CONDITION – Book One: A Medical Miracle

by Alec Birri

  He wasn’t Dan Stewart and he certainly wasn’t a squadron leader in the Royal Air Force. He was a plain mister. Mr Brian Passen – retired factory worker.

  The session was ended as usual by Adams asking his patient if he had any questions of his own. Brian most certainly did. He went to raise his head to ask them, but the coronary wouldn’t let him. Lucy was right as always. He was still very weak; he wondered just how much. Brian asked the first question while still flat on his back.

  ‘Who is Dan Stewart and why did I think I was him?’ He didn’t give the doctor a chance to answer as he turned to his daughter. ‘I suppose you knew who I was all along?’

  Lucy gave her father a hug. ‘Only for the last sixty-six years.’

  Tracy and Tony entered. They smiled at Brian and he groaned.

  ‘I’m fed up with being the last person to know what’s going on around here.’ He squinted at Adams. ‘Anything else you’re hiding from me?’

  The doctor smiled too and, for a moment, Brian wondered if he was about to have a second cardiac arrest.

  ‘Squadron Leader Daniel Stewart was killed six months ago when the aircraft he was piloting crashed. That’s all we know.’

  Brian relaxed with satisfaction. ‘So, I was right. There was an aircraft accident.’ He tried lifting his head again, but a tremendous weight seemed to be holding it down. ‘Six months ago? Not in 1966?’ Everyone in the room nodded. ‘Then I must have read it in a paper or seen it on the news when I first arrived, and he stuck in my head for some reason.’

  ‘You couldn’t even recognise a newspaper then, Brian, let alone read one – Alzheimer’s had seen to that – and, in any case, your daughter and her husband have been trying to find out who he was ever since you first used his name.’

  Both Lucy and Tony indicated the fruitlessness of their search.

  ‘So, how did he get into my head?’

  The doctor seemed to steel himself for some reason.

  ‘The only reason we know a Daniel Stewart once existed is because he told us.’ Adams then appeared to hesitate before adding: ‘Through you.’

  Brian sneered at this latest attempt to pull the wool over his eyes. ‘Come on, Doc, you’re the last person I’d expect to believe in ghosts. I’m a retired factory worker, apparently, not a medium!’ He appealed to the others for support. They didn’t give it.

  Adams leaned towards him. ‘Professor Savage’s procedure involves transplanting more than just new brain cells.’

  The rate of beeping from the heart monitor increased.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Good afternoon, Father. And how may I be of service to you?’

  The Reverend Francis McGee opened his mouth to state the purpose of his visit, but something else came out when he saw what the professor was doing. ‘I didn’t know you had an interest in tropical fish?’

  Savage withdrew a net from the tank and they both looked into it. The hospital’s chaplain shook his head at the small, motionless, but colourful body lying within.

  ‘Liopropoma carmabi – a Candy Basslet. I’m afraid God takes back even his most beautiful creatures eventually.’ He regarded the modest tank and the exotic creatures within it. ‘Not to mention the most expensive. You’ve a small fortune in there – good gracious, the angelfish alone must have cost twenty thousand.’ The reverend’s expertise appeared to extend to their habitat and he voiced concerns about it. ‘I’m sorry, Sir John, but they need a much bigger tank and have to be separated as soon as possible – it’s only a matter of time before that parrotfish makes a meal out of them all.’

  The professor retrieved the dead fish from the net, picked it up by the tail, and dangled it in front of the carnivore. A creature originally purchased for one thousand pounds sterling was devoured in a single bite.

  Father Francis was offered a drink and a seat. He shook his head to the whisky but inched back into the chair, unable to take his eyes off the aquarium. Savage was pleased to see they shared more than just a theological interest. A small Australian flathead swam into the path of the parrotfish while the professor explained his hobby.

  ‘I find tropical fish to be so inspiring. Whenever the inevitable human cost of what I do threatens to question the purpose of my work, I only have to look into that tank at God’s own sacrifices and my spirits lift immediately.’

  It took the parrotfish two bites this time, but then the flathead had cost two thousand pounds. The reverend raised a finger in the direction of the marine murderer as it appeared to head off in search of more money to eat. The professor got out of his chair and stood between the two of them.

  ‘I know what’s worrying you, Father. You’re concerned about the patients here.’

  The reverend composed himself.

  ‘Ahem. Well, as you know, Sir John, I’ve been the head chaplain for three years now and like to think my team and I have come to know the spiritual needs of the hospital well. But recently…’

  The parrotfish had caught up with the angelfish and snapped onto its tail. Unlike the previous victims, they were of equal size and both men turned to watch the battle that ensued. The chaplain’s look of horror reflecting back in the glass just increased Savage’s enjoyment of it. The twenty thousand pound challenger soon succumbed and the victor settled down to the bottom of the tank to enjoy a more leisurely meal.

  The chaplain appeared shocked, but continued. ‘The thing is, I expect to have to deal with difficult sins like suicidal thoughts, but, just recently, there’s been a noticeable increase of it in the geriatric ward.’ He raised his main concern. ‘Some of the patients are even seeking absolution from God, while they make approaches to organisations like Dignitas.’ The reverend’s next statement seemed to cause him some embarrassment. ‘The miracle of the dementia treatment appears to be actually causing it.’

  ‘Maybe God thinks it’s time to take those beautiful creatures back too?’

  The reverend became angry and stood up. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate the difficult position this puts the Church in, Sir John, not to mention the concerns society will raise once the details are made public.’

  The professor dismissed the veiled threat and attempted to put the padre’s mind at rest. ‘Father, please be assured that what you’ve witnessed is a difficult but thankfully short-term side-effect of the treatment, and nothing permanent. Once the brain cells I’ve introduced have fully integrated with the recipient’s existing central nervous system, peace and harmony will ensue and everyone’s concerns will be allayed.’

  The reverend managed a thin smile before being drawn to the sight of the parrotfish, still enjoying its meal. He shuddered. Savage put out a hand.

  ‘Anything else I can do to put your mind at rest, Father?’

  He looked at his visitor’s forehead, rather than in the eye.

  ‘No, I er, don’t think so. Thank you very much for your time.’

  He shook the professor’s hand and turned to leave. Savage went back to tending his fish.

  ‘Of course, the treatment does raise other, perhaps more interesting, theological questions.’

  Father Francis made an about turn. ‘Such as?’

  The professor picked up the net, dipped it into the water and began searching for something at the bottom of the aquarium. ‘Dualism.’

  The reverend narrowed his eyes. ‘Are we talking about good and evil, heaven and earth, or mind and matter?’

  The professor thought for a moment. ‘All that and more, I suppose. If I were to transplant a kidney from one patient to another, what would you say that was, from a dualistic point of view?’

  A heavy sigh told Savage his visitor was hoping to philosophise on something a bit more thought-provoking. ‘I think even non-believers would call that a transfer of matter to matter.’

  The professor acknowledged the opinio
n while continuing his underwater investigations. ‘So presumably you view the transplanting of physical brain cells from one man into another in exactly the same way?’ The reverend nodded. Savage broadened the concept. ‘What if I were to tell you that that process also transplants the donor’s conscious mind?’

  Father Francis walked over. ‘Then I would say that was still matter to matter, as the mind still exists in the physical cells of the donor.’

  The professor was trying to coax his largest fish out of the crevice it was hiding in. ‘So, would proof of a person’s consciousness existing completely outside a physical brain be confirmation of a spirit? A soul perhaps?’

  A sympathetic hand was placed on the professor’s shoulder.

  ‘John. The only spirit you and I should concern ourselves with, is the holy one. God. The supreme being to whom we must all confess our sins.’

  The piranha slipped its moorings and headed out into the tank. Father Francis’s eyes widened in horror as it spotted the parrotfish, pounced and tore it to pieces.

  ‘There’s always a bigger fish, Father.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The rate of beeping settled at the higher level.

  Brian tilted his eyes up. ‘So, let me get this right. There’s not only me in here, but somebody else, too?’

  Everyone nodded while looking at the heart monitor. A collective sigh of relief resounded as the number of beats per minute reduced again.

  Adams continued to explain Brian’s treatment. ‘It’s difficult for neural stem cells alone to repair the damage caused by Alzheimer’s disease. Mature, preformed neurons and synapses are also required if the brain is to regain full control of not just basic bodily functions, but higher cerebral activities like reasoning, judgement, and concentration. The problem is, that’s all finely associated with consciousness, which inevitably means the donor’s actual thoughts passing into the recipient’s brain too – they’re impossible to separate out.’

  Brian stared into space. ‘Including memories, I suppose.’ A light seemed to go on in his head. ‘But Dan’s been alive for most of the last four decades, so why can’t I recall any of it? Alzheimer’s may have robbed my brain of those times, but as a young man, he would have had no problem remembering at least the last thirty.’

  The doctor put his notepad and pen away. ‘Only a relatively small and select number of his cells were transplanted into you – not his entire brain – and the red pill deals with the psychosis those few memories cause by synchronising them with your existing consciousness. Brian Passen, the retired factory worker, can’t remember the last sixty years, not just because of Alzheimer’s, but because the medication ensured Dan’s memories merged with yours. Even now you’re convinced you crashed your aircraft back in 1966.’

  Brian grimaced. ‘That’s the biggest shock. Finding out I’m not a retired fighter pilot after all – just a boring factory worker.’

  Lucy squeezed his arthritic hand. ‘You’ll always be my hero, Dad.’

  Brian didn’t know if the tear that formed in his eye came from pain or something more meaningful. The look of love for his daughter turned to puzzlement.

  ‘Dan mistook you for his wife and then his daughter. Did he have any children of his own? Does his widow know what’s happened to him?’

  The doctor’s delay in answering made Brian suspicious again. He went to snap at Adams, but weakness ensured he stayed glued to the bed.

  Brian croaked: ‘Just tell me the truth, Doctor.’

  ‘We honestly don’t know. Next of kin details aren’t known when a kidney is transplanted, and brain cells are treated just as anonymously. We only know as much as we do because the squadron leader himself told us. Even if he did have a family, it’s clear the treatment made sure it was Claire and Lucy.’ The physician became philosophical. ‘Assuming, of course, we’re still talking about Dan and Brian as two separate people. Only one person can answer that.’ He took out his notepad and pen again. ‘Are they? What can you remember now?’

  The patient pondered it carefully. ‘I… can… remember…’ he said, before lifting his right arm. ‘Incredible pain.’ He winced at Dan’s recollection of flesh being peeled away layer by layer. Brian turned to the room’s window, where the sun could be made out through some clouds. ‘Trees… grass… flowers.’ He looked back towards them all. ‘And a bumble bee.’

  He smiled. ‘I think I was once a squadron leader in the Royal Air Force named Dan Stewart, who became a retired factory worker named Brian Passen.’ He glanced at the iPad and then at Lucy again. ‘And along the way I married a wonderful woman and had an equally wonderful daughter.’

  Brian let the last vestiges of his conspiracy theories slip away and accepted the chimera he’d become.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lucy was still upset when they got back to the car. Tony hugged and kissed her. He didn’t know what to say. What can be said when your wife’s just been told a terminal heart condition means that her father’s unlikely to survive the week? Doctor Adams’ prognosis couldn’t be clearer, but Tony still thought blind optimism was best.

  ‘Your dad’s always been one hell of a fighter, Lucy. If anyone can get through this, Brian can.’

  He kissed her again and they got into the Ford. She pulled down the sun visor and dabbed her running mascara with a tissue.

  ‘I’ve got to keep reminding myself it’s a miracle he can even recognise me, but it seems so cruel to get my dad back just for something else to take him away again.’ She stared ahead. ‘It’ll be like he’ll have died twice.’

  Tony started the engine and began the drive home. They passed a tractor on the way and he shuddered before switching the Focus into self-driving mode.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll ever look at farm machinery in the same way again.’

  Lucy put a hand over her heart and had another go at him. ‘I can’t even bear to think about it – stupid thing to do! I could have lost you both.’ She’d admonished him enough over the last few days, and seemed content to let it rest there. She pulled down her sun visor again. ‘Can we stop somewhere? I need to do my make-up.’

  Tony entered the location of a roadside café into the satnav and a short while later, the car had parked itself near the entrance. He chose the same table as before and watched the tractor trundle by while Lucy was in the restroom. He thought more about the incident, and felt guilty at just how close to death Brian and he had actually come. He was looking across the table at where his father-in-law had been sitting during their recovery from the shock when Lucy planted herself there.

  ‘Phew! That’s better. I can’t think straight without my face on.’

  Tony smiled. He reached out to take her hand and the tea they’d ordered arrived. Lucy played mum and started pouring, while Tony thought about the last time he’d drank tea in the café.

  Yet here I am, in the middle of a real government cover-up.

  ‘Lucy? How do you feel about your father not being exactly who he was?’

  She was concentrating on not spilling the contents of the teapot, so the question had to be repeated.

  ‘What do you think of your dad being a mixture of two people now?’

  Lucy put down the pot and reached for the sugar. ‘I know it sounds weird, but it hasn’t bothered me, to be honest. Up until today, I’ve just been so happy for him to be able to recognise me again. I know Doctor Adams always warned he would be different, but to be honest, Dad could call himself Joe Bloggs for all I care. Watching his face light up every time I walk into the room after years of having him look straight through me is amazing. Don’t you think?’

  Tony did, but he was still troubled. He didn’t want to add to his wife’s upset, so chose his words carefully.

  ‘But he’s so different now. And what he’s remembered compared to what he’s forgotten seems strange. I�
��ve nothing against this Dan Stewart, but considering how little of his brain was put into your father, it’s striking how much like Dan he’s become – always assuming that’s how Dan was, of course.’

  Lucy thought about the changes in her father. It was true that he was different now, but after years of watching Alzheimer’s cruelly twist the man’s gentleness into a personality of fear and violence, before wrenching it away completely, any decent character would do. Even the awkwardness of having to pretend to be her mother or her six-year-old self again had been worth the stress. She knew what her husband meant, though.

  ‘I must admit I could do without the accent.’

  ‘Accent? That’s putting it mildly – he’s completely posh now! We may not know who Squadron Leader Stewart actually was, but I bet he voted Tory. The union would be up in arms if they could hear Brian talk today.’

  Lucy snapped at him. ‘Do you really think I care what a bunch of bitter and twisted old communists from the seventies thinks? We were a very happy family until Dad got involved with them – totally brainwashed him.’

  Tony defended the movement and Brian’s involvement with it. ‘Your father was a hero to the workers back then, and you should be proud of what he and the rest of the shop stewards fought for.’ He tapped the table with a forefinger. ‘Basic workers’ rights.’

  ‘What? You mean the basic right to go on strike because the recession meant some workers had to be laid off? The same right to strike that forced all the workers to then lose their jobs when the factory had to close down? The same right to strike that saw us queuing for food parcels while the union celebrated bringing down posh people who simply reopened the factory somewhere else? Dad was unemployed for years thanks to those bigots and yet he still paid his membership subs.’