DAY 97: In the Blood

At a cellular level, he was a violent man.  He was a tyro before his teeth finished coming in.  By the time his whiskers started, his aggresive tendencies were well-documented, and prophetic.  He celebrated his 30th birthday in state prison, awaiting to be removed from this earth as quickly as he removed three men from it.  "No kids of my own, and I prevented three stupid ones from procreating - I'd call that God's work," he sneered at the minister that attempted to tend to his spiritual needs.

There was an act of benevolence that could be attributed to his name.  He had provided regular donations of his blood, twice weekly.  (In fact, he was arrested, for the last time, while on the donation table.  He was allowed to finish.)  His motivations were the immediate compensations - the money and companionship - but the plasma center recognized how valuable and rate his contributions genuinely were.  Shortly before the penalty phase of his trial, representatives of the plasma center reached out to his attorney, to speak of his continued civic importance.  It was enough to forestall his execution, until his fateful escape attempt, which cost the lives of two guards, the attending phlebotomist, and his own.

His blood, scarce and sorely needed, was dispersed among several patients in the region.  The most notable donation was received by an elderly man of some financial significance.  Victimized by a stroke that rendered him comatose and rapidly deteriorating, his fate was fiercely debated among the executors of his estate.  Before the argument was resolved, the old man began to receive plasma infusions.  By the time doctors were instructed to remove his ventilator tube, the issue was moot.

His eldest son-in-law (perhaps 8 years younger) came to visit; he was aggressively curious about the lack of news, regarding the passing of the family patriarch.  He was directed to the old man's recovery room.  The son-in-law was found two minutes later and three floors down.




insipred by Discover Magazine article, "Cells Battle to the Death in the Developing Embryo"

DAY 94: An Awkward Itching Problem

Dr Maloney picked up the folder for room 413.  As she began to peruse through the file of Ms Melanie Rufrode, nurse Cyrus took the folder out of her hand.  "This one's waiting for Dr Herzog."
Maloney took the folder back.  "He's detained in surgery; he's taking my evening rounds for this."
Cyrus put his fingers on the folder, ready to remove.  "I'm sorry, Doctor, but this patient should really wait for Dr Herzog."
Maloney gave a fire-starting glare at his fingers.  "And he's not going to be here for twelve hours.  I have no intention of alterting his recommendations."
"Sherrita, you can't help this patient."
"Why not, Cyrus?"
Cyrus's eyes dropped while he searched for the word.  "She's got allergies.  Hives, uncontrolled itching..."
"Yes, I see that.  Do I smell like I'm wearing perfume?"
"...and you're black."
Maloney was stunned silent.  After a moment, she blurted out, "This is not 1953!" and bolted into the room, Cyrus behind her with gloves in hand.

The doctor entered the room, wearing her most pleasant smile.  "Hello, Ms Rufrode, I'm Dr Maloney."
Melanie yanked her blanket to her chin and shuddered.  "Aaa!  Where's Dr Herzog?"
"He's in the middle of performing a surgery, he'll be back overnight.  But we want to see what we can do until then."
"I'm so sorry!" Melanie said, through tears and neck-scratching.  "I don't have a problem with black people!  I voted for Obama and Jordan Sparks!  I'm visiting my daughter - I'm gonna be a new grandma any day now!"
"When did this start?"
"When she came to visit me in Pocatello, with her fiancee, Derek.  He wanted to ask my permission to marry her.  He was very nice.  But before the visit was over, I started itching all over - and it didn't stop until he left!  It didn't happen again until I made the trip here!  I was standing in line at the Walgreens, and I couldn't even make it to the counter, I had to leave!"
"Why do you think it's african-americans that's causing the itching?"
"I'm from Idaho!  We don't have any!"  Melanie was rubbing her arms.  "You've got to believe me! I want to be able to hold my grandson!"

From the other side of the room, Dr Maloney referred to the chart.  "I believe you.  Your NPPB levels shows there's a definite physiological change going on.  It's your body that's reacting, not you."
"Am I a bad person?  I didn't even know everything Ashley was going through until Monday, and I got on a plane-"
"Ms Rufrode...  do you think your daughter's boyfriend is a decent person?"
"Seems so.  He was real nice on the phone, and when we met.  But then he saw me scratching uncontrollably-"  Melanie sobbed
The doctor spoke low, drawing Melanie's attention.  "Ms Rufrode, my husband is allergic to dogs, all kinds - even my dogs.  But he married me anyway, and let me keep them.  And we've practically bought stock in Claritin, but that's what he's willing to do to keep the family together.  And we can figure out what you need to do, if you want to be around the family."
Melanie nodded.  Dr Maloney wrote a prescription for some antihistamines, and asked her to check in a few days, to see how she acclimated to the climate.

The next time Dr Maloney and Cyrus saw Melanie, she was carrying her newborn grandson in her arms. "That's a beautiful baby you got there, new grandma!"
"We're bringing him home today, but I just had to find you, and thank you!"  Melanie passed the child to Cyrus and gave Dr Maloney a big hug.  "Thank you!"
The baby started fussing and crying.  "Nurse Takamoto," the doctor quipped, "I think the baby has a problem with you."



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Science Behind an Itch"

DAY 85: Seeding the Clouds

When I was born, my mom wanted me to follow a life path of my own choosing.  But my father found a way around it.  For many years, a typical bedtime included lesson time; dad would come in and ask me to teach him something I had learned that day.  So I taught him about the letter R, the number 6, "twinkle twinkle", how to share...  He was patient with all of it.  Sometimes, we'd stare up at the bedroom walls, painted to look like heavenly clouds, and we'd tell stories of the things that lived there.

"What's that one?"  he'd say.

"Mop-mop.  It looks like the head of a mop!"

He squinted at it.  "I suppose.  What about that one next to it?"

"Go-gi!"

"I like that one.  What are they doing?"

"Gogi makes food for everybody in his restaurant.  And then somebody on the other side of the cloud calls in their order, and Gogi's delivers!  That's the delivery bubble over there."

"Wow.  There's a lot of delivery trucks on that cloud.  That's a big one!"

"That's Lisa's garbage truck.  She doesn't deliver food.  And it's bubbles!.  They're all bubbles!"

***

After placement testing in junior high, I was never in one grade again.  The year that I took eighth grade english and gym, I was also enrolled in ninth grade spanish and history, tenth grade biology, AP calculus, and played 2nd chair cello.  Mom also had me cook family dinner once a week.

It was in biology class that I learned one of my dad's tricks.  Our teacher was introducing us to the components of the typical mammalian cell unit, via a video presentation and a monotone narration.  "The cell membrane is the semi-porous outer boundary that keeps the organelles contained.  At the center is the nucleus, the cell's 'brain' ; this is surrounded by the endoplasmic reticulum (both smooth and rough.)  Enzymes are transported throughout the cell by vesicles, to or from the nucleus, the mitochondria, the golgi apparatus..."

That took me back to my room, and the painted ceiling; to Gogi and MopMop, to Lisa and Nuclearman and Mighty Condi...  As we watched archival footage of a typical single cell organism's life cycle, I saw a neighborhood that had been floating over my head for years.  I knew them, how they helped each other and why.  That class didn't teach me anything new about cell structure.  But it did teach me that my dad's a sneaky guy.



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Immune Attack Up Close"

DAY 78: The Waiting Room

Tyree was in the wrong wing of the hospital, I thought.  I usually saw him on alternating Thursdays at the PT clinic, working on his walking.  So I was surprised to find him flipping through TV channels in the waiting area outside the maternity ward.  Not the flipping part; his family gave him a universal TV remote last christmas, and became fascinated with the "universal" part, figuring out how to take over whatever TV's in whatever clinic he's in.

"Tyree!  What are you doing here?  You got an appointment today?"

He turned to me, studying my face.  "Hi, Carl. Got a baby coming."  He returned to the TV.

An anxious man in his work clothes approached me.  "Hey, are you a nurse here, or whatever?  I need to check on how my girlfriend's doing."

"Well, I don't actually work at this wing, but I'll try to help.  You want to see about getting you in?"

He shook his head.  "No, that ain't happening.  I just want to get an idea of what's going on."

"Okay.  I know one of the girls here, I'll find out how far along she is-"

"-Look, be cool about it. I got a little heated earlier, trying to find out what's going on.  I've calmed down now, but they're busy, they're not hearing me yet.  They're worried about the baby, that's fine, that's their job, I'm sorry about getting in the way of that, I want them to know.  Her mom's in there, she got problems with me, I don't want that in the way, but they're in the way, so I'm staying out, but I gotta know what's going on.  You know Tyree's mom?"

"Not really; I haven't met her yet.  Tyree usually comes by himself.  I didn't even know he had a sister."

"Yeah, and it's not like there's a family resemblance, amiright?"  He moved on.  "Moms wouldn't want me here, if she could.  But it's not for her to say  She don't want me in that room, I'm fine with that, I can't do anything in there, I don't even know what she's doing in there.  But I just need the car keys right now."

"The car-?"

"I know.  They got too many things going on, it's not important with everything they got going, but listen-  There's stuff to take care, I gotta get back to the house.  I should probably be bringing Cece's brothers and sisters up here, although this could take a while, right?  I mean, they could've waited until I got done with work to take them in the car.  Or, if it was such an emergency, take an ambulance!  That's what they're for!"

The TV flipped to the middle of one of the local ads by the "Legal Eagles" (whose names escape me, at the moment.)  When the computer-generated eagle let out a screech, Tyree stopped to let out a screech, just as loud.

Babydaddy snapped, "Cool it!"  He changed his tune when he returned his attention to me.  "Look, man, you can tell I don't belong here.  I need to get out of here!  Just ask them for the keys, and I'll be on my way."

"I believe you, sir.  But I don't know if I can do what you're asking, because this isn't my ward, and your girl's family doesn't know me.  But I know who might be able to.  Why don't you ask Tyree to get the keys?"

Babydaddy looked at Tyree, looked at me, and sat the f down.

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Shutting Off the Down Syndrome Chromosome"

DAY 73: The Poker Table

Harvey riffled the deck and looked around the table.  "Okay, it looks like we're all here for tonight.  Lose the chips and let's see what we're playing with."
Timmy was first; he brought out a fistful of medications in clear vials, dropping two in the center of the table.  "Herceptin."
Lyle chuckled as he pulled out his meds, seperating them in two distinct piles.  "We're not throwing in the pot yet.  Is that all you got?"
Timmy shook his head.  "I like the other stuff.  This stuff ain't doing nothing for me."
"Works great for me."  Bernie had his loot ready, and was sorting the hand he'd been dealt.  "So far, it does," he said, with two knocks on the table.
Harvey set down the deck, and looked at his cards.  Three royals and a pair of 7's; his game to lose.  "I started on Herceptin six months ago, but it burned me up until they started adding Xeloda.  You sure it's just Herceptin you got a problem with?"
Timmy slid two Herceptin deeper into the center. "It's a start."

The pot had grown.  Now it included Rituximab, Xeloda, Gleevax, Flotaxin, even some insulin.
"I can't believe you put insulin in there," Timmy said.
Lyle shrugged his shoulders.  "Larry threw that in last month."
"Where's Larry?"
"Full remission," Bernie said.  "He's in New Mexico; called to tell me the food was better out there."
"Seriously?" Harvey asked.
"He's sending all his stuff next week; asked me to put it in the pot when it gets here.  when you care enough to send the very best..."
"What was his regimen?"  Timmy asked.

Lyle already knew: three months of Avastin, Gleevax, and a no-meat diet.  He'd tried the same mix for a while, but metastesized, regardless.  Maybe it was in his brain already, but he wasn't going to give up cheeseburgers anymore.  It wasn't one drug or another, bean sprouts or dry heat that did it.  Larry found his answer in the pot, and now Lyle wanted his turn.
Lyle wondered what his doctor was doing right now.  Maybe Dr Brooks was playing golf; maybe he was doing the same thing Lyle was doing.  It made just as much sense.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Genome-Based Cancer Treatment"

DAY 71: Morning at the Smart House

"Abe!"  Edith called out.  "Where are you?"
From the speakers, a cranky voice responded, "I'm here, picklehead!  What you yelling for?"
"Abe, I need help out of the bathtub!"  Edith started to push down on the bathtub rim with her arms; two aide-bars telescoped from the walls, scooping her under her pits, easing her to her feet.  When she was almost upright, the automated fans began to blow warmly on her fragile body.

Another aide-bar presented a robe for her reach.  "Abe, we're not getting enough hot water in the bathtub.  We need to fix that."
"Alright, alright..." Abe's voice chimed in.
Edith walked toward the sound, and the room lights switched on to lead her way.  "And I want to get more of those lavender salts.  But not that Hershey Salts!  I think it's making me break out."
"Alright, alright..."

Edith was in the bedroom now, by the vanity.  She took a seat to brush her hair.  "Did you get a call from Mandy yet?  Nathan said he was gonna make sure she called today."
"It's her birthday, today.  She's working today, too."
"That's true.  But what are you taking her side for?  You think it's alright for her to act like she doesn't have family?"
"Of course not.  She should call her mother."
"She's a workaholic.  There's taking care of your family, and there's paying for not having to do anything with them!  She didn't learn that from me!"
"Of course not, hun.  At least she got your brains.  Your beauty, too."
Edith stopped, studying her reflection.  "Well, it had to go somewhere.  It's not here anymore."
"Picklehead!  How can you say that?"  The lights on her makeup mirror adjusted to a warmer glow, bathing her face in a glamorous light.  "You're beautiful..."  His words made her blush.  "And now, you're being shy?  Enough of the sappy stuff.  You know what time it is..."
Edith nodded, and turned to the mechanized cart entering the room.  It carried her morning medicines, water, jam and toast.  Edith reached for the toast first, but a tutting sound came from the speakers.  "Medicine first, hun..."  She complied, swallowing every pill.  When she returned the empty cup to it's saucer, the rim turned green.  "Thank you, hun.  Breakfast time..."

Edith munched on her toast, humming along with the sublimated music playing through the house.  She cleared her throat and called, "Abe!"
"Yes?"
"I miss you."
"I know.  I love you, picklehead."
"I love you, too."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Moon Shot for the Brain"

DAY 53: On the Table

Eddie woke up on the table; his surgeon, Anton, was quizzing him, testing his alertness.  "Eddie, count down from ten for me.  Come on..."
By six, Eddie was awake.  "Did you drop something in there?"
"Eddie, we're not done yet..."
"Well, why did you wake me up for?"
"Because you're a control freak who insisted that I run every major procedure by you before it's done!"
"Well, what is it?!?" Eddie's head waggled back and forth; given the amount of anesthetic, an impressive display of rage.
"My team just did a scan while we were prepping the stent; you're lousy for plaque.  I count 12 so far, with 3 imminent risks.  I gotta scrub you."
"Well, why don't you do it?"
"Okay!  We will!  Rumi, get the release form!"  An assistant activated her tablet, and began scanning for the electronic document.
Eddie began to calculate.  "...hold on.  How much is this gonna cost?"
"Eddie, if we don't clean these up, this stent is just money down the drain!"
"Right, but it's my money!"
"Geez, Eddie!  You got the inheritence, because I got a job!  I don't want the money!"
"Yeah, but your hospital's gonna get it!"
"Eddie! Will you shut up and sign the thing, so we can save your life, you penny-pinching bastard?"
They stared at each other for a moment.  Eddie muttered, "You are lucky I'm pinned down here."
"Yeah.  Can we do this now, please?"
Anton motioned, and Rumi came forward with the e-form.  Eddie winked into the camera.  "If you kill me, Annie, I'm going straight to Mom."
"If you die, you're probably gonna see Dad instead." Anton motioned to the anesthesiologist.  "Count to ten..."



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Tracking Bad Plaque to Prevent Heart Attacks"

DAY 50: Red Morning...

Andre's coughing woke him up, and nearly cracked his ribs.  He looked to the bed on his right, and saw the sheet over Emil's head.  A hand was exposed and cut at the wrist, the blood draining into a bowl on the floor.  Andre was happy for him.

Andre's nurse, wearing a face mask, arrived to attend him.  She gave him a snow-white cloth to cough in, while she took his temperature.  The sputum was black, shiny as a carapace.  "Can you sit up?" she asked.
Andre nodded, and began the slow ascent.

The nurse returned with the captains, bearing street clothes; they also wore face masks and gloves.  "Put these on," the short captain ordered.  Andre stood up and accepted the clothes; he was stoic and slow as they watched him dress.  At one point, bending to put on the paints, he audibly groaned.  The nurse motioned to assist, but the tall captain held out his palm, keeping the nurse in her place.

Finally, Andre finished dressing.  He straightened himself up and offered a salute.  The tall captain put some papers and a bus pass in his hand.  "Go, and bring the judgement of God to his people."

Andre shuffled out of the room.  He left the building and began shuffling down the sidewalk, to join the others at the bus stop...


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Hunting a Killer Virus"

DAY 35: The Chicken Pox Party

My mom snuck me into my first slumber party.  Mrs Avis' daughters Celeste and Estelle were hosting a slumber party for all their scoutmates - including my sister Sandy.  Getting one kid out of the house wasn't enough for Mom, so she had a talk with Mrs Avis, assuring her that a six-year-old boy would be a harmless addition to the festivities.  In fact, I wouldn't be the only boy; Mrs Avis had an eight-year-old boy, Max.  Not knowing any better, the moms thought we would get along.
We were among the last to arrive, but we got there just before the pizza, so I thought we were just in time.  Sandy made me get two slices for her, while she tried to find her spot in the basement with the other 24 girls.  My spot was already picked out; the floor of Max's room.  Max was there with his pizza, a TV relocated from the basement for the night, and Yars Revenge on the Atari.

When I got upstairs, Max was playing the Atari, which only had one controller.  On the floor, half the room was taken up by the coolest Autobot ever, Omega Prime - when he wasn't a robot, he was an army base, with a moving tank on its own track, plus a rocket ship. I couldn't play with it, I couldn't touch it, and I certainly couldn't move it to make room for my sleeping bag.  When I asked my turn, he said he was going to be a while, so I should just go downstairs and get some chicken pox.  I asked him what chicken pox was.
Max got shot, so he put down the joystick and told me.  "It's a disease grown-ups want kids to have.  You get itchy spots that make you scratch like a chicken."  Max went on to explain that the girls were invited over so they could get the chicken pox together - and that's why Max was staying in his room.
The safest route was to stay in the room - and my contribution would be enough pizza to make it through the night.  I went downstairs, where four half-empty boxes of various flavors remained.  Celeste caught me mixing slices into my own box, and told her mom; when I told her why Max sent me, Mrs Avis said it was okay.  But I noticed Celeste scratching her head while she was talking.
Max had locked the room by the time I returned with the pizza.  He said I couldn't come in until I made sure I didn't have any germs from the girls.  I put down the box and went to the bathroom to check myself.  In the mirror, I examined myself thoroughly: I checked my head, in the same spot Celeste was scratching; I checked my face and chest, my feet and hands...  When I went back to tell Max I was clean, the pizza was gone.  I started crying; after a minute, Mr Avis saw me and sent me downstairs, so he could talk to Max.
When I got downstairs, there was no pizza left on the kitchen table.  It seemed a logical place to hide, so I ducked beneath with a blanket over my head. Somehow, a few of the girls found me and tried to take the blanket off me; fear overtook me, and I screamed, "No germs!  No germs!"  I started kicking and flailing under the kitchen table, until Mrs Avis found me.

My mother was called, and I got a ride home.  Mr Avis returned my sleeping bag and sent me home with the box of mixed pizza slices (on the condition that my parents would also have some) and the Omega Supreme tank (on the condition that I would return the rocket in a few days.)  I didn't catch chicken pox that night; I would get my case five days later, after Sandy had brought it home.  Mindful of the six-year-old's concept of karmic retribution, I gave the rocket to Sandy, who took it to school and gave it to Estelle, who took it home and gave it back to Max, still in bed, still spotted, and still blotched in calomine.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "HPV Vaccine Shows Dramatic Success"

DAY 33: Baby's First Report Card

The news arrived four weeks early.  Typically, most couples conduct their first genomic audit on the same visit as their first sonogram.  But as soon as Nick and Gina knew they had a child on the way, they had to know everything about him.  Or her.
Nick called in a favor with some lab buddies, and they put the results in his hand just in time for the weekend.  As Gina requested, he brought the results home before opening.  He'd been anxious to take a look right away, but the delight on his face was an acceptable reward for his patience.  Her wandering hands and smothering kisses were bonus.
Gina tore open the envelope, and set her sights on the results graphs, leaving the data sets for Nick's perusal. The topmost result triggered a squeal of delight from Gina. "It's a boy, Nick, it's a boy!"
"It's a Glen!" Nick whooped.
"Honey, he's gonna have your eyes!"
"Shape or color?"
Gina showed him the bell curves.  "Both, I think.  Is that right?"
"Yeah.  That means predominantly brown; that curve there is deep set-"  Nick began tracing the features of his eyes as he described.  "-and that curve goes for upturned corners, and this curve... that's for protruding eyelids.  Not like muppets."
"-and he's going to have my nose."  Gina giggled and covered her nose.  "Oh no!"
Nick kissed the tip of her nose.  "It's a magic nose.  Glen should be so lucky.  What else?"

Gina looked at the next page.  "... I think he's going to be a mesomorph frame."
"Let me see."  Nick consulted his notes.  "Yeah, 18 markers for mesomorph, with 6 for endomorph.  Woo-ha!"  They executed a no-look high-five, and kept reading.

"Nick, he's leaning towards left-handed.  What do you got?"
"He's got 33 markers for higher analytical and mathematical skills."
"Wow!  That's all you, too!"
"You gave him 6 of them, honey.  Besides, some of those markers are musical, too; that did not come from me. What about his spatial relationing chart?  Where's his trend there?"
"What about his pre-dispositions?  I mean, what cancers should we be watching out for?"
"Honey, you're teasing me.  I already know Glen's a softpaw that'll be built like a wide receiver.  I just want to know if he's gonna catch, throw, or block."
"Nick..."
"Fine!  Cancers: colo-rectal, 6; melanoma, 6-"
"-Oops! that's mine!"
"Okay, my turn.  Socialization slope; what do you got?"
"Uh... he's not on the slope?"
"-there he is.  On the individualist side."
"Like, self-motivated?"
"Like, not a team player."
"Maybe more solo sports?"
"Eh, that could work.  He's competitive, I see."  Nick returned to the papers in his hand.  "Here's something; MS, 9."
"Oh!  We'll get that vaccine first."
"Okay- Alzheimer's, 8, like me.  Autism, 3-"
Gina laughed.  "Your 3 or my 3?...  Nick?"

Nick was no longer reading the paper, only staring at it.   When Gina tried to pull it away to peek, Nick recoiled from her grasp.  From the other side of the room, he apologized with a glance, and said.  "...he has 19 markers for psychopathy.  11 markers for APD."
"So?"  Gina blurted.  After a moment, she sat down, too.
"Are you sure?  Is this a prank?  Did your boss catch you and your fr-"
"I did the data sets, Gina.  I just didn't do the correlating.  But it's there.  There and there; over there..."
"But what does that even mean?"
Nick looked her in the eye.  "It means I already messed him up."
"You didn't mess anything up.  He's not even born yet.  We just... don't get any pets."
"No, you get pets!  You make him take care of them, name them, get invested in them, and watch out for the first time they kill one!"
"Nick, calm down!  Are you saying you want to change your mind?  Because we have tried too many times-"I know..."
"-but we still got time, if you really want-"
"I know!  I don't want to get rid of it-"
"Him, Nick!"
"Him! Him!  Okay?  I want what you want, okay?"
Gina embraced him, trembling with heaving sobs.  She could only force whispers through those tears.  She pleaded, "Don't do this to me.  I don't want to be alone in this..."
"You're not alone.  It's you and me, you and me..."
"I need you..."
"You got me, Gina.  Body and soul."
Gina kept crying into Nick's shoulder.  "What's he going to be?"
"He's gonna be work."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Autism Genome Sequenced"

DAY 31: Waiting For the Word

Catherine took her place next to Mr Ison, as they waited for him to die. His most recent round of pain meds should have phased out by this point, and Catherine would not let one minute of pain endure, if she had any say about it.  If he had any words - any wishes or curse - she was determined to honor them.  At the least, she was determined to hear them.  It's what any one deserves, she thought.
Mr Ison opened his eyes, nothing more.  She had never heard him say a word; most of the time, he slept.  But Catherine had seen his eyebrows raise a couple of times, and she entertained the idea that he hung around for her.
Catherine scanned the family photos left for Mr Ison: family portraits from other time zones, recently photographed and reluctantly posed for.  There was also a photo from last Tuesday, from his 85th birthday celebration; it was the nurses who rounded up hats and presented a symbolic cupcake for posterity.
Compelled, she said, "Mr Ison, I want you to know that I'm going to be here until you're done.  You're not going to be alone."   She searched his eyes for a reply.  His stare did not waver.
"Actually, I'm curious, because I haven't seen anyone die yet.  I'm still kinda new.  Usually, there's more people here, and I have to work the nursing station and answer phones.  And when somebody starts having a heart attack or something, I have to get out of the way for the crash cart...
"I used to be scared of death, you know.  When I was still in elementary school, my parents took me to five funerals in a summer, so I think that messed me up a bit.  But I think that's what got me into nursing, too.  And I have a mentor who says we can't save everybody, so she said I should work here for a little bit, and learn the rest of what things nurses do.  And I get it, because the nurses are there when nobody else can do anything else..."
She pondered on how to say what she wanted to share next:  that her curiosity extended to his moment of death.  Would he shudder or be still?  Would there be an extinguished light from his eyes?  Would he share a moment of clarity before his release, or just a groan?  She had every reason to be there for him, but her own reasons... She could not bring herself to voice them.
"So I don't want you to die, but if you do, I want to be there for you when it happens.  Ill be happy that you're my first."

Meg knocked on the door.  "Cathy, I need you at the nursing station."
"Mr Ison and I are talking."
Meg snorted.  "Station, Cathy."
Catherine gave Mr Ison a smile and stepped out of his gaze.

Outside the room, Catherine confronted her supervisor.  "Can't you use one of the toilets in the rooms?"
"Ew! Besides I'm getting a pop."
"What about Linda?"
"She's using the bathroom in one of the rooms.  But she's not getting a pop for anybody. Just watch the board until somebody gets back."
"But I promised-"

Bells went off in Mr Ison's room.  "Dammit!"  Catherine rushed back in...

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Clues From the Comet of the Century"

DAY 27: The Map Reading

Edgar gave a sideways glance to his attorneys, looking for a tell.  He looked across the table at Dr Lamar, trying to read his inscrutable face.  The corporate lawyers had not arrived yet; why no united front?  The doctor was saying nothing.  He consulted his instincts, and he felt... something familiar, but distantly so.  He felt...

The attorneys arrived.  Haggarty and Lewis, he recognized.  They'd been involved in the CFO vetting process since his first interview.  There were three new faces, junior ones - seat fillers, he dismissed.  And the technician was preparing the conference connections; perhaps this would be the end of the journey.

Lewis nodded to Dr Lamar, and he began.  "Mr Portnow, you understand that we deny no one the opportunity to participate in our application process, regardless of their health status.  Our company assesses all candidates on their anticipated capacity to perform their expected duties.  This is the purpose of our extensive medical examination."

Haggarty spoke next.  "Mr Portnow, you previously signed the consent forms regarding this examination.  For the discussion with all parties present, do you wish to continue to grant consent?"  Edgar turned to Rosalyn, his chief attorney, and nodded.  "Our client does," she replied...

Edgar ignored the rest of the attorneys' round of kabuki, and focused his attention on the silent Dr Lamar.  He had been professional but not cordial, polite but not engaging in conversation.  When the testing had completed, Edgar was shown out by one of the Doctor's technicians; the Doctor had already begun analyzing the results.

The CFO seat was a means to an end.  But if he couldn't shepherd their corporation toward a merger with Koshugi TE internally, he knew enough players that could facilitate a more drastic assumption of power.  The wolves were at the gate...

Dr Lamar had activated the CLARITY scans for the perusal of the room.  Floating in the center of the room was a detailed holographic scan of Edgar Portnow's brain.  Dr Lamar was introducing everyone to the infinite tendrils of neural nets that crisscrossed through Edgar's lobes.  For a moment, he was proud...

"...these spots suggest early development of aneurysmic conditions.  And here at the lower occipital lobe are symptomatic of level 1 neural degredation..." Dr Lamar's words were thunderous in Edgar's brain.  'Aneurysm', like his father at 58, an age he had already passed.  'Degradation', as in his brother's mental condition on the eve of his convalescence.  Edgar had buried both of them, and set them aside to finish his work...

Haggarty was speaking now.  "Based on the doctor's assessment of three years before required intervention, the board would like to offer you a transitional CFO position - beside assumption of current operations, you can integrate your knowledge and philosophy to our long-term strategy, and help us find candidates that can realize those ideas..."

Haggarty was too calm, too prepared for this development, Edgar decided.  Were they manipulating him?  Was this some kind of trick?  Had he been found out?  He would find the lie - crush it.  He searched for the lie, in Dr Lamar's eyes.  Pity looked back at him.  Pity was all he saw.  Throughout the room, intermittent glances of pity was all he saw...

His attorneys had taken the reins of the negotiations now.  They were doing their job, regaining the momentum, enforcing Edgar's strongest position.  Presently, that was accepting the 3-year contract, with an option of first refusal on a 4th; they were negotiating bonuses based on stock performance, and a dietary regimen for Edgar.  Whenever Rosalyn needed Edgar to answer personally, she would tap his foot, and he would reflexively nod; she would ask the court reporter to acknowledge Edgar's response, and the room accepted this.
Meanwhile, Edgar wandered in his chair, and waited to leave.  They seemed to be talking forever...


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Transparent Brain Could Clear Up Mysteries of the Mind"

DAY 23: The Shamani and the Drug Rep

Tim Timbre had misunderstood the purpose of his Brazilian market assignment.  He earmarked over 300 lbs of promotional post-it notes, chip clippers, hand sanitizer wipes, wall calenders, and stress-release squeezie mascots, in anticipation of schmoozing every primary care clinic in Rio de Janiero.  Instead, he and his trinkets were riding a slow boat to the Brazil-Peru border, to talk to just one doctor - or shaman, actually.

Tim's employers, Fellit Pharmaceutical, were looking for the next Viagra - especially since Pfizer managed to extend their patent for another 5 years.  Viagra had managed the type of global market presence that humbled other corporations.  And yet there was one market that Pfizer had not managed to penetrate; It was believed a flowering plant native to the region could be the answer.  A cousin of a friend of a board member had provided a trail, and Tim had been recruited to follow that trail, until it led to Rollo, a river runner with a taste for Dr Pepper.  He agreed to lead Tim to the Mura-pirarra.

The Mura-pirarra tribe protected their stretch of the Amazon fiercely from other tribes or any 'crooked ones' (foreigners).  They refused to join civilization, or even speak Portuguese.  Their centuries-old dialect was only spoke by 115 people on the planet; Rollo was among them.  In return for investing toward nautical repairs and upgrades, Rollo would help facilitate negotiations between Fellit Pharmaceutical and the Mura-pirrara.

In one of the lulls in their voyage, Rollo related his story.  "I was a child when a minister came to our tribe.  He knew as many Pirahan words as I did, so we learned together.  He taught me portuguese and english.  When he left, I left with him, and went to school.  I come back to say what they do out there, what they have, and the others decide if they want it."  Rollo gave a sideways look at Tim's cargo.  "I tell you, probably not."

Rollo piloted the boat toward a bank with a clearing.  He blew his whistle - twice short, twice long - and threw out the rope.  Two spear-bearing natives emerged from the forest to secure the boat.  Tim could see that the natives certainly weren't in need of Viagra; perhaps he was in the right place.
Three more armed natives arrived, pushing a half-dozen unarmed men and women towards the boat.  Rollo muttered to Tim, "They were captured from another tribe; later, I will find out which.  Right now, they are here to carry your things."

At the village, the caravan was greeted by a cranky old lady.  Even the men with the spears were scared to be touched by her.  "She is our grandmother," Rollo said to Tim, as she made a beeline to Rollo, cursing a blue streak.  Rollo received the brunt of Grandmother's tirade, giving Tim a chance to step into the village.
Tim saw the rest of the village gathered together, already an audience for another visitor.  Chet chuckled when he saw Tim's jaw drop.  Chet had come up through the ranks with Tim at Fellit Pharmaceutical, until the day he disappeared.  Management never commented, so it was up to the gossip to toss up wildly divergent theories for several weeks.  But when Tim saw a tribesman wearing a Pfizer t-shirt, he put it all together.  "The headhunters got to you, Chet, didn't they?"
"Don't sweat it, Tim, they're great."  Chet offered to share his hand sanitizer.  "So glad I made the plunge.  You should think about it. I'm somebody there now, and I could vouch for you, coming out of the same crucible as me.  Heck, you help me close this deal, and we'll be set!"

Rollo spoke into Tim's free ear.  "She says we have to take the things back.  His, too."  The slaves, still holding Tim's cargo, looked at Chet's boxes of swag and moaned.  "She says neither of you belong here.  Says they need nothing you have brought."
"Are you kidding?  I just got here!"  Tim exclaimed, and swatted a bug on his neck for punctuation.
Chet shrugged his shoulders.  "I've tried everything, from cigarette lighters to iPads.  They won't budge."
Tim was panicking.  "Rollo, tell her I just need a minute - a moment!  Just ask her what she does want!  What does the village want?!"  Tim looked at the confused villagers, the disapproving matron, and Chet, laughing his head off.

Tim threw an uppercut to Chet's jaw.  With some assistance from the heat, it was enough to knock Chet out.  The entire village went silent when he hit the dust.
Embarassed, Tim picked up Chet's ankles.  "Rollo, his arms!"  Rollo grabbed his wrists, and they began the slow walk back to the river.  Three steps in, the matron spoke again, in her machine gun tempo and unwavering squint of disapproval.  Rollo nodded as her venom spilled, until she said no, and turned away.  Rollo picked up the other man's arms, and said to Tim, "She says to come back after you put him on the boat."


inspired by Discover Magazine article "Biologists Modify Yeast to Produce Malaria Drug"

DAY 22: The Bluest Part of a Balanced Breakfast

Boboy Tony's house was just like him; the outside seemed small and rickety, an unassuming alter-ego while the walls inside, overcome by the decades of drawings he had produced, were overcome by his imagination.   Behind framings of his most illustrious stories, Boboy had painted his favorite heroes and monsters on the walls to run free and battle, in total disregard for the boundaries of the room.
To the uninitiated, the room had a vertiginous effect - but Daryl and Scott were no mere mortals.  They could cite every hero, villain and sidekick, along with their first appearance, secret identities, significant others, and most prevalent superpowers (depending on the decade.)  To them, this house was a shrine, that held an entire universe within.  Scott began to feel overwhelmed; he rubbed his eyes and searched for something to focus on.  His eyes rested on a 50-year-old cereal box.

"That is the most important thing I ever drew," Boboy said, answering their unspoken question.  He put down the drinking glasses and took his place at the drafting table.  "Is it alright if I sit here?  This is where I'm comfortable, especially with company."
Daryl, holding the interview mic, silently nodded with glee.  "Are you taking requests?"
Scott patted his shoulder, reeling Daryl back in.  "Mr Tony, please tell us about the cereal.  I don't think I've ever heard of it."

As Boboy began to draw, he told the story.  "It only came out one year - '64, maybe '65.  I was in the Army corps, but I never saw combat.  I drew and designed safety posters, promotional materials - a comic strip for the base bulletins... I was stationed in Kunsan the year there was this real bad flu epidemic.  It caught everyone by surprise.  But some doctors figured out that a certain food additive could inhibit the disease, so the military was very interested in getting this food additive out into the local populace quickly.
"The additive was blue dye - like they put in berry blends juices to mask the apple juice.  But they couldn't make blue color versions of any of the local food, and expect anyone to eat it.  They didn't have enough blueberries to make blueberries popular.  And someone suggested breakfast cereal - children could eat blue breakfast cereal, with enough sugar to cover the taste.
"So I made the Blue Crisp-" and Boboy stopped for a moment, to study his old friend. "He was funny and strong, and told kids they could be strong too, if they had their breakfast.  We made the cereal and one commerical.  And it worked very well.  Even the other soldiers liked to eat it, because it didn't taste like MREs.  And our part of the country was the only one without any flu deaths that winter.
"Unfortunately, the same doctors that found out this additive was good for stopping the flu learned that this same additive, in large doses, might cause lupus.  So they quietly stopped making the Blue Crisp - two years later, he returned as the Crisp, brown like grain, and a slight fish flavor; they liked it out there...
"About five years ago, they did a health check in the region for lupus, and didn't find any signs, so they declassified the project ahead of schedule.  They gave me that-" he pointed to a ceremonial medal in a display case, next to a folded American flag. "-but they won't bring the cereal back."

"That's a shame, sir," Scott replied.  "I can't imagine it being any more harmful than any of the cereals we ate growing up- right, Daryl?"
Daryl, caught red-handed, set the cereal box down.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Race Against H7N9"

Day 15: The Fat Virus

Out of earshot, Vivian Charmain watched her daughter Veronica eat breakfast with disdain.  "Why does she let herself go like that?"
"It's not a choice," Mike replied between coffee sips.  "It's her genetics, you vain cow."
Reflexively, Viv's hands went to her sides, for the reassuring feel of the definition between her lower ribs.  "She's a child, and a young woman who needs to take responsibility for her appearance."
He tilted his head and gazed analytically at Ronnie.  To Viv, he muttered, "She's got your cheeks and my nose.  Your silhoutte from middle school, as I recall."
She pulled him away from the breakfast nook, hissing.  "She looks nothing like me!"  Vivian was right; before he was her husband, he was her surgeon.  Ten years later, he had adjusted over 65% of her surface area.  "This is your fault!  You are failing her!"
"I am not putting her under my knife!  She is not even menstruating yet!"  Mike crossed his arms.  "There is nothing I can do-"
Viv stopped his words with a wag of her finger.  There was one way that wouldn't involve a scalpel.  While Mike was in school, researchers discovered that the success of gastric-bypass surgeries was entirely dependent on the micriobiota displaced in the procedure.  In the following years, an industry was grown from the farming of stomach bacteria from covetously thin individuals, to inject into the BMI-challenged.  Mike had jumped on that train right out of med school; he now had three clinics to show for it.
"Fix her," Viv hissed.
Mike was crumbling.  "But she's not broken..."
"Fix her."  Viv dropped the Mike.
***

That evening, Mike checked in on Ronnie.  She was in her room doing homework, but otherwise carefree.
"Ronnie, you know your mom loves us, right?" "Yup."
"Even when she's worried and grumpy, right?" "Yup."
"She just wants what's best for you, right?"  "Yup."
Mike exhaled and produced a syringe.  "Okay; got a flu shot to give you now."
Ronnie looked up from her book, and let out her mother's whine, "Whyyyyy?"
"Just the luck of being a doctor's kid.  Come on..."  Mike removed the cap, while Ronnie lifted her shirt, exposing her belly.
Confused, Mike almost finished saying, "What are you doing?..."
Ronnie pointed at the three entry points surrounding her belly button.  "Mom said I have to do this until there's no more."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Gut Surgery Spawns Slimming Microbes"

DAY 14: Conversation with a Miracle

They say it's going to work.

This time.  These medicines.  These treatments.  This routine, every six hours, for the next few weeks and weeks, until... it works.  It will.

They told me what to do: which medicines, and when.  They showed me how to insert the tubes and use the needles.  They told me what I'd see if things were wrong.  And if nothing changes, it probably means nothing's wrong, so keep going.
And I accept all this, although I know they don't know anything about how this will turn out.  Because what we are trying to do has never happened before.

People have gotten sick, and then well, before.  People have been born sick, and then cured, before.
People have won the lottery before.  They've been struck by lightning, and lived, and struck again, and lived.  They've been orphaned, grown up and gotten married, found their long-lost twin, with a spouse
with the same first name as their own.

People get sick, and died.  People get sick, and take years to die.  People get sick, then better, before the sickness takes them for good.  Nobody has walked away from this sickness.  No drug, no treatment, no regimen or diet, no transplant or transfusion has carried anyone far away enough from this inevitable death.

This has never happened before.
But neither have you.

You have never happened before.  And there is nothing I can point to, no reason I can offer, that you are more likely or deserving.  But I believe it will happen.  Someone will be the first.  And if that's what it takes, I will do everything in my power for you to be that one.


inspired by Discover Magazine article "Drug Cocktail Cures HIV-Positive Baby"