suture thread.
“Everything all right, Dr. O’Day?” asked Helvelius.
In the background, the gradual Haec dies quam fecit dominus was playing.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just … just thinking.” Yes, thinking what everyone in the room was thinking, only no one had the courage to say. Have we not crossed a terrible threshold? Where will it lead? If man has found the power to re-create himself, in whose image will he be re-created?
“Let’s charge ’er up,” said Helvelius.
Ali stepped back to make way, but Helvelius waved her toward the table. “No, you do the honors.”
The nurse presented her with something shaped like a large, flexible horseshoe wrapped in plastic. She spread the ends open a little, and positioned them against the base of Jamie’s skull, at the same level as the old AVM cavity.
“Okay. Switch it on.”
“Power is on,” said Kevin.
Dr. Helvelius turned toward the TV camera. “Right now we’re charging up the SIPNI device, using a magnetic induction coil, similar to what you would use to charge an electric toothbrush or a laptop computer. Once it’s charged, SIPNI will immediately go to work, sending out pulses that will seek out and form connections with what we call the optic radiations. Those are remnants of the visual processing cells that originally fed signals from Jamie’s eyes to the lost part of his brain. It will be awhile, of course, before we see any results from that.”
For several minutes, the room was quiet, but for the hiss of the bellows of the anesthesia machine, and the occasional beep of the IV pump. At last, Kevin O’Day called out, “SIPNI is at full power.”
“What’s the EEG show?” asked Helvelius.
From behind the blue curtain came the voice of the anesthetist. “Signature electrical activity in the occipital lobe, about thirty-five megahertz. I believe that’s within the calculated norm.”
“We’re done, then. Let’s turn him over.”
Someone switched off the CD player in the midst of a descant on exultemus et laetemur .
The two surgeons and two nurses lifted Jamie and turned him onto his back, taking care not to entangle the IV lines and wire leads that seemed to spring from every part of his body. The anesthetist turned down the nitrous oxide gas. As soon as Jamie showed signs of eye movement, the anesthetist pulled the soft plastic breathing tube out from Jamie’s throat. As it came out, dripping secretions, Jamie began to cough.
“That’s good, Jamie,” said the anesthetist. “Give us a nice cough.”
Still semiconscious, Jamie coughed two or three times. A gurney was rolled in, and a white plastic board was slipped under Jamie’s back to help lift him from the operating table. Once he was on the gurney, and the IV bags had been rehung and a portable monitor attached, Ali and Florinda wheeled him out of the operating room, past the scrub sinks, and toward the recovery room down the hall. They parked the gurney in a bay just inside the entrance. Ali lent a hand while Florinda and one of the recovery room nurses hooked Jamie up to a regular telemetry monitor and fastened an oxygen line under his nose.
“Let’s give him five liters of oxygen for now,” said Ali. “His sats are just a little bit low.”
The adjustment was made, and Florinda returned to Operating Room Three. Ali stayed behind for a few minutes, writing orders into Jamie’s chart and going over them verbally with the recovery room staff. It was important that everything be followed to the letter.
Ali made a last check at the bedside. Jamie was sleeping comfortably. His vital signs were good. The EEG showed some theta waves and occasional bursts of sleep spindles—all indicative of a smooth recovery. She touched her fingers to her young patient’s cheek, and then turned and headed into the hall.
* * *
“Don’t you think that nurse looks like your sister Josie?” said the gray-haired woman lying in the hospital bed. The pale skin of her face had a
“Everything all right, Dr. O’Day?” asked Helvelius.
In the background, the gradual Haec dies quam fecit dominus was playing.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just … just thinking.” Yes, thinking what everyone in the room was thinking, only no one had the courage to say. Have we not crossed a terrible threshold? Where will it lead? If man has found the power to re-create himself, in whose image will he be re-created?
“Let’s charge ’er up,” said Helvelius.
Ali stepped back to make way, but Helvelius waved her toward the table. “No, you do the honors.”
The nurse presented her with something shaped like a large, flexible horseshoe wrapped in plastic. She spread the ends open a little, and positioned them against the base of Jamie’s skull, at the same level as the old AVM cavity.
“Okay. Switch it on.”
“Power is on,” said Kevin.
Dr. Helvelius turned toward the TV camera. “Right now we’re charging up the SIPNI device, using a magnetic induction coil, similar to what you would use to charge an electric toothbrush or a laptop computer. Once it’s charged, SIPNI will immediately go to work, sending out pulses that will seek out and form connections with what we call the optic radiations. Those are remnants of the visual processing cells that originally fed signals from Jamie’s eyes to the lost part of his brain. It will be awhile, of course, before we see any results from that.”
For several minutes, the room was quiet, but for the hiss of the bellows of the anesthesia machine, and the occasional beep of the IV pump. At last, Kevin O’Day called out, “SIPNI is at full power.”
“What’s the EEG show?” asked Helvelius.
From behind the blue curtain came the voice of the anesthetist. “Signature electrical activity in the occipital lobe, about thirty-five megahertz. I believe that’s within the calculated norm.”
“We’re done, then. Let’s turn him over.”
Someone switched off the CD player in the midst of a descant on exultemus et laetemur .
The two surgeons and two nurses lifted Jamie and turned him onto his back, taking care not to entangle the IV lines and wire leads that seemed to spring from every part of his body. The anesthetist turned down the nitrous oxide gas. As soon as Jamie showed signs of eye movement, the anesthetist pulled the soft plastic breathing tube out from Jamie’s throat. As it came out, dripping secretions, Jamie began to cough.
“That’s good, Jamie,” said the anesthetist. “Give us a nice cough.”
Still semiconscious, Jamie coughed two or three times. A gurney was rolled in, and a white plastic board was slipped under Jamie’s back to help lift him from the operating table. Once he was on the gurney, and the IV bags had been rehung and a portable monitor attached, Ali and Florinda wheeled him out of the operating room, past the scrub sinks, and toward the recovery room down the hall. They parked the gurney in a bay just inside the entrance. Ali lent a hand while Florinda and one of the recovery room nurses hooked Jamie up to a regular telemetry monitor and fastened an oxygen line under his nose.
“Let’s give him five liters of oxygen for now,” said Ali. “His sats are just a little bit low.”
The adjustment was made, and Florinda returned to Operating Room Three. Ali stayed behind for a few minutes, writing orders into Jamie’s chart and going over them verbally with the recovery room staff. It was important that everything be followed to the letter.
Ali made a last check at the bedside. Jamie was sleeping comfortably. His vital signs were good. The EEG showed some theta waves and occasional bursts of sleep spindles—all indicative of a smooth recovery. She touched her fingers to her young patient’s cheek, and then turned and headed into the hall.
* * *
“Don’t you think that nurse looks like your sister Josie?” said the gray-haired woman lying in the hospital bed. The pale skin of her face had a
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