Fear Factors

by Peter Sacco

  Sean hobbled downstairs to have his sister inform him his parents were at his grandparents’ house for the day in Markham, and he really looked like shit. Keeping his anger and fear in check, Sean hobbled back up stairs and spent the day in bed.

  Monday morning, Sean overslept. His mother burst into his room and yelled for him to get up. He hid under the covers until she left his room. She had no time to drag him out of bed, as she herself would be rushing against the Toronto morning traffic to get to work. He was no longer the sweet little boy she had raised. He was becoming some sort of monster she no longer knew, nor did she want to know. After she closed Sean’s bedroom door behind her, Sean stumbled out of bed and roared in pain. This was to be one day he would surely regret.

  Sean showed up for school mid-way through first period. When Mr. Jones asked him why he was late for class Sean told him to shut up and mind his own business. Jones did just that. Sean did not look human. He looked more like a Neanderthal man.

  The class sat quietly in groups working on their presentations. Sean joined his group, much to their dismay. For the next fifteen minutes, Sean sat there hugging his shoulders, moaning and gasping for air. Mr. Jones looked over in his direction several times, but quickly looked away when their eyes met. Just as the groups were about to disband for the last ten minutes of the class, Sean let out a loud shriek and fell to the floor. His classmates slid back in their chairs. Jones opened the door and yelled down the hall for help. His voice broke the silence in the hall. A girl standing outside the classroom waiting for next class almost jumped out of her shoes. It was not long before Jones and a couple of other teachers were standing around Sean, trying to help him. He was curled up in a fetal position on the floor. His face was turning several shades of blue as he gasped for air. One of the teachers thought he was having a heart attack. Another teacher shouted he was hyperventilating and his shirt needed to be unbuttoned. They struggled to get his shirt off. Sean’s screams became ear-shattering shrieks. They finally got his shirt off. Within seconds, everyone was frozen with terror. They stood motionless as Sean wriggled around on the floor. No one dared touch his body.

  His body from the waist up was horrific. Veins and muscles were throbbing on every square inch. He resembled an over-cooked wiener about to explode on a BBQ. Also, his skin was so thin that his internal anatomy was visible. It was like looking at one of those acrylic plastic anatomy models in biology class. In this case, however, one could see the entire workings of the boy’s cardiovascular system.

  The skin was growing more and more transparent, as his muscles and organs pushed closer. Muscle groups in his arms and shoulders were about to tear through his skin at any moment. Several of the students had to leave the class. One student ran to the garbage and made it just in time to vomit. Jones wanted to get the hell out of the class, but it was his duty to remain until the paramedics arrived. Jones knew there was nothing the paramedics would be able to do.

  There was nothing anyone would be able to do for this kid.

  Jones knew this kid needed, more than anything else to have a priest read him his last rights before he exploded. Other teachers rushed into the room to see what was happening and if they could help. After seeing Sean, they ran out just as fast as they came in. The sides of Sean’s head were visually throbbing.

  Sean resembled a birthday balloon which had reached its max and could no longer hold any air. Any minute the balloon would pop. Any minute! Sean was going to explode and it was going to be as messy as hell.

  From somewhere behind, Jones heard someone yell, “Paramedics!” It was over. They were here to take Sean away. Just as Jones turned to look in the direction of the paramedics, Sean let out a tremendous, spine-shattering howl and there was a loud splat like a ketchup packet which had just been stepped on.

  Jones felt something warm splatter all over his body. Blood and guts were everywhere. Jones went into shock as the paramedics shook their heads in horror.

  Finally, one of the paramedics shook himself from his awe and tended to a shaken Jones. As Jones was led from the classroom, the other paramedic sarcastically snickered to his partner, “I ain’t cleaning this mess up...They better send in the custodian.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brain Child

  Parkinson’s disease is a dementia which affects the sub-cortex of the brain. This disease tends to be progressive and recovery is not likely. This disease comes across as a behavioral disturbance, usually occurring in the middle and older ages of one’s life. Typical Parkinson’s sufferers show great difficulty in controlling bodily movements. The head and limbs begin to shake uncontrollably and structured movement is difficult to initiate. Furthermore, anything requiring complete muscle control becomes difficult and eventually, it can lead to complete rigidity. The prognosis is deadly!

  Martin Taylor sat, agitated, in a waiting room. His foot tapping became progressively louder and more methodical as sweat crept out from his widow’s peak. A man in his early fifties, he seemed to have aged considerably in the last couple of hours. He could feel the warmth of the sweat burn in the seat of his pants and crotch as he shifted in the seat. A yeast infection patient in progress, he thought to himself, as he cleared his throat. Polyester pants had to be one of the worst types of garment to wear under such conditions. It seemed the more you sweat, the tighter they fit, but still, you seemed to slide around in them like a sleeper in silk sheets. His blue blazer felt like a claw grabbing at the nape of his neck. His white shirt was turning off-white under the sleeves from his anti-perspirant. So much for that brand. A lot it did to prevent him from sweating. If he was to take his blazer off, he would look like one of the spring breakers in Daytona’s wet t-shirt contests. Perhaps he would have a chance of winning biggest breast given the fact that he had grown quite heavy in the last couple of years. It had to have been the strain.

  His youthful brown eyes had become blackened relics. Like two flat coals, they rested in the large bags surrounded by crows’ feet. The once yearning and burning lust for life, had become a mere flicker. Lines which were never really visible to the naked eye, were much more predominant on his face. The once bountiful scalp of hair had receded in its abundance.

  Martin broke his rhythmic tapping to glance at the watch on his thick wrist. His hands were rather large for his average sized frame. His mouth winced ever so slightly as he watched the second hand tick away. The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. The room did not lend itself to any creativity. It screamed silently for some interior overhaul. The walls were a typical sickening greenish blue. The three chairs and the coffee table all appeared like they were plucked from a rummage sale. And the single painting on the wall was a typical Northwest mountain scene. As a journalist, Martin always found it funny how those on the East Coast always had paintings on their walls of West Coast depiction’s and those on the West Coast had the East Coast comfy-cozy East Coast winter paintings. Martin had always chalked it up to seasonal envy. Funny, his wife was under the knife receiving surgery for her life-threatening condition and he had the nerve to criticize the furnishings in the waiting room.

  His wife Hester, was a beautiful lady in her prime. From the very first time he laid eyes on her, until now, she was his whole world. He was quite a wealthy man, owning a newspaper and all, yet all the money in the world could not separate Martin from his love for his wife. He had even made a pact with God where he would donate half of his owning to the poor if He would get her through her illness.

  “Four and a half hours,” whispered a weary Martin. It shouldn’t be much longer now, Martin thought to himself.

  He could picture Hester and himself on the East Coast, perhaps Maine, in the upcoming fall watching the boats sail while feeling the frosty breeze off the water. Maine had always been a favorite place of Martin’s ever since he was a little boy. His father had inherited the Atlanta paper from Martin’s grandfather when Martin was only
nine. They had moved to the hot and humid heat of Georgia and lived there ever since. After Martin’s father passed away, the torch was passed on to him. He had done a damn good job with the paper, leading it to its most bountiful growth ever. Martin’s mother had always been quite active with the paper and at the age of seventy-six, she was still carrying her share of the load as Vice-President. Hester, however wanted nothing to do with the paper. Right from day one, some twenty-eight years ago, Hester told Martin she would only be happy doing the one thing she loved most and that was gourmet cooking. Hester worked for a very ritzy Atlanta hotel and was one of the city’s most elite chefs.

  Martin had always admired his wife’s dedication to her career, so why mess with perfection? As far as Martin was concerned, his wife was perfect. She had always made him happy, and was very accepting of him and all of his limitations, perhaps the worst of which was his inability to father children. Hester had always loved kids but Martin was always amused when she said she, “loved them more, when they were someone else’s children.” However, deep down, Martin always believed his wife just said it to make him feel better. All and all they had a near perfect marriage. At least until Hester was diagnosed as having Parkinson’s disease, four and a half years ago at the age of fifty-three.

  Hester’s mother had been stricken with the same disease when she was fifty-five. Within four years, she had deteriorated so quickly, dying had been a blessing. Hester’s aunt also had the disease and it lingered seven years until her death; seven years which made the seven year itch look like a mosquito bite. A slow insidious death always seemed inevitable with this disease. When Hester had been diagnosed she wept for three days straight. Martin had never felt so much pain in his life. He would move mountains for the love of his wife. And this damn disease, for which there was no explanation, or cure, was destroying the only thing he loved in his life. All the money in the world couldn’t stop the progress of this son of a bitch of a disease.

  They had been too many specialists. They all had the same answer. Nil! All these specialists were the same. They lectured about the decrease in dopamine, a neurotransmitter that carries messages in the brain.

  Very important areas of the brain were being wiped out by the disease and this was causing dopamine to disappear. Dopamine? What the hell was dopamine? Martin had never heard of it until his wife was diagnosed. At first he thought it was some kind of dope. It sure as hell sounded like a drug. The specialists had given him all the information regarding Parkinson’s disease, but none of it made Hester better.

  Martin also learned that studies had shown people living near paper mills were also at risk. For crying out loud, Martin, his father, and his father’s father had owned a newspaper and none of them had ever had the disease. His wife never even stepped foot into any of the print rooms of the paper. If anyone should be ill, it should be him, Martin would think to himself. The disease appeared to be in Hester’s genes and not a damn thing could be done about it. Perhaps they were fortunate enough not to have kids. The Lord may indeed work in mysterious ways.

  It was amazing how fast the disease struck his wife. She went from almost no symptoms, to naked-eyed symptoms. The muscular rigidity and tremors appeared so unbelievable. Hester had looked as if she was making it happen, rather than it occurring all on its own. Once Martin, much to his own self-denial realized this was truly happening. Why couldn’t she stop it? The mind was always in control. The mind should be able to make the body well by telling it to heal itself.

  Since Hester was supposed to be in control of her body, why couldn’t she make her limbs move the way they were supposed to? Her body was growing very weak and Martin knew it. There had to be something which would reverse what was taking his wife prisoner. Several of the specialists had informed Martin sub-cortical types of dementia could be treated with L-Dopa, the wonder drug. L-Dopa is converted to dopamine in the brain and replaces missing dopamine neurotransmitters. Many Parkinson’s patients are treated regularly with L-Dopa.

  The only downside to L-Dopa is that patients build up a tolerance to the drug rather quickly and higher dosages are required. Unfortunately, higher dosages lead to side-effects, such as mental disturbances that closely resemble schizophrenia. Talk about a catch twenty-two. Pre-drug treatment, the patient is losing control of the body. Post-drug treatment, the patient loses control of their mind. Hester had tried L-Dopa therapy and it was helpful in the beginning. As the dosages were increased, Hester became less and less Hester. Martin had her removed from the L-Dopa therapy and tried a last gasp effort; an experimental treatment involving the transplanting of fetal tissue.

  Fetal transplants were noted to be the most effective way of replacing dopamine levels, while at the same time preventing side-effects. One of the specialists had told Martin that fetal tissue was the ultimate for treating Parkinson’s Disease. But there was a catch.

  “Well, let’s use it,” snorted a naive Martin.

  “Can’t do it, “ responded the specialist. “They’re illegal.”

  “So what?” asked Martin, impatiently.

  “The pro-lifers would go crazy, “ responded the specialist.

  “I don’t give a shit about the pro-lifers. I only give a shit about my wife!” yelled Martin.

  “Sorry. Societal watchdogs just won’t allow it,” answered the empathetic specialist.

  There was nothing anyone could do. Modern medicine had the tools. They had the means. They had the science. However, they didn’t have the authority. Martin had just about given up, when he received word from Dr. Peter Harris, Hester’s physician, that a specialist would perform the operation on his wife but it was going to involve big bucks, not to mention breaking the law. This doctor had performed several other underground type surgeries. Martin discussed it with Hester and they agreed this was probably the last option they had. There was no sense in waiting until Congress passed a law for the use of fetal tissue allowing Hester to further deteriorate. Hester could be dead by then.

  They met with the doctor twice and made the decision. Hester would have the transplant. Martin did not want to know where they got the fetal tissue, nor did he want to know about the legal ramifications if they got caught. All Martin hoped for was a successful operation that would give him back his wife.

  It was now five and three quarter hours since the surgery began. One of the surgeon’s operating team members popped his head into the room where Martin was lamenting the possibility of his wife’s death. Martin glanced up at the fellow. He nodded to Martin and gave him the thumbs up sign. Martin let out a huge sigh. Finally, something to write home about. Break out the bubbly and the noise- makers. On second thought, better forget about the noisemakers, Martin thought to himself.

  ***

  Sunlight glistened off the scalp of a woman sitting in a recliner. She peered out the window of her master bedroom. She wore nothing but a royal blue silk house coat and watched the gardener who is seated atop a riding lawnmower. She was entranced by the patterns he was creating across the two acre deep backyard. It had been nine weeks since the operation and Hester was feeling the best she felt in years. The first two weeks after the surgery she had been completely immobile. The last two weeks she had recovered as if a possessed force had taken over her body. She was still quite weak from the operation. It seemed like ages before most of the drugs had passed from her system. It felt like lightning passed through her cranium when she had to vomit. The pain pills kept her in a sedated, trance-like state. Given all that she had been through, she was feeling better now than she had for at least two years. She had total control of her body. Muscle weakness and rigidity had disappeared. She had made it.

  She was Hester again minus a full head of hair. Her soft, creamy white features radiated rebirth. There was a gleam in her eyes which had not been there for years. Medical science had finally done for her what it claimed it could. It had saved her life. She was very gratefu
l for the medical team which performed the illegal operation. No one knew about the operation. The police did not show up. The authorities did not appear. No one spoiled her rebirth. She owed her new lease on life to her husband, Martin Tanner.

  ***

  Dr. Carl Lambert performed the operation on Hester Tanner. Since that operation, Tanner had been charged by the Atlanta General Hospital for practicing other illegal surgeries. One month following Hester’s surgery, Lambert conducted the same operation on an elderly male. Unfortunately, this patient’s prognosis was not as good as Hester’s. The patient died on the operating table of excessive hemorrhaging. The family cried murder and went to the press after Lambert would not refund the quarter million to them. At the moment, Lambert was temporarily suspended from the hospital and took off to Australia, never to return. The hospital board had no choice but to investigate the accusations, even though they had a damn good idea that Lambert had been freelancing for some time. The Tanners were lucky to have beat the buzzer. If they would have waited, as their lawyer had insisted, Hester would probably not have received the operation. Lambert had performed the needed miracle the Tanners had prayed for, or had he?

  ***

  The day of the operation had been strange one for Dr. Lambert. He had been at a friend’s stag party the night before and participated in an event he didn’t normally indulge in. He had his first drink of alcohol in over four years. Lambert had suffered from alcoholism and only admitted to it after he was involved in an accident which had claimed the life of the woman he was to marry. They both had been drinking heavily that evening, the night of their engagement. Lambert had been driving the car with one hand, while seducing his fiancée with the other. He lost control of the car and slid over a concrete embankment. His fiancée, Constance, was killed instantly. Lambert’s blood was never checked for alcohol concentration nor was there any investigation into the accident.