be right, too. Because, and this is something worrisome that I must admit, there’s really nothing practical about what I’ve done. I mean, in a very few cases now and then I can see the brain transplant being an option. But very rarely. Even worse, I can see it being abused. Unethical people could procure healthy bodies as brain receptacles. Some powerful people would bid to live second lives. I wouldn’t put it past some to try to clone themselves so as to have a new body for their brain when they grew old.
But for the man in the truck? Well, in a very real way, my bold experiment would surely bring dozens of smaller advancements that would be just as profound. The science that allowed Howard to live successfully in Frank would make it easier to help stroke patients recover. People with severed limbs could look forward to nerve reactivation with increased certainty.
Horns blared loudly and snapped me awake. The light had turned red, and I had stopped in the middle of the intersection, somehow faded into a reverie. The man in the truck leaned on his horn and gestured at me. I hurried onto the sidewalk and across the twenty yards or so to Stan’s building.
Stan was with a patient, so I brushed past the nurses and into his personal office where I found comfort in a long leather couch.
When Stan came in he said, “Sidney, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Then I told him about Howard and the needle test and about how he had demonstrated significant sensation.
Stan sat down heavily next to me.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes. One hundred percent certain. I went over it three times. He couldn’t see what I was doing, Stan. Don’t you see? He felt it. Each stick. Perfectly.”
Stan didn’t say anything. He folded his hands and nodded his head, as if agreeing with himself about something.
I slapped him playfully on the knee and said, “We did it, Stan. Let it sink in all you want. There’s no going back now.”
“We’re going to have to document this, you know. We’ll need some independents to confirm this,” he said.
I laughed and said, “I know that. Don’t be so skeptical.”
“I can’t believe it,” he said.
“Believe it.”
* * * *
I left the steamroom when I felt myself dozing off and took a cold shower, thinking about that newspaper fellow who kept calling me. Dave Hueger. What did he think he was going to find? And who or what had tipped him off?
It didn’t really matter. The news was going to come out anyway, sooner rather than later I guessed. It started with a few probing questions by a Woodward-Bernstein wannabe and would probably end with front-page headlines and a story with phrases such as “unnamed sources,” “the Times has learned,” and “couldn’t be reached for comment.” I’d be swept up in a hurricane of a story, reporters on my lawn, microphones shoved in my face, followed everywhere by people running with cameras. Instead of taking the initiative and shaping the story for our advantage, we’d be in a reactive mode and always a step behind, always perceived as having done something wrong. It would be a good versus evil thing and I’d be tagged with the bad-guy label from the start. We’d be playing catch-up with no realistic hope of pulling even, let alone pulling ahead. That likely scenario ate at me because that’s not how I had envisioned it happening. I had wanted to orchestrate it on my own terms, and this wasn’t it.
I had a mental picture of a news conference where I’d step to the microphone and say, “This is a historic moment. A landmark day for medical science.” Then I’d go on to describe the procedure and Howard’s condition. Camera lights would explode throughout the room and, almost instantaneously, it would be the lead story on CNN.
Now a reporter was putting it all at risk.
In a moment of clarity, I finished getting dressed, hurried back to the office, and called him.
The phone rang five times before being answered. “Hueger,” came a tired-sounding voice.
“Dave,” I said, purposely choosing his first name and using a bright, upbeat tone. “Dr. Bernstein, returning your call. Well, actually returning one of your many calls. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I meant to, but I’ve been so busy.”
“Bernstein, Bernstein,” he said. I think he didn’t remember who I was or why I was calling. I considered hanging up, thinking he’d forgotten about me. He’d remember soon, though, and then he’d surely make it a point to find out now that I called him and caught him off guard. I was thinking about how I could jog his memory without accidentally divulging something he might already know. But then he said, “Oh yes, from the hospital.” I heard some papers being shuffled over the line. “Don’t worry about it. I know how busy you surgeons can get. The last thing you need is to answer questions from some pesky reporter.”
“No bother at all,” I said. “I’m glad to answer your questions. In fact, how about joining me for a drink tonight? We can talk about it then.”
“Excellent,” he said.
“How does Wolff’s sound? Say nine tonight?”
“I know where that is. Nine is fine. How will I know you?”
“I’ll be the one looking aimless and out of place,” I said, trying hard to be likable.
He laughed a little. “I’ll find you.”
“Nine then. See you later.”
I hung up the phone and realized suddenly that instead of trying to control the situation I’d escalated it. He’d made a few phone calls to me, and now I’d invited him to have a drink. He was probably running around the newsroom telling all the reporters. I thought about calling him back and canceling. It would be easy to come up with some excuse. I’d been called into an emergency surgery. Something like that. But it would only be a postponement. His suspicions had been heightened now. If there wasn’t something happening of importance, why would I call him and invite him out?
* * * *
Wolff’s was a quiet bar not far from my home, tucked into the corner of a strip mall off one of the city’s main arteries. I’d been there a few times over the years. I remembered it being a friendly place and not very pretentious. You could sit and talk and not be bothered by loud music.
When I stepped inside, a man wearing a dark purple pullover sweater and wrinkled khaki pants said, “Dr. Bernstein?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m Dave Hueger,” he said, extending his hand. His hair was combed straight back, and I judged him to be in his mid-thirties. He saw me as I came through the door. For a second we both looked at each other.
“Call me Sidney,” I said.
We took a seat at a small table toward the back of the bar. The server came by promptly. We ordered a pitcher of the house draft.
“I’m awfully glad you called me,” he said. “If you only knew how hard it was to get people to call you back.”
“I can imagine.”
“I can be working on an important story with an editor on my case, a deadline in three hours, and no sources calling me back. I’ll call and call and look at my scowling editor across the room. And it’s the same with every reporter. We put stories together on a shoestring. Why do you think people are always accusing us of being inaccurate or not thorough enough?”
“But you must love it,” I said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t do it.”
“Love it? I suppose. I can’t think of a life without writing and finding things out. I take my job seriously. I think of the readers every day. I picture them getting up in the morning and fetching their newspaper from the driveway, settling down over some coffee and toast and reading my story. It’s crazy, I know, but that’s why I do it. Someone’s actually going to rely on me letting them know what’s going on.”
“That’s admirable,” I said, feeling uncomfortable and even more certain that I had made a mistake.
Our beers came and we sipped from our mugs.
“So, Sidney. I can really call you that?” he asked. “I feel funny calling a doctor by his first name.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Well, to get to it, I have a few questions. Mind if I take a few notes?”
“Not at all,” I said, now terrified. He withdrew a small steno pad and pen from his back pocket and turned to a page with some notes on it. He looked them over. I tried to read them upside down but couldn’t make them out.
“Well, this is probably nothing,” he said. “I’m sure we could have gone over this on the phone. I guess my first question would be to ask you about what you do. You don’t mind talking about yourself, do you?”
“I’m a neurologist and a surgeon.”
“A brain doctor,” he said.
“You can say that.”
“I’m not very good with technical terms. You’ll have to simplify for me.”
“No problem,” I said, feeling there definitely was a problem. I had a feeling he already knew a great deal about me and my specialty.
“I help people who have diseases of the brain, such as cancer. I’ll operate to repair a brain aneurysm. Things like that.”
“It must be very exciting. Is it?”
“It’s fulfilling,” I said, watching him drag his pen feverishly across the page, catching every word I said. “The brain is a complicated organ.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said. “Tell me about some of your recent cases.”
“Why?”
“You don’t have to name names. Just in a general way tell me some of the recent surgeries you’ve performed.”
“Is that necessary?” I asked, not knowing why I didn’t simply pick from the dozens of cases I’ve worked on during the past six months. Why was I being belligerent? “Is that why you’ve called me? Are you writing a profile of me? Have I been selected physician of the year or something like that?”
I think some of my sarcasm came through. “Nothing like that,” he said. “I was just wondering. Usual questions to get to know the person I’m interviewing. It’s important to get some background on the people I talk to. If you’re uncomfortable talking about it, I understand. I was only hoping—”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” I interrupted. “I just don’t see where this is headed. Why did you really call me?”
He smiled and nodded. “Well, it’s like this, Sidney. I’m trying to confirm something about a story I’m working on. Let me ask you flat out. Do you know of any unusual things going on at the hospital?”
“Unusual?”
He wrote down the word “unusual” and looked back up at me. “Anything out of the ordinary. Anything at all?” His pen was poised above the paper.
“Like what?”
“Anything that involves the governor or mayor?”
“No,” I said, feeling a little relieved. I took a sip.
“Anyone famous been at the hospital lately?”
“Famous? Like who?”
“Politicians. Movie stars. I don’t know. Help me out here.”
“Nobody I’m aware of,” I said.
Dave turned back to his notes and read them over. He looked puzzled. His nose twitched.
“I really don’t know what you want,” I said.
“Well, what can you tell me about the patient in room C-113?”
There it was. The question he came to ask all along. Everything else was just bullshit.
I took a long drink. “C-113?”
“Yes,” he said. “And Sidney, as a courtesy to you I’m not going to ask you if you’ve been treating a patient in that room. I don’t presume you would lie to me, but I thought I’d tell you that, seeing as how you called me and asked me here, which is really very nice and I appreciate it. But I do know for a fact that you’re the surgeon of record for the patient in C-113.”
“That information is strictly confidential. How would you know something like that?”
“Are you denying it?”
“Denying what?”
“That you’re treating someone in C-113?”
I looked at his hand holding the pen and wondered what to say. “Why do you want to know? I’m seeing patients in a number of rooms of the hospital. I’m there every day. Just as I’ve been there every day for years.”
“I’m interested in C-113. And you haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” he said, seeming a bit frustrated. “Can you confirm that there’s been an increased sense of security and a great deal of secrecy about the patient in that room?”
“Secrecy?” I was about to deny everything but couldn’t. I knew instinctively that lying at this point would do me no good and most likely a great deal of harm. “Dave, can we speak off the record for a moment?”
That was a question I could tell Dave didn’t want me to ask.
“Well, now that you’ve
asked that question I have to give you an answer. I don’t have to say yes. I could say no and insist that every word you say is on the record, which is the case for everything you’ve said so far.” He closed his notepad, put down his pen and leaned back. “But I’m saying yes. Go ahead. This is off the record.” He seemed sincere.
“Tell me what you know,” I said, “and we’ll go from there. I’m not going to sit here and let you draw me in to something with trick questions. If I answer something one way your next question could be a trap.”
“You can’t be trapped if you simply tell the truth.”
“I want to tell the truth, but I can’t betray the confidence that exists between all physicians and their patients.”
He bit his lower lip. “I respect that. Okay. Here’s the straight scoop. I have knowledge, both by sources and documents, that something very unorthodox is going on there. Several people in the hospital have told me that it’s generally known that C-113 is off limits. There’s a great deal of secrecy surrounding the patient in that room and no one quite knows what’s going on there. Access is restricted. I know that much. Visiting hours have been curtailed. That’s about all I know. Not enough for a story, Sidney. You should know that. My editors want more. They don’t like me wasting too much time on things like this. If you say nothing else, well, to be honest, I don’t have a story. Yet. Even if you confirm these things I still don’t have a story. A mysterious patient at the hospital? That doesn’t cut it. But,” he said, picking up his pen and poking the table, “if there is something going on, something newsworthy, then it’ll come out eventually. I’ll make it my business to find out.”
Frank Page 9
