Memoirs of a Comatose
Brain Surgeon by
Charles Benedict Lewison
We are delighted to welcome physician and novelist Dr. Charles Benedict Lewison to Omnimystery News today.
Charles has recently published a new medical thriller, Memoirs of a Comatose Brain Surgeon (C. B. Lewison; April 2014 trade paperback and ebook formats), and we are pleased to introduce you to it with an excerpt, the prologue.
— ♦ —
July 2013
OVER HERE!" DR. OMAR MAHARZDI shouted loudly, cupping his hands over his mouth while perched atop the outdoor stairs of the Boston convention center. When he finally realized that his hoarsening voice would never be heard above the thunderous din of rapidly approaching hordes of fast -walking, fast -talking neurosurgeons, he vigorously waved his arms desperately attempting to catch Professor Jacob S. Lieberman's attention.
Jake, as the good Professor's friends liked to call him, was mesmerized both by the grandiosity of the imposing convention center façade and by its mediocre architectural redundancy.
"You must be both deaf and blind!" Omar shouted into Jake's ear, catching his breath after running to catch up with him. He wrapped his arms around Jake's slightly stooped shoulders shaking him out of his reverie and then turned him around so that he could take a good look at him.
"Look at you old man," Omar said with his ever so slight British accent, "you're really starting to look like an old man. Whatever hair you've got left is turning white".
Jake reluctantly flew in to town to receive a lifelong achievement award from the American Association of Neurological Surgeons (AANS) for his contributions to Functional Neurosurgery in general, and to the rapidly evolving field of clinically applied brain -computer interface (BCI) technology, in particular. One of his most notable and cited breakthroughs was the creation of an enhanced artificial intelligence prostheses capable of integrating wireless computerized algorithmic neuroelectrical stimulation with stem cell nanotechnology.
He hated these big conventions along with their accompanying uncomfortable social scenes. He never got over his basic childhood shyness. His wife Gayle and his children nudged him to go. They all thought he should finally get the recognition he deserved. They wanted to sit in the front row and cheer him on when he was awarded his plaque.
"Who am I to deprive you?" he answered them as he capitulated to their pleading and overtly biased loving requests.
"After all these years and everything we've been through," Omar gushed, "I can't wait to introduce you to the audience and present you with the most prestigious award the AANS grants once every decade".
Omar and Jake went way back. They had gone through internship and neurosurgical residency training together, and remained tight ever since. Back then being on call meant working straight for two or three days and nights at a time, and occasionally up to five days and nights. There was no wussy eight or twelve hour limit. They were trained and whipped into real politically incorrect manly neurosurgeons developing the necessary stamina which they needed to maintain during very long operations throughout their entire careers. They learned experientially not through text books or computer simulations but quite literally by the sweat of their brows, and for better or worse, with very little supervision.
"Today's residents," Omar pontificated, "simply don't understand Nietzsche's premise that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
"Well my friend, I'm not too sure I dig the whole Nietzsche thing, but I'll have to agree that these residents now a days have it a lot easier, and are into having a lifestyle. It's a brave new world out there. Who knows maybe they know something we didn't and still don't".
Omar was exactly Jake's age. He was a little shorter, stockier, more muscular, and had a full head of black hair making him look twenty years younger than his fifty seven years.
"I hate to say this, but you really deserve this award," Omar said shaking his head to and fro as they jostled and elbowed their way, side by side, to the major conference room with a seating capacity of over four thousand.
"I can't even get my mind around all the contributions you've made to neurological restoration, combining stem cell transplantation and bioelectrical augmentation allowing paralyzed stroke victims to partially regain the use of their arms and legs, giving them their lives back. Who could have dreamt of this just ten years ago? Me, I just stick to the spine, and fuse whatever walks. I just can't get over it. I'm genuinely proud of you".
Jake waved his hand and shook his head.
"I can't take all the credit. I was only the technician. Without my son Mark, the MIT computer and artificial intelligence engineer that he is, I couldn't come up with any of this stuff. The guy's always been a freakin' computer prodigy whiz kid. For God's sake his five year old son, my beautiful grandchild is already doing calculus. He can run mathematical rings around me already. Dave gets that from his dad. I was exceptionally fortunate to have such a great collaborator.
Mark helped me write all the NIH and DARPA grants, the business plans, and the patents. He attracted the venture capitalists, started all the companies. I just did the surgeries which any monkey could do. One day I said to him ‘wouldn't it be nice to have a real computer synthetic brain interface to help all these paralyzed people', and the next think I know he sits at his computer for a few days and comes up with a theoretical prototype. He consults with his MIT pals and develops a working prototype. Before you know it we're doing Stage II clinical trials. My son's the real brains behind this, and I will certainly acknowledge him tonight in my big thank you speech. He's the one who should be getting this award".
"From what I hear Mark is a superstar on his own right and is on a tenure track at MIT and being chased down by dozens more venture capitalists who want a piece of him. I think he's getting the recognition he deserves too."
"He'll never get enough recognition. Anyhow, Omar it means a lot to me that you're the presenter. That makes it really special. You've been my closest friend for all these years. I suspect the real reason Gayle wanted me to accept this award is because today also coincides with our thirty fifth wedding anniversary. She's going to be in the front row, with our kids Mark, Jared and Suzy and our four grandchildren".
"I'm so fortunate," Jake confided to Omar.
"I have such a great life, a great marriage, and wonderful kids and grandkids. I love my work, I made a tiny dent in the world; left footprints so to speak. I could have never done any of this without my family".
"Yes. There are advantages to being old farts like us. I'm also fortunate with Leyla and our kids too. I seem to get blessed with another grandchild every two years".
After the equivalent of a three city block walk they finally entered the conference room.
It was packed like sardines with standing room only. There was a cacophony of infinite simultaneous conversations. Large TV screens and microphones surrounded the podium and were interspersed throughout the gargantuan room. Computer technicians and engineers were all fine tuning the audio and visual connections. Security guards were bringing in extra fold- out chairs so that fewer people needed to remain standing.
As Jake and Omar approached the podium, a very young, blond, wavy haired gentleman dressed in a navy pinstriped suit approached them carrying an expensive brown leather executive attaché case. His pale long and lean face, pock-marked with recently resolved acne was serious and erudite, and his gait was suave and confident.
"Professor Lieberman, wait up, remember me?"
Jake turned his head looking quizzically at him as one hand grasped the rail of the steps leading up to the podium. He usually had a good knack for facial recognition, but was horrible at remembering names.
"You do look a little familiar," Jake replied as he now stepped down backwards from the stairs and fully turned around. "I'm embarrassed to say I can't precisely recall".
"Please sir," Omar interrupted, "we have to be on the podium. We are about to begin the presentation in five minutes. Today is a very special day for Professor Lieberman".
"Oh I know, I know. Just give me one second".
Omar exhaled. "Yes ,yes, one second, but then I'm whisking him away".
"Do you remember Molly Kelly?"
"Molly Kelly …" Jake stroked his chin and meditated momentarily.
"Oh yes, she was a Parkinson's patient. I remember we tried desperately to help her tremors. We implanted a subthalamic deep brain stimulator. If I recall she had an unfortunate intracranial hemorrhage as a result of the placement of the electrode. She was supposed to be off the blood thinner Coumadin for her atrial fibrillation, but she became confused and never stopped. Her coagulation profile was deceptively only mildly elevated. Poor thing she died. I felt so terrible about that whole event."
Jake paused and looked at the young gentleman and surmised "I don't think I will ever forget that. It was about ten years ago wasn't it?"
"That's right Dr. Lieberman, exactly right. That was my mother. I was eleven years old at the time. After she died my father died in a car accident two years later, and I was left an orphan. My life was destroyed. I dropped out of school, did drugs , tried killing myself a few times but I wasn't even good at that. My life unfolded like an old Blue's song that my dad used to listen to all the time. You know the lyrics; if I didn't have bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."
"That is so tragic, son. I feel for you, for your mom, may she rest in peace. I wish there was something I could have done to make it better".
"There is Dr. Lieberman," the young Mr. Murphy said smirking confidently and looking Jake straight in the eyes.
Without warning while still gripping his attaché case, he whipped a revolver out of his three-piece jacket pocket like a B movie cowboy in a bad spaghetti western, and aimed it straight at Jake's head.
"You killed my mother you son of a bitch," he snarled, "and now you're going to die and burn in hell".
Omar , standing only inches away, reflexively reached for Murphy's hand trying to extricate the gun, but before he could do so, the man pulled the trigger shooting Jake three times in his neck. The scent of burning gunpowder and seared human flesh assaulted Omar's nostrils.
Jake instantaneously lost consciousness and collapsed. His body came crashing down hitting the concrete floor with a loud thud. Bright red blood came spurting out of three separate bullet wounds in his neck like fountains from a sieve. Omar valiantly struggled with the crazed gun man wrestling mightily to restrain his shooting arm and trying to extricate the gun from his hands while the shooter continued to randomly fire into the air, until finally five brave security guards wrestled him to the ground and pried his fingers off the weapon, snapping one or two of them in the process.
"Goddammit you broke my fingers you pigs, you're gonna pay!!
They rolled him around on the ground, handcuffed him, and then dragged him kicking and screaming to the police car which just arrived with sirens blazing.
"The cops can read him his goddam Miranda rights … the bastard," the heaving heavy set mustached sweating security guard spat in disgust.
The over packed audience broke out into sheer pandemonium. Every one ran chaotically in every which direction, creating a human stampede. Omar miraculously was unharmed and unfazed, and with stress induced adrenaline coursing through his veins, together with a few other neurosurgeons manically performed CPR on Jake, and applied pressure to his wounds, preventing even more massive blood loss until ambulance medics arrived within five minutes who then immediately intubated him and started an IV. Jake was placed on a gurney and rushed by ambulance to Boston General Hospital.
When Jake's wife, Gayle, who had been sitting in the front row the whole time, first caught a glimpse of her husband laying limp on a gurney like a rag doll dripping blood, and oozing saliva, and saw his tightly shut eyes, and observed his uneven heaving chest, she suddenly realized that the commotion was over her husband being shot. She trembled and shrieked in disbelief. Hot tears streamed down her face rolling down like an open faucet. She could barely catch her breath. Her eyes began to flutter and she was about to faint, but her eldest son Mark caught her just in time before she hit the floor.
Mark Leiberman hollered to Suzy and Jared, his younger siblings, to take all the children home so that they wouldn't have to be exposed to this spectacle, and reassured them that he would accompany mom to the hospital and update them with dad's condition.
Gayle gathered her strength and began to compose herself. She watched Omar wiping his sweaty and bloodied face with a handkerchief while catching his breath, and rushed over to him.
"How is he?" she frantically asked, clutching both his arms, and shaking him as though the harder she shook him the more likely he would tell her news she wanted to hear.
Omar grabbed her quivering arms and attempted to calm her down. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed directly into her watery blue eyes. He had known Gayle for a long time. He couldn't lie to her, and even if he did, she would know it.
"He was shot in the neck, he lost a lot of blood, it doesn't look good, but by golly I know how strong he is. We can't make any assumptions until we talk to the surgeons at the hospital. I'm sure they're going to stabilize him there, do imaging studies and undoubtedly operate on him".
"He's going to die, isn't he?" Gayle shouted and cried simultaneously clasping her tear soaked face with her sweaty hands. "Oh, my God, Oh my God", she mumbled quietly to herself in a repetitive nervous mantra.
"Gayle, I honestly don't know, let's be optimistic," he pleaded, stroking her arms paternally.
"Dr. Maharzdi thanks for trying to save my dad's life," Mark said extending his hand, and clasping Omar's shoulder.
"Mom let's go to the hospital," he said turning his head to his mother with a commanding voice that sounded almost identical to his father's.
"We can't help dad by crying. At the hospital they're going to have to get consent for all the stuff they're going to have to do. We don't want any delays. I know in my gut Dad's going to be OK. Come on let's go now".
Omar nodded his head in agreement as Mark held his mother's hand and escorted her to his car.
Mark remembered accompanying his dad on his hospital rounds when he was a youngster. He never caught the medical bug despite his dad constantly imploring him to go into Neurosurgery. It never intellectually excited him like it did his dad. But he did manage to pick up a lot about people skills from always rounding with him. He learned how to comfort people in times of duress, in other words, he became adept at charismatically lying to people without anyone suspecting he was lying, and in the process making them feel a lot better. He watched his dad proclaim hope to many hopeless patients, when he himself may not have believed it. Likewise, he hoped his dad would survive, but was himself uncertain that he would. What was important now, more than the truth, was to give his mom a lot of hope, otherwise she would never make it through this ordeal.
In the bumpy and loud, siren screeching, ambulance ride, Jake lay motionless in an expansive sea of darkness, encased in a thick mystifying cloud of silence, penetrated only by the sounds of the weak rhythmic pulsations of his heart. He felt like he was in a huge echo chamber, and that he was listening to the tide of an ocean rushing in and out on a cool summer's night.
"Where is everybody?" he ruminated.
"Where am I?"
"Am I bathing in my mother's womb?"
An overwhelming sense of serenity permeated his entire being. He began dreaming a familiar dream … one that had recurred repeatedly for many years when he was young … so very, very long ago …
— ♦ —
Memoirs of a Comatose Brain Surgeon
Dr. Charles Benedict Lewison
A Medical Thriller
Professor Jacob Lieberman, a brilliant pioneering brain surgeon at the pinnacle of his career is about to be honored at the Boston Convention Center by the American Association of Neurological Surgeons for his lifelong achievement and contributions to the rapidly evolving field of clinically applied brain-computer interface (BCI) technology. Within the blink of an eye he is brutally gunned down in front of his family and colleagues by the deranged son of a long deceased patient who seeks to avenge the death of his mother.
Jacob escapes death, but barely survives in a comatose state during which he recalls with painful precision his neurosurgical boot camp training and all the tangled and complex relationships he experienced throughout his life. It is within the vast oceanic expanse of his subconscious mind that he unravels the true meaning of love and desire, of hope and longing, and of life and death.
These answers which eluded him during his turbulent conscious existence, and throughout his lifelong scientific exploration of the human brain, ultimately lead to the liberation of his body and to the reawakening of his soul.
