Lucidity

Chapter 2 - The Escape

“Grace Moran. Thirty-two-year-old white female presenting with new onset seizures. Yesterday, biopsy revealed a fast growing, high grade glioma originating in the right temporal lobe,” Dr. Jonas Helman, Chief of Neurosurgery, was saying when Vincent Emberek entered the conference room.

According to Vincent’s watch, he was right on time for the Tuesday afternoon Neurosurgical Case Conference, but obviously his watch and Dr. Helman’s did not agree. Vincent shuffled his stack of files and sidled toward the rear of the room, hoping to go unnoticed.

The six neurosurgery attendings, each flanked by their own residents, surgical fellows and medical students, all turned to stare at Vincent as if he trespassed on hallowed ground.

“Can I help you?” Helman asked in a frosty tone, obviously irritated at having his presentation interrupted.

So much for a low profile. Helman was the last person Vincent wanted to piss off, not now when he needed the surgeon’s support.

“Dr. Emberek, Pediatric Chief Resident,” Vincent introduced himself. “I was invited—”

“Right, the pygmy doctor.”

Vincent ignored the insult. Helman probably would have called him a “flea” if Vincent had introduced himself as a Medical Resident. What would the neurosurgeon call him if he knew Vincent had completed both residencies? He was saved from replying by the entrance of a smiling blonde who breezed in with no apologies for being late.

“Vincent, you made it.” Dr. Eve Warden greeted him with enthusiasm, taking his hand and leading him to a chair. “Jonas, you remember Dr. Emberek,” she called to Helman, ignoring the surgeon’s glower. “I invited Vincent to present Katherine Jellicle’s case.”

The surgeon grunted his acknowledgment. “We’ll get to her in a minute.” Helman gestured for the lights to be dimmed and the three dimensional projector turned on. The air shimmered with a violent glow of color. “You can see the extent of the tumor. It involves the hypothalamus and amygdala, wrapping around the optic nerve.”

Someone in the back gave a low whistle. “That’s one nasty sonofabitch,” came a murmur of appreciation from the audience.

Vincent glanced up from his papers. Suddenly, he was inside the patient’s brain.

Her optic pathway shimmered in yellow, the hypothalamic nuclei and limbic system in blue. And, in the sickly sweet purple of spilled Kool-Aid, the tumor sprawled across the vital areas that controlled emotions, language, memory—in short, everything that made Grace Moran human.

“A perfect candidate for my new procedure,” Helman announced. He strutted before the screen like a proud father, as if he’d given birth to the massive tumor himself.

“It’ll be a tricky one, Jonas,” a grey-haired surgeon said with authority. Senior in years but not in prestige, Vincent thought, noting Helman’s bemused expression. At forty-eight, Helman was young to be Chairman of Neurosurgery, a fact that rankled his colleagues and caused him no small amount of satisfaction. The fact that he was also tall, still had a full head of hair, drove a new Porsche every year, and was an excellent surgeon didn’t help him win any popularity contests among his fellow surgeons. “Are you certain you want her to be the first?”

“Oh, yeah. This bastard is mine,” Helman replied with a grin. “And get this—the subject has a history of anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and agoraphobia.”

“Caused by the tumor?”

“No, pre-existing. Post traumatic stress disorder. She hadn’t left her house in nearly four years. We got her after her housekeeper found her unconscious on the floor and called nine-one-one.”