Wake Up!
Consciousness came suddenly, as if I had been hit in the face with a cold bucket of water, bucket and all. There were no signs of grogginess from the anesthetized sleep.
Instead, everything seemed so loud and vivid. My senses were assaulted by a veritable cacophony of colors, sights, sounds, and smells. This was definitely not in the brochure to prepare for waking from sedation. The intensity of everything around me made it hard to concentrate on any one thing. I felt like I couldn't see straight. My eyes kept darting from one object to another, and the focus seemed all off. First zoomed in, then the whole room again.
My attention would fix on an individual object, taking in minute details at a pace that seemed impossible. The grain of the wood cabinets, the dust on the windowsill despite every other surface being meticulously cleaned, and even the pointless instructions at the bottom of the eye chart. They must have been meant as a joke, written so small.
But why could I read them?
The letters snapped in and out of view as I tried to steady my focus and concentrate on them more intently.
But my eyes were not the only sense taking in way too much information.
Tick.
The second-hand on the clock moved once. It had been one second since my eyes first opened.
I could hear the sound of a heart beating, strong and rhythmic. A machine was keeping time, beep for pump. There was also the hum of nearby electronics, the sounds of distant footfalls, even muffled conversations. There must be patients in the adjacent rooms. I hadn’t heard them before.
The hospital smelled of the familiar disinfectants covering sickness, only much stronger. I could also faintly smell blood and other bodily fluids. Even a hint of… Perfume?
My mind had just noted more details in a few seconds than I had ever previously perceived in all my prior appointments. I felt like I should have had trouble keeping track of all that my senses were taking in, but I could almost feel them being cataloged and stored in my subconscious. As if the back of my mind was busy taking notes and filing the information away. What use it would have for this information was lost on me. I felt as if my own brain had been amplified by several orders of magnitude. And in doing so, made me acutely aware of its workings. To know how much, I would have had to know just how well it worked beforehand. Or rather, how well I had used it. Odds were, I'd rather not know the answer to that particular question.
The sound of footsteps approached my room, the handle to my door turned, and it opened. A creaking accompanying its movement through the entire arc. In walked a relatively young woman who turned toward the bed, my bed, and stopped dead in her tracks. A look of surprise flitted across her face, then disappeared, replaced by a set, professional expression that couldn’t quite cover something underneath. Concern? Worry?
She stepped forward and stiffly picked up my chart while asking how I was feeling.
Something wasn't right.
I answered that I felt about the same as always, which was true as far as the cancer was concerned, since I hadn’t really noticed any symptoms before the procedure.
How was one supposed to feel? Once being cured, that is. Was there supposed to be some sort of revelation? A feeling of great relief? As if a burden had been lifted? I had been cured, right? That was the promise. If I lived through the procedure, the cancer would not.
Slowly, spreading throughout my whole body, a feeling of soreness. It reminded me of the way I felt after a particularly intense workout—a slow burning, not exactly painful, from head to toe. It felt deeper than simply muscles. It felt like my very bones were smoldering.
Where had this sensation been a moment ago? It felt like it had always been there, but I’d just become aware of it.
"Well, that is good news. We will have to run some tests to see what the results are. I'll go get the doctor.” With that she left abruptly, practically fleeing the room.
I hadn’t the time to tell her about my strange symptoms. What would I say? I think my eyes and ears and nose are all broken in that they seem to be working much better now. Or that I now felt a sort of awareness behind the processes of their inner workings. And by the way, my whole body aches. Actually yeah, I should have shared that last thought. Oh well.
At least now I wouldn’t be in a mental institution by the end of the day. But if these were side effects of the virus, I would need some answers.
Even without my added input, the whole experience with the nurse felt odd. It was almost like she hadn’t expected me to be awake. No, more than that. Like me being awake was wrong.
Wouldn’t they have this all charted out? I didn’t know too much about how anesthesia worked, but I seemed to recall they had to be a pretty precise with their dosage. Because otherwise the patient would die.
Maybe the virus caused me to wake up earlier than they were expecting? Instead of dwelling on it, I spent the next few minutes counting cracks in the ceiling tiles, because the room was fairly bare of interesting details. It also seemed to take my mind off how my body was feeling. The aching receded to a mild discomfort as I stopped concentrating on it.
A short while later a doctor walked in. I didn’t recognize him.
“Hello! You’re up early! I’m Dr. Lester, and I’ll be taking care of you today!” His voice also conveyed genuine surprise at seeing me. Unlike the nurse, though, he seemed pleased by this revelation. That was comforting.
He looked over several charts on his clipboard, meticulously flipping from one to the next, studying each page.
“Remarkable,” he muttered more to himself than to me.
“Everything appears normal.” He looked up from the charts.
“These results are what we would have expected from a patient who had been in remission for years. Or never had cancer at all. Certainly not from someone suffering just a few days ago.
“However, these results are from samples taken from you this morning. So I’m going to take several more samples of your blood now that you’re awake. We’ll run them through a few more extensive tests. And I’ll let you know the final results later this week. We will, of course, want to continue monitoring you. This could be huge.” The last part he again said more to himself than me.
“But all indications appear well within normal tolerances. In the meantime, how are you feeling?” He peered at me over the glasses riding low on his nose.
He looked like how I imagined a grandparent should: just the right mix of soft concern and patriarchal authority.
“Fine, I suppose. But I am having some weird sensations,” I admitted. I wondered how much I could reveal without coming across as sounding crazy.
“Oh? Please do describe them for me.” He pulled out a pen and notepad.
I didn’t know where to begin. I decided to start with the most concerning symptom.
“My whole body is kind of sore.” I said lamely.
“What I mean is… I feel like I just went through twelve rounds with Mike Tyson.” A little hyperbolic perhaps, but much more accurate for how I felt.
“If that were the case, you would probably still be out.” Dr. Lester chuckled.
His nonchalance reassured me somewhat.
“So, this soreness is normal?” I asked.
“Describe what you are feeling, as accurately as you can. Is there any particular area where the feeling is concentrated?”
“Well, my muscles all feel very sore as I said, like after a really hard work out. I almost feel like… my bones hurt?”
He motioned for me to continue my response.
“My eyes feel strained, but my vision seems better than ever,” I obliged.
“Explain,” he interrupted me.
I looked around the room.
“That bottle of aspirin on the counter?” I pointed to it.
He nodded.
“I can read the label,” I stated.
He turned to get a better view, squinted, and crossed the room to pick it up. He turned it over in his hand, inspecting it through the bottom of his glasses. After a moment he turned toward me and held the bottle out on a palm.
“Read this.” He pointed to the label.
“Aspirin,” I responded.
“Here.” He pointed lower.
“Coated. N-S-A-I-D in parentheses,” I answered confidently.
This was already much smaller than any letters I had been able to read on any eye test in the past.
“Once more.” He pointed to a small printed label number.
I concentrated, willing myself to see it. I felt a slight strain in my face, almost like my eyes were tensing up. The numbers came into focus, and I read them. After the last one, I relaxed and the numbers snapped back to a dark blurred line.
“Most interesting,” Dr. Lester muttered to himself.
He set the bottle down and retrieved his notepad. The only sound for the next minute was the scribbling of his pen across the small page.
“What else?” he asked as he looked up.
I snapped back to focus on him and realized he was done writing and now staring at me expectantly. My mind had quickly wandered from my current circumstances, lost in wonder at what was happening to me. But he was my best bet for answers, so I forced myself to return to the present and stopped absently counting cracks in the tile.
“Well my hearing seems better too, but my ears don’t hurt or anything,” I answered.
He nodded and continued writing.
“Did you want to test that?” I asked.
“No need.” This time he didn’t even look up.
I waited for him to finish.
“Ok,” he continued after a moment, “there are several things we need to clear up. Firstly, these changes in your body are from the virus, and they may continue. You were aware there could be side effects to the treatment?” He stared at me expectantly.
I nodded.
“And you did read the waivers you signed?” he followed.
“Ummm, not super closely,” I answered hesitantly.
“Very well,” he sighed. “Ok. This treatment is under very close scrutiny and all other symptoms and side effects must be closely tracked. However, due to the sensitive nature surrounding this particular treatment, it is important that you disclose nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing—” His gaze burned into me, “with anyone, including close family and friends, about the, err, nature of your particular side effects. Need I remind you that you did sign a consent form as well as a non-disclosure form before being treated? Do you understand what all this means?”
“Yes sir.” What had Dr. Stone gotten me into?
“Good. Good.” He seemed to relax, then he smiled, the grandfatherly look returning to his visage.
“It is not all so bad,” he continued once more. “There may be more changes, as I have said. This general soreness you are feeling is from these changes taking place in your body. But this is ok. Good, in fact. This is the way the virus combats the cancer in you. By rebuilding you. And as you can surely see, some of these changes are for your own benefit?”
Again I nodded in agreement, though a small part of me felt a little betrayed. Would I have signed up knowing I might get much better vision and hearing too? Of course. But why hide these other “side effects” as he had called them. Had Dr. Stone been afraid of scaring me? Did she think me a child, so easily frightened by my own changing body? Or were there more sinister reasons hiding behind a façade of improvements? What really was happening to me? I wasn’t sure I trusted this Dr. Lester to be honest with me. I would get the full story from Dr. Stone. Which reminded me…
“Is it ok to talk about all this with Dr. Stone?” I asked, suddenly concerned even she was excluded from knowing the truth.
“Of course!” he said with a smile. “You are not in this alone. She will be the one to walk you through your recovery process.”
Feelings of relief and possibly something else flooded through me.
“But no one else,” he spoke firmly. “If you discussed the fact that you were coming in for an experimental cancer treatment with family or friends beforehand, that is ok. Then they already know we are treating you, and you are free to discuss how that is going. But that is all they need to know. Nothing about any potential side effects until we are finished with our tests.”
I didn’t much care for their behind-the-scenes politics, so I simply nodded in agreement. Maybe it was all stemming from an insurance company trying to hide its patented formula or procedure, or maybe it was the government hiding a treatment from the general public. Regardless, it meant I would get to work closely with Holly, even if just as her patient, for the foreseeable future. I would agree to anything they wanted if those were the terms and conditions.
“Well that’s good. I’m glad we were able to come to an understanding,” he finished.
He proceeded to insert a needle into one of the ports attached to my arm. I watched as he drew the plunger back and it filled with my own blood. Fascinatingly disgusting. I could never be a doctor.
“Dr. Stone seemed to think you would be out for at least a week. She really wanted to be here when you woke up,” he spoke as he worked.
“She will be really disappointed she missed you, but happy enough with the results.”
“Missed me?” I inquired.
At least she had wanted to be here. It was the thought that counted, and she had been thinking about me.
“Well, I see no reason to keep you here, if these initial tests are indeed accurate,” he stated.
His work was a stark contrast to Holly’s, and even the nurse that had prepped me for the procedure. He was efficient and professional but had nowhere near the fluidity and grace they had exuded.
“So, you guys are just going to let me go?” I asked.
I couldn’t decide if his lack of alarm at my symptoms was more concerning or comforting. The idea that I didn’t need any oversight suggested everything would turn out all right. Maybe the soreness would go away like the cancer. I had gotten quite far in life by simply ignoring things.
“Everything is normal, even better than normal. You of all people would want to spend as little time here as possible, I should think. Didn’t you initially refuse all treatment?”
I just smiled and nodded.
He finished collecting samples in little tubes and moved to leave.
“One of the other nurses will be in shortly to unhook everything.” He gestured at the various tubes and monitoring wires.
“I will call you with the results as soon as I have them, should be no more than three days. Holly will be back next Friday, so you can schedule a follow-up for then.”
He returned my chart to the end of the bed and retrieved all his notes and the samples he had procured. As he reached the door he turned, and his expression was unreadable but the grandfatherly face from before was clearly absent.
“You may notice a few more changes. But don’t worry, this is normal. Most importantly, remember them for your appointment with Holly, but tell no one else,” he said firmly.
I nodded one last time.
With that he swept out of the room and out of my life. I heard his footsteps receding down the hall far longer than I should have through the closed door.
I tried not to worry too much about it and lay back in the bed, letting the firm mattress and uncomfortable pillow envelope me as much as they could. I was cured! The unthinkable had happened. Someone had smashed the hourglass measuring down the few remaining months of my life. I exhaled into the space above me. I could finally breathe. The nightmare of the last few months was over. I no longer had to put on a brave face and pretend like dying was something that made me stronger instead of a crushing weight destroying my spirit.
My first reaction was to tell someone, anyone! But a quick glance at my belongings (much more neatly folded now) on the table across from the bed reminded me that my cell phone was not here. Probably lost behind my bed back home somewhere, uncharged.
But then, what would I say? I had neglected to tell my family about the treatment in the first place. Now I could talk to them about it, but not the side effects. Everyone seemed adamant about that. I knew my parents would have a hundred questions, but I still had no answers. Was I supposed to admit I could have died and gone through with a risky treatment behind their backs? Surely they could overlook that and just be content with the results. Or should I leave out a few key details. What about these side effects? Would they linger or simply go away like my cancer.
I decided I could wait to tell my family about the cure after my appointment with Holly. That would at least allow me to get some more answers for myself. If I had more information about what had happened to me then I would know what to say. Holly could also tell me exactly what I was allowed to reveal. It’s not like I was short on time now.
The idea of putting off this conversation reminded me of the state of my life as I’d left it. I would have to study. Not just study—catch up on half a semester’s worth of material. My stomach turned at the thought. Tearing off the cloak of cancer had left me exposed to the world I had neglected.
Footsteps coming down the hall and a hand on the door handle saved me from drowning in my own thoughts. The same nurse from before entered the room and immediately got to work removing everything. She didn’t say anything to me and barely made eye-contact. I’d just been cured of cancer, not contracted the plague. Jeez.
Afterwards I made my way to the front desk and scheduled a follow-up appointment for the following Friday afternoon with Holly. I would tackle these issues one at a time, starting with school, then the doctors, and finally family. And then I was on my way. Easy as that.
I exited the building I had grown to dread into the bright sunlight of a fall day. I felt like a new man. The autumn air was especially refreshing after my stay in the hospital. It smelled sweet of decaying leaves, the crisp of winter. A light breeze was cool on my face but not uncomfortable.
The feeling of rebirth was short lived. A dizziness came over me, and I stumbled. I was starving. Had I not eaten my entire time in there? Shouldn’t they have fed me before discharging me? Budget cuts. I shook my head, which did little to clear it.
A short ways from the hospital was a coffee shop. I smelled it long before I saw it. An invisible hand guided me by the nose straight to its door. It pulled me in, my stomach growling audibly. It felt like it was turning in on itself.
The coffee shop wasn’t a chain, but it looked far too clean and modern to be a mom-and-pop place. The wooden tables and chairs with slender metal legs along the wall, exposed ductwork in the industrial ceiling, and aesthetically pleasing but undoubtedly uncomfortable couches in the small lounge area all screamed of a newer millennial design. I made my way to the register where a barista was standing idly by the cappuccino machine. She was lounging back, eyes glued to the phone in front of her. Not a care in the world.
I cleared my throat.
She glanced up with an annoyed look on her face. How dare I disturb her social time?
“Can I help you?” she asked slowly.
“I should hope so.” I let the sarcasm drip from my voice. “I would like something to eat.”
I don’t know if it was the tone in my voice or the hunger in my eyes, but something caused her to snap out of her sullen state. I ordered and she got to work. Almost a touch, fearful? That couldn’t be.
I tried take my mind off the thought of food while I waited. A very hard task in my current environment. I focused on different things around the coffee shop, mostly the signs hanging on the walls filled with new-age adages. Plenty of lessons on what it meant to be truly living life, the secrets of happiness at the bottom of wine bottles or coffee mugs, and other four-letter-words of wisdom.
But I was still amazed.
I could see every little detail. All the little flowers and butterflies in the backdrops of most of the quotes. Maybe those were grains of wheat blurred in the background? Why was grass inspiring? I could read every word regardless of the distance. My eyes snapped in and out of focus, almost zooming in. It was disorienting, and again I began to feel dizzy. I blinked and tried to clear my head.
Whispered conversation drifted to my ears. There was only one other group of customers in the place. What looked to be three businessmen out on a coffee break, perhaps? They lounged on the couches around a communal table. Their voices were low but earnest, with posture to match. Though it was hard to tell if that was because of the intensity of the discussion they were having or because the couches they were seated on didn’t look like they offered much in the way of lower back support.
Their voices were a low thrum, just below the hum and hiss of the machines as the barista prepared my food. If I concentrated, I could make out some of what they were saying. As well as the muttered cursing of the barista. What was going on with me?
“Order for Ryan!” the barista called out, refusing to repeat the long list of items I had ordered.
I collected everything, barely balancing it all in both hands, and retreated to a booth. I devoured it all far too quickly and left before I was tempted to order more. I should have gone somewhere cheaper, I reflected. Hopefully being this hungry was just a temporary side effect of whatever the virus had done to me. Though, if it had really cured my cancer, I couldn’t complain too much.
The walk home was a continuous flood of sensations and information. All my senses were on overdrive, but not like any overdrive I was familiar with. Not like last year, when I needed to write a paper and Tom had procured some Ritalin for me.
Then, I had been entirely focused on the subject matter before me. An intense but single-minded drive. This was almost a similar affect, but instead it was everything all at once. It wasn’t just a microscopic inspection of single details around me, but more of a comprehensive overview of everything around me.
I retreated to the townhouse. My head was starting to hurt. Once I was in the safety of my own home the hunger struck back. Not as bad as before—now a dull ache instead of a searing pain, but still there.
I made a sandwich and ate it.
Then another.
Finally feeling somewhat satiated, I collapsed down onto the couch and tried to figure out what was going on.
Friday, before the procedure, I attended class as normal, work was numbingly boring, and I ended the night with one of Tom’s parties. I had awoken feeling a little hungover, but none the worse for wear. More or less normal, save for my overwhelming desire to not die.
The doctor’s office was the last thing I recalled. And up until then, I had been functioning much the same as I always had.
Now? Everything was out of whack. It had to be that virus. But what had it done? The doctor said it killed the cancer, right? I tried to recall.
On demand, as if I were watching a movie of the event, not remembering, there was the scene. The charts, doctor looking surprised but pleased, no abnormal results, more testing to be done. The virus had marked the cancer, and my body had fought it off with some side effects, hence the soreness.
I tried recalling something from before the procedure. Same as always, a vague recollection of things said and odd details, nothing crazy specific. I thought about the coffee-house and recalled it in startlingly perfect detail. Down to the pink hair-tie in the barista’s ponytail. I didn’t even remember noticing it the first time when I was ordering.
What about the forms I’d signed before the procedure? Perhaps some details could be recovered there that would reveal more about my current situation. Nothing. Damn, I really should have read those.
Well, whatever they had done, I wasn’t quite normal anymore.
I sat back and began looking at things around the house, vision zooming in, seeing every detail, just because I could.
Despite the fear that something was wrong with me, it was kind of cool. It was almost like I had a superpower. I was the ultimate pair of reading glasses. With apparently better than average recall. Looks like I could retreat to the back of all my classes now. Though the real superpower would be the ability to concentrate and pay attention to a professor droning on with no worries of being called out for sleeping.
I glanced at the remote across the couch.
Stared hard at it for a few seconds, concentrating.
Damn.
No movement.
Guess I didn’t have any other hidden abilities.
However, there was one other side effect to this new vision. The general disarray of our apartment was more apparent than ever. Tom clearly hadn’t cleaned up from the party on Friday before heading out, and there was dust everywhere. Had we ever dusted? My recall failed to answer that particular question.
I quickly busied myself around the house. I concentrated on the mundane tasks at hand and ignored all the other inputs buzzing around. It helped me lose focus and drown out the residual noise. My head stopped hurting and the chores took my mind off the lingering hunger in my stomach.
Lucky for me, the house was a disaster, so there was plenty to do. Had Tom really left it like this all Saturday? The evidence to answer that particular line of inquiry was all around me. Picking up the solo cups and beer cans led to finding all the sticky spots on the floor, but I couldn’t mop without vacuuming. Which of course meant finding various clothing items behind the couch, under the coffee table, was that someone’s wallet? I ignored my urge to open it and instead tossed it onto the coffee table.
Finally, it was time to tackle the dust. Everything was covered in a layer of it. We didn’t even have a duster. I resorted to spraying everything down with Windex, which was the only cleaner we really had. After taking out the trash, I glanced down the hall at the bathroom but decided that was a project for another day.
I was cleaning the final dishes in the sink when I heard someone walking up the front steps. I placed the last of the silverware into the dishwasher, which we only used as a glorified drying rack and storage, really, since the dishes rarely made their way from the dishwasher into the cupboards before they were used again.
Nope, the sound must have been from the street, because whoever it was still wasn’t here. Ah, now the front steps. How could I hear someone walking on the street outside?
The front door banged open.
Turned out it wasn’t just someone—but a couple of people. Tom walked into the kitchen, followed by two girls. They were laughing at something he said. I wasn’t sure if I knew them from somewhere or if they had been at the last party. They were both blonde and about the same height but had no distinguishing characteristics that would have made me immediately remember them. Luckily for me they ignored me and headed straight for the couch, so I was spared having to pretend to know who they were.
Tom hesitated a moment when he saw me, but the look of concern on his face was so fleeting I barely had time to register it.
“Ryan!” he declared with a smile. “Where you been, man? Haven’t seen you since Friday night!”
Where to start now? I was supposed to keep the side effects to myself, that much had been made very clear. But I was allowed to talk about the treatment with friends and family. At least, I was if I had told them about it beforehand. They really should have given me written instructions on all this if they wanted to make such a big deal about keeping it secret. Then I realized they apparently had in the waivers I’d barely skimmed. Fortunately, Tom interjected again before I could decide what to say.
“Wasn’t sure when you’d be back. Thought I might have the place to myself two nights in a row.” He winked, but I felt like it had been a not so subtle jab at how little I got out.
“Had a thing at the doctors,” I replied tersely.
“Oh yeah?” he asked as he started making drinks for the three of them. “How did it go? Still dying?” he joked.
He was the only one who had stood by me and my decision to refuse treatment, which meant he was the only one allowed to joke about it.
“No, actually, completely cured,” I said.
“Seriously?” He paused from what he was doing and turned to look at me. His gaze wandered up and down, as if he could evaluate my internal cancer from an external examination.
“You do look a little different,” he said after a moment.
“Yeah?” Did I? I held out an arm to examine for myself. I looked the same to me.
“I’m just messing with you!” He burst out laughing, and I awkwardly joined him.
He shook his head and continued making the drinks.
“You want one, boy wonder?” he asked me.
I almost told him no. After all, I had no idea what was happening to me, or how alcohol would affect things. But you only live twice, right? I waved for him to proceed in preparing me one of his concoctions.
“You do realize if you are ever cured, I wouldn’t be serving you this swill, right?” he said as he handed me my drink.
I took a taste and handed it back.
“That all you got?” I barely registered the alcohol.
“R