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Ethan Maynard regained consciousness slowly, painfully aware that someone was putting staples into his scalp but unable to complain about it. Gradually he understood that he was in the hospital and why.
It all goes back to his early childhood, he thought. He was born slow. Not unintelligent, but slow moving. What a disadvantage in a world based on speed, a world of timed tests and sports. He had a strong, biology-based conviction that in any endeavor, it was far better to move slowly and carefully, to think first and be ready to reassess any action.
Certainly there was plenty of time for that kind of reflection in the recovery room. The nurses, attractive and pleasant in their forties and fifties, made light conversation that wasn't too demanding. "I've always been slow," he told them. But they knew that because of his operation.
In school he'd spent his evenings and weekends on homework. He had to. Otherwise he couldn't have finished it. If you'd asked Ethan then why he was so slow, he wouldn't have been able to tell you, but in time he realized that in fact his mind was very busy, occupied with questions of why and what if. He did well on term papers and take-home tests, but very badly on timed tests. And on assignments that required drawing, right up his alley, he always got high grades. That's what persuaded him to major in architecture at Ohio State University. He thought that in architecture, quality would matter more than quantity.
One result of this slowness was that he seldom had friends. For one thing, they wouldn't have shared his interest in why and what if, and for another, he had to spend all his time on homework. The taunt "slow poke" rang in his ears, and he knew that people thought it far more than they said it out loud.
In his junior and senior year of college, he felt very lucky to have a girlfriend, a normal-speed woman named Audrey, who said she loved him but admitted near the end that Ethan was "just too annoying to be around" because of his slowness. She'd encouraged Ethan to have a vasectomy, since "you don't want to bring a slow child into a fast world." But before he was completely recovered from that, Audrey moved out of state. They were still on good terms through short but carefully written emails. One of Audrey's emails had contained a perceptive warning, which Ethan read many times: "Unless you deal with your slowness, I don't see how you're going to hold a job. Businesses need efficient workers." But he didn't see any way to change. He'd been to the school psychologist in high school about his issues, and the only conclusion was that he should be more time-conscious, wearing a watch and referring to it frequently. He did that, and he drank coffee, but nothing seemed to help.
By the time he graduated from college and began looking for a job, he had an impressive portfolio. That's probably how he got his first job. But he struggled to meet deadlines, even though he usually worked evenings and weekends, and one day after six months on the job, he was called into his boss's office, where he found his manager as well as the director of HR, and when that meeting was over, he was unemployed.
He went home, disheartened, but he realized that he'd finally be able to catch up on the things he'd been putting off, like deep-cleaning his apartment, which was already clean and well-organized, and reading back issues of
Architectural Digest
and other professional magazines.
Two months later, again on the strength of his portfolio, he was hired by another architectural firm, Meredith, Inc, again as junior architect. His first project was a review of a new design before it was presented to the client. He read the specifications from the client and all the relevant standards he could find, and after two weeks had uncovered two major discrepancies (which could have cost the firm a lot of money) and several smaller ones. He was praised by his manager, who was of course unaware of the amount of time Ethan had put into the project.
The second project required him to work with Milt, a senior architect, on a design. Milt would soon discover how slow he was, Ethan feared, and he'd be fired again. But Milt had two other projects and left the design mainly up to Ethan, with some helpful instructions. Ethan worked very hard, of course, reading everything multiple times and producing several drafts. When he finally showed Milt his favorite draft, Milt immediately took it to Graham, the manager, who was very impressed with it. Fortunately Milt was willing to give Ethan all the credit, and Graham told Ethan that he had a future with Meredith, Inc, if he could continue producing such solid, original work. Graham invited him to play golf with him on Saturday. Ethan, who played, was glad to accept. He had three cups of coffee beforehand and made a point of rushing (by his standards) from green to green.
But the next three projects came in late, and it was apparent that Ethan struggled to meet deadlines. On his one-year anniversary, he was summoned to Graham's office, where he also saw the director of HR. He'd seen this situation before, and he thought he knew what was going to be said.
"Meredith, Inc can't stay in business if we miss deadlines," Graham said. "We need not just amazing employees, but amazing employees who get their work done in a timely, efficient way." And to Ethan's great surprise: "But, Ethan, we don't want to lose such a promising employee."
The director of HR spoke up. "Ethan, you may have heard about brain surgery for the slowness problem. It consists basically of a couple of leads implanted in the brain, and a sort of pacemaker implanted in the chest. It's not commonly used, but it's no longer an experimental procedure. If you're willing to accept this, Meredith, Inc will reimburse your copay and give you a week or two of personal time to recover. No need to respond right away. Just let us know your decision by end of day Friday. I'll send you an email with the details."
"I hope you appreciate what this means, Ethan," Graham said after the director of HR left. "This is the first time Meredith, Inc has made such a significant offer of accommodation to an employee. It shows what we think of your future here."
"I really appreciate it," Ethan said. "I'll look at the email this evening and let you know by Friday."
Back in his cubicle, Ethan received his email and thanked Graham and the director of HR. That evening, instead of staying at his desk as usual, he went home and read about the procedure.
He studied the diagrams of the two leads inserted into the brain of the patient and connected to the implantable pulse generator (IPG) in the chest. He thought it seemed risky and invasive, a radical solution. If he didn't have to earn a living, he thought, he wouldn't give it a second thought. But he did, and he realized that his current job, and probably any future jobs, would depend on his acceptance.
That evening Ethan read all the information he could find on the web about the procedure. He learned mostly about the benefits for slow-moving people, but also about the risks, which included brain hemorrhage and death. But he reasoned that if those risks were frequent, they wouldn't do the surgery. He wrote to Audrey, who, surprisingly, called him back.
"Ethan, I read the articles you sent, and I think you're the perfect candidate for this surgery. I mean, this could really turn things around for you. You're lucky that Meredith is encouraging you to do it." The why and what-if questions haunted Ethan's mind until - and after - he went into Graham's office late Friday afternoon to announce that he was grateful for Meredith's offer and would accept it.
HR had already made an appointment with the surgeon for Tuesday, and Ethan took an hour off work to talk to him that day and plan for the surgery. "The success rate for the procedure is over 90%," the surgeon told him. We just need to get some medical, cognitive, and psychological testing done first."
They drew blood and made an appointment with a psychologist for the other tests. Ethan had to play their memory games ("how many of the words in the first list I read to you are names of animals") and answered some personal questions ("today I feel better/worse than I usually do"). She also gave him a small device to click as she counted and looked at a stopwatch. Then they had him talk to a geneticist about his parents and grandparents, since people with certain genetic problems are more likely to experience cognitive decline after the surgery.
On the morning of the surgery, Ethan took a taxi to the hospital and checked in. Seven people came into his prep room beforehand to introduce themselves before surgery, and he interrupted his train of what-ifs to greet them. "All this human effort," he later wrote to Audrey, "just to speed me up."
The transportation people transferred him to a cart and quickly took him to the operating room, where, until he was injected with the anesthesia, he made an effort to chat with the people who'd introduced themselves.
When Ethan woke up, as I mentioned, he noticed the attractive recovery-room nurses. He hadn't had any contact with women in over a year, and those nurses seemed like angels. He wondered for a moment whether he'd died and gone to heaven, or at least to some alternative reality. But he was brought back to earth by the pain in his scalp, his neck, and his chest. He wanted to explore the staples in his scalp but realized that his IVs, as well as the bandage on his head, would prevent that. And of course, he didn't feel any different, since the IPG (implanted pulse generator) hadn't yet been activated.
He followed the directions of the nurses and other staff and was discharged the next day with instructions not to bend down, turn to the side, or carry anything heavier than five pounds. These instructions weren't a surprise; he'd been told about them beforehand and had bought canned food in preparation. The problem was that when he dropped something on the floor, he couldn't pick it up.
At work a few days later, he was even slower than usual, being distracted by his physical discomfort. He took the big bandage off of his head to avoid stares and questions at work. (His colleagues just knew that he'd had surgery.) And his IV sites were recovering.
Wednesday of the next week was his appointment to have the IPG activated, and he was worried whether a speeded-up version of himself would still be the same person. How would he manage as a normal-speed person? At the appointment, the nurse practitioner taught him to use the remote control to manage the speed increases. When she changed the speed from 0% to 10%, Ethan immediately felt a tingling sensation, but he performed much better than before on the clicking test. He felt the tingling when she turned it to 20%, and the effect was similar to what he might have felt with a couple of cups of coffee, without the stomach ache and shakiness. She advised him to try moving it up to 30% in a few days to see if he could tolerate such a large increase. "At about 40%, you should be at a level comparable to the average person," she told him. "That should probably be your goal. For now, let's try 20%."
As Ethan drove back to work, he sometimes felt a little impatient with slow traffic and realized he'd never felt that way before. Until then, his goal had been to keep up with traffic so as not to trigger the anger of the speedy people.
At work, he felt encouraged with his new, more efficient pace. Graham asked him to stop by, and when he asked Ethan how he felt, he said, "Better, more driven than before." And he realized that "driven" was the right word; he felt an inner push to constantly do everything at a breakneck speed. When he got back home and prepared some canned food, he turned his remote back to 0% to take it easy and be his normal self. As soon as he turned it down, he breathed a sigh of relief and sat down.
For the next week he kept it at 20% for work and 0% for his free time. He knew that his productivity was being watched carefully, and he felt that at 20%, with a few hours of overtime, he could keep up.
When he returned to the nurse practitioner, she pushed him to 30% and then to 40%, giving him the unpleasant tingling feeling all the down to his feet. "Why don't you try leaving it at 30% this week and 40% the week after?" she suggested.
"Just for work, right?" Ethan asked. "I like to keep it at zero for my own time."
