Saturday, May 12, 2007

Ted’s Story, Pt. 2: Hurry Up And Wait

The night of the injection, I tossed and turned for hours. When I finally did get to sleep, I dreamed I was a tiny, microscopic version of myself, surfing through giant, tubular blood vessels, carving up the crimson waves and having a great old time, until I found myself at the twisty, soft cliff of the cerebrum. I looked over the cliff to the ground below and saw hundreds of glowing, yellow alligators chewing away at the bottom, yanking rubbery, throbbing arteries between their jaws. I shouted at them, and even hurled my surfboard down, but they just kept on chewing. I woke up in a cold sweat.

That cold sweat was just the beginning. I must have lost about five pounds in those two days, between the ungodly amount of perspiration (could this possibly be my extra-human ability?) and not having much of an appetite.

I wouldn’t ordinarily consider myself a hypochondriac, but for those two days, every headache, stomach cramp or sniffle was the first sign of a massive brain aneurysm. What were the symptoms of an aneurysm, anyway? Better do some more Internet searching. My eyeballs were pretty sore and bloodshot — was that a sign that the arteries in my head were about to burst, or was it just from staring at my flickering computer for hours at a time?

Two days after the injection, around dusk, I suddenly became ravenously hungry. I was in the home stretch, just a few hours away from the do-or-die, 48-hour mark. Was this hunger my failing body’s last-ditch effort to grasp at the building blocks of life, or just a result of my unintentional two-day fast? Was this to be my last meal? If so, I wanted to savor it, enjoy every scrumptious morsel of my favorite food. Problem was, I’m a die-hard (no pun intended) foodie with eclectic tastes, and had a hard time deciding. Because of this, my 45th hour meal consisted of a spicy tuna roll, half a rack of baby back ribs, garlic bread, a small pepperoni-anchovy pizza, a bacon-double-swiss burger, sweet potato fries, mashed potatoes and gravy, spinach salad with strawberries and Balsamic vinaigrette, Vietnamese noodle soup, buffalo wings, dim sum, a chocolate-mocha milkshake and a Crêpe Suzette. For dessert: a handful of cherry-flavored antacids.

After this epicurean cacophony, I loosened my belt and burped my way back to the computer. Continuing with the day’s “dead man walking” theme, I sat down and wrote a lengthy goodbye letter to my mother. I thanked her for all she’s done for me these past 58 years, and let her know where the safe deposit box key and important papers were stashed in my house. Then I wrote a letter to my ex-wife. I told her that I harbored no hard feelings or ill will toward her, and wanted her to be happy — something I’d known myself for years, but following the advice of my attorney, had never explicitly expressed to her. I printed the letters out, signed them, sealed them in stamped envelopes and put them in my mailbox.

My affairs more or less in order, I sat on the couch and stared at the clock, which seemed to tick much slower than usual. As 10:37 PM approached, I began to feel a tightness in the back of my neck. Uh-oh. Then I realized I’d been clenching my jaw for the better part of an hour and tried to relax, which seemed to help.

10:36. It was either going to be my last minute on Earth, or the last minute of my ordinary, unenhanced life. Either way, things were about to be much different.

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two…

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and surrendered to whatever was about to happen.

I opened my eyes, feeling exactly the same as the minute before.

I touched my face. No blood was seeping from my eyes, ears or nose — all good signs that my body had not rejected the promicin. Theoretically, my body was now learning to produce this neurotransmitter on its own. Theoretically, the glowing yellow-green liquid was now coursing through my cerebrum, seeking out those dark, cobwebby, unused corners and lighting them up in a way that no other human brain had been before.

Theoretically, anyway.

Wait, was it 48 hours exactly, or about 48 hours? Was my biological clock wound as precisely as the one in my living room, or could there be a couple hours leeway, give or take? I don’t suppose the exact test results of Haspelcorp’s Enhanced Soldier experiments are posted anywhere online, are they?

No, I couldn’t do it. I was way too exhausted for any more Internet searches. I needed some sleep.

If I woke up the next day, I’d have to remember to grab those letters back when Doug the mailman came, or my poor mother would have a heart attack. (My ex-wife’s an aerobics instructor, so I wasn’t so worried about her.)

I went to sleep and had strange, amorphous dreams that smelled of garlic and cayenne pepper….

POSTED BY Ted AT 6:33 pm 05/12/2007 |

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