Resurrection 14

Author's note:

There's almost no sex in this story and the little there is only happens at the end.

There is cheating but that is not what the predominant story ark is about.

This is NOT a BTB story either.

This is predominantly a medical drama and there is hard violence as well. Some of it is technical but necessary for the story. If that's not your thing than this story might not be for you.

If you chose to continue -- Thank you and enjoy

RESSURECTION

Chapter I -- The Long Night

"You'll pick it up fast enough" Said the older black sister to the new nurse. "But be aware, that it's not at all like the Cardio ward."

The younger nurse gave a small derisive snort. "The Cardio Thoracic Surgeons all believe they're God's gift to the world! Their heads are so big it's a wonder they can find a hat that fits!" They both snickered softly for a few seconds at the inside humour nursing staff didn't share with outsiders, especially doctors who were both allies and enemies depending on the situation.

"Neurology consists of tiny gains and doctors rarely achieve life changing improvements especially with the chronic and long term Traumatic Brain Injury patients. We call them TBI's" The older nurse was explaining as they turned into a small room with a single bed. The thick folder sitting upright in the basket at the foot of the bed read 'Michael Bates'.

"We call him patient thirteen" she gave a small humorless laugh. "He was shot in the head. An inch to the right would have missed him completely and an inch to the left would have killed him outright." The younger woman nodded her understanding. Either way would have been better. Keeping these patients alive in hospital would always be a very expensive exercise and a giant drain on the family.

"How long?" she asked

"About a year." They fell silent as two people entered the room. Their voices were not raised but there was an edge to them. Leading the way was the senior neurologist Dr Carlos da Silva. He had a Spanish or Portuguese heritage and was dark enough to show the Moorish influence in his genes. They all nodded their heads in quiet acknowledgement of each other, then the two nurses made an unobtrusive exit.

"Please Mrs. Bates, you work in the pharmaceutical industry so you're hardly a lay person here. Your husband's vegetative state is unlikely to improve. If he were brain stem dead then as an organ donor, we could have at least harvested his organs and made a significant difference to a number of people but he's not. He's vegetative and we've done what we could but we can't keep him in the hospital or keep spending time on him when we have so many other patients with better outcomes to look after."

She shook her head negatively. "We only have a month to go before he is declared in a 'permanent vegetative state' and if we don't act now, our medical provider will deny paying for further interventions and I'll end up having to place him in a long-term care facility and watch him wither." She angrily dabbed at her eyes. "He's only 46. He still has many years of life ahead of him."

He looked at her for any sign that said she was just another relative grasping at straws and demanding that he by-pass medicine in favour of a miracle, but she wasn't that. Clearly she had an idea in mind and probably one that would either stretch his personal or professional ethics to the limit. He had known Mrs Bates for almost a year. Ever since her husband had been rushed in with a gun-shot wound to the head. Apparently, it was the result of a botched car-jacking just off North Lakeshore Drive as he was leaving a gas station.

He had learned that both Mrs and Mr Bates worked for the Swiss biotech company BioVest which specialized in oncology drugs and that was the other half of the problem. She knew enough to challenge him but not enough to realize that this was a lost cause. He tried one more time to help her reach the right decision. "He may not even have that many years left in reality. We both know that sooner or later a DVT or even a surface clot will show up because of the inactivity and there's a good chance it will go to his heart, lungs or brain." He noticed her lips tighten but he went on regardless, because it had to be said. "If you sign a DNR at least when the time comes we can harvest his organs and let his death bring life or help to so many others."

"No!"

She met his eyes completely unintimidated by his positional power or status. He was once again forced to re-evaluate Mrs Bates. Her posture was upright and her conservative work suit did very little to hide her well-toned body beneath. Coupled to that, was a face that although not classically beautiful, wouldn't look out of place as a presenter or anchor on any TV station, but it was the force of her personality that was proving both compelling and if he dared to admit It, damned attractive.

"Zolpidem." She said to him.

It wasn't just a word, it wasn't just a name, it was a number of controversial articles in medical publications around the world.

Zolpidem was the generic name for a common sleeping tablet from the French Pharma giant, Sanofi-Aventis and sold in the US under the trade name Ambien, or Stilnox in the UK, EU, Australia and Africa. They called it the miracle drug for coma and vegetative patients. Approved as a schedule IV short term sleeping pill, a group of South African doctors started reporting it's paradoxical effects in that they were achieving up to 60% wakefulness in coma and vegetative patients. Unfortunately, the problem was that most patients only managed to stay awake while the medication was active: Three-and-a-half to four hours before regressing and obviously they still suffered from brain damage related problems such as mobility, speech impediments memory lapses and so on, according to the brain damage they had suffered.

"And after?" he quizzed her. "What happens when he lapses back after the effect wears off?" She didn't flinch. "What if it doesn't even work?"

"Well then, we would know that we've tried everything!" She answered softly but firmly.

He secretly envied their relationship. Mrs Bates had been a thorn in his side pushing and prodding for better outcomes. He thought about his own wife, Andreia at home and wondered if she would be as involved, as demanding, as committed to helping him in any way and every way possible, if he was in a similar situation. Bite your tongue he thought to himself as a wave of irrational superstition about not thinking of bad things in case they came to pass, washed over him momentarily. He forced his thoughts back to the present as she dug around in her bag and presented him with a small zip-lock clear plastic envelope like it was an illicit street drug. Coke or Speed or something similar.

"Ten milligrams, crushed" she grinned unashamed. "We can flush it down Michael's nasogastric tube with some water."

They mixed it in water and sucked it into the large needle-less syringe used to deliver liquidised food and water to the patient via his nasogastric tube and injected it into the port.

Suddenly, da Silva found himself desperate for a cup of coffee but she wouldn't be moved so he pulled up a chair next to her and helped her wait. He knew he was wasting time that he could have spent on other patients but a sense of loyalty and an almost macabre curiosity kept him rooted next to the bed waiting to see the outcome, if any, from its very inception. It would be his first.

He stole a quick glance at Mrs Bates. He wasn't a trained reader of body language but he could sense the tightness of her muscles. Her mouth was set in a hard line, her eyes narrowed. She was a woman prepared for the worst outcome possible, yet hoping for more. Knowing that she was a Regulatory Pharmacist at BioVest, he tried unsuccessfully to engage her in industry conversation but she answered in monosyllables and truncated sentences. Her focus was exclusively on the patient, her husband. Every few minutes she glanced at her Apple watch as she counted up the elapsed time.

Twenty minutes passed and there was no discernible change in the patient. Thirty dragged, in an agonising proof that time was in fact inconsistent and variable. Finally, the 'moment critique' arrived and still nothing. It was looking like there was no hope. They waited a little longer.

The elapsed time was thirty seven minutes when two large tears ran down Mrs Bates eyes and she scratched around her handbag for a tissue.

"Mandy?"

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Chapter II -- The Sleeper Awakens

She jerked upright and leaped from her chair.

"Whe...? Wherrr ammm aai" His voice was horse, his tongue uncooperative and he had the uncomfortable need to swallow like there was something stuck in his throat. She threw herself on him sobbing her heart out as she kissed his face over and over like she had been redeemed.

"You're awake! You're awake!" What else would he be he wondered looking around. He found himself in a hospital room of some kind. He could hear the ECG monitor above the bed. She lifted up to look at him properly and as he turned to follow her became aware of something attached to his face. He discovered the naso-gastric tube and irrationally tried to grab it to pull it out but she grabbed his arm and effortlessly pushed it away. His arm, looked like it wasn't his at all. It was a skinny, wasted, pasty white arm that belonged to a ninety year old man. Alarmed, he tried to sit up even as the heart monitor started squawking and his heart rate screamed upwards.

"Lie back sweetheart, lie back." She urged him with concern and momentarily defeated, he gave up the fight to sit up.

Next to Mandy, da Silva's mouth was agape in wonder. "This is unbelievable." He was saying.

"Mike, do you understand me?" She searched his eyes.

"Yessh." That's a stupid question he thought idly but with a growing sense of tension. "Whhhy?" And why was he unable to speak. It felt like his tongue wasn't his own and it felt numb, almost like he had too much Novocaine at the dentist.

"You've, been hurt my darling." She was crying even harder unable to control the emotions that had swamped her. "Hurt real bad."

"Whe, wherrr?" His thinking was slow and nebulous and he was becoming agitated. "Ge-etet me ouutt! I wanna go ho-ome" He tried to sit up again.

"This is not good." Said da Silva as the monitors started squawking in earnest. He wished they had prepared better but she had caught him unawares and unprepared and he wasn't expecting this outcome.

"You've been vegetative for over a year my sweetheart." He seemed to understand the words but had trouble with the concept. His sluggish brain was making his agitation worse. He tried again to get the tube out of his nose as if that it was the chain holding him down. If he only could, he would be free to get up and go. His agitation and confusion was spiking when his vision started constricting. He moaned his distress, then a wave hit him like a series of unrelenting electric shocks and his body started jerking about out of control.

"He's having a tonic-clonic seizure!" Was the last thing he heard.

He opened his eyes to find Mandy leaning over him. He scanned her face and realized that she looked stressed and tired with dark circles under her re-rimmed eyes. "Hi." he greeted her hoarsely.

She was more in control than the last time he remembered. But he couldn't work out how long it had been, was it a short while ago or was it yesterday or...?

"Michael, relax my sweetheart, I have so much to tell you but you must listen." He nodded his understanding even though the first tendrils of anxiety prickled his spine like tiny needles. "You were shot in the head Michael and you've been unresponsive for almost a year. We dosed you with Zolpidem and you're awake while the effect lasts do you understand?" His sluggish brain managed to connect the dots and he finally nodded his understanding even as tears came unbidden to his eyes. A sense of sad finality threatened to overwhelm him as he realised he was a dead man that would be resurrected only while the drug ran its course but eventually the awake window would start to shrink as he developed a tolerance. A devastated sob tore through him.

"Michael! Michael! Pay attention to me it's important." She forced him to focus and snap out of the wallow from the realisation that his life was over. "Your brain injury is to the left hemisphere and involves both your frontal and occipital lobe but we won't know how bad until the doctor's start running cognitive tests." He nodded. He knew enough anatomy to understand the implications.

"I unnershtan" it come out slurred, the long word tying his tongue up in knots.

"You are also suffering from Tonic-Clonic Seizures." He nodded again as it was easier than talking. In the old days they were called Grand-Mal seizures. "They start localised on the injured side of your brain then spread across both hemispheres. Dr da Silva has put you on Lamotrigine. He nodded again. Good drug that, it was a relatively newer anti-epileptic that also appeared to have a mood stabilising effect. He looked around but it looked like she was the only other person in the room.

"It's only me today so I can talk to you without you getting upset or agitated, but from tomorrow the doctors will want to start running tests and examining you. Do you understand?" He sadly nodded his understanding and acceptance.

He reached out to touch her with an arm that felt week and shaky. "I'mm shorrry." He slurred. "Yuuh donn desherrvv thissh." That bit was slurred even more but she shook her head and wiped away both their tears.

"We have about three to four hours Michael. I need you to start using that magnificent brain of yours. If the roles were reversed, if it was me what would you do?"

He considered her question with a deep frown creasing his forehead and found himself wadding waist deep through the mud in his brain, making his thoughts slow and ponderous. He didn't want to think. He wanted to hold Mandy, and feel her body against him, but it wasn't to be. After a short while his frown disappeared as he forgot the question.

"Focus, Michael, Focus!" She urged. He dragged his thoughts back to her request. "What would he do?" He looked at her blankly and she repeated the question. He thought for a while but found himself digressing once more as he childishly wanted to lash out at the unfairness of it all. Then he wanted to pretend like it wasn't happening but it was. He tried to negotiate with an unseen, supreme entity that he would become a believer, a Disciple, No! An Apostle if only... But even his damaged brain told him that he would need to make something happen for himself or just give up.

Mandy was again urging him to focus. He wrangled his thoughts into coherence and started putting together ideas. At first they were jumbled and rejectable but eventually there were words and concepts lighting up like neon lights and he called them out.

His speech was badly slurred but this was what she heard: "Psilocybin." He stopped and she urged him on. "Maximum dose Psilocybin, Two doses every week for a month." She nodded her understanding. Psilocybin was a psychedelic mushroom that had been demonstrated to promote the growth of new dendrites therefore, new pathways.

"High volume water intake to maintain hydration and to flush the kidneys." His speech wasn't only slurred, it also came in fits and starts with long pregnant pauses in-between but she understood and repeated his words back to him to ensure they were both congruent. In between she spent the time touching him and rubbing him but mostly repeating the question as his attention spanned only minutes before he forgot the question.

"Methylphenidate, not Ritalin, that's too short acting, Concerta the long acting one is better. Let's see if that keeps me awake after the Zolpidem runs out." His speech was slurred but she understood. He stopped and thought for a long while. She feared that he had fallen back into the vegetative state early but he was slowly ruminating through his brain like a man walking through a building for the first time... "But not together, first the mushrooms."

His speech was becoming even more slurred as he was tiring fast. She kept asking him to repeat and sometimes he forgot within a minute what the previous question or his answer had been. She realised that what he was suggesting through his brain-fog and slurred half speech was a way to live that was preferable than the alternative. She tried to remove her emotion and personal bias and look at him objectively from a clinicians perspective. He was still awake but lost in his own mind as he tried to navigate around dead-ends and missing pieces of his previous reality. But and it was a big but, there was enough of the brilliant man left to justify every effort possible to get him back.

In the days that followed, she sat with him and caught him up on mundane things. He became concerned and his agitation spiked once again when he realised that the year was 2017 and on top of his eleven month vegetative state, he had also lost three years-worth of memories.

Michael searched his brain for the missing time and with sudden lucidity realised how do you look for something that you don't know exists. He tried to chronologically work through his memory of events but it was almost impossible. He asked Mandy about major events, birthdays, vacations, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year... He laughed to discover that Trump was President. He also had no idea that their son who was now twenty two, was flying around the Caribbean with Cape Airlines. Last thing he remembered was of Jason trying to get his twin engine rating. Mandy showed him pictures on her phone of him in his Cape Airlines uniform, in the cockpit, next to the aircraft and more. She said he had come to visit as often as he could.

Their talks sparked his mind and slowly improved his memory but every time the Zolpidem induced wakefulness ran out, his eyers closed and he vegetated once more.

Within days of his first wakefulness, Dr Carlos da Silva had morphed into a neurological team of six, their eyes alight with excitement as they could already see their names on the New England Journal of Medicine and The Lancet as the case had acquired the status of a stand-alone clinical trial. The Hospital Ethics Committee had approved the off-label use of Zolpidem and Methylphenidate and the team now hoped to re-write treatment protocols in Coma and Vegetative states using Michael as the first test subject in the USA.

When Mandy insisted on the use of Psilocybin as well, there was a giant row between her and da Silva right until she told him she would transfer Michael to another hospital. The rest of the Neurological team were late twenties early thirties and they viewed magic mushrooms positively. Eventually they all approached the Ethics Committee once again and Psilocybin was reluctantly approved.

He received the first dose orally and Mandy sat by him holding his hand as the psychedelic trip started. First he noticed that some colors became muted while others were intensified to the extreme. Soon he found that it unlocked banks of memories -- some long forgotten which in turn unleashed a range of emotions. He rode it out until both the trip and his wakefulness waned and he was back in his vegetative state,.

The day after they started running cognitive and memory tests and he slowly started improving his mental performance. A daily hour of physiotherapy left him able to sit up in bed for short periods. His speech was still slurred over longer words especially as he became tired, but he finally made five hours awake. Michael told Mandy they should get some Champagne to celebrate. She laughed and told him he couldn't afford to lose any more brain cells but that she would have a glass on his behalf later that evening.