Touch

Another story based on a song - this time it is Talking Heads' 'The Overload'.  

When writing their 'Remain In Light' album the band became aware of post punks Joy Division but had not heard any of their music.  Instead of using the power of Youtube or Spotify – it was 1979/1980 after all – they imagined what Joy Division sounded like based on a description in the music press and then wrote a song in that style.  They captured the spirit of the arch Mancunian miserablists even if the adopted musical style isn't quite the same.  The song is certainly a bleak and unsettling piece of music.  Certain phrases in the song - like 'a gentle collapsing' and 'the centre is missing' - have haunted me for years.

I started this story with the last two scenes clear in my head.  Unfortunately I struggled to get sufficient phlebotinum to hammer out a technological explanation for them.  I doubt that the PEP Therapy described in the story is feasible or even scientifically sensible.  As for the ending…  A fair amount of suspension of belief might be required if you are a molecular or quantum physicist or have knowledge of how medical nanotechnology will work.

I apologise in advance if this is the case.

                                                                                                                                              

Eighteen months ago:

The ENT Specialist sat down in front of us, placing my medical records on the desk in front of her.  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  Judging from her body language it was obvious that the news would not be good.  I tried to listen to what she had to say, but to me it her voice sounded just like a badly tuned radio; white noise interspersed with the occasional pertinent word.

Thyroid. Lymph nodes. Radiotherapy.  Inoperable. A year. Maybe.

Charlotte held my hand and squeezed it gently in reassurance.  I closed my eyes, leaned back in the chair and tried to shut out the inevitable news of my imminent demise.

Unexpectedly Charlotte then squeezed my hand - hard.  She was calling my name - 'Stephen!  Are you listening to what Dr Taylor is saying?  Isn't that great news?'

'...I'm sorry?  I don't understand.'  I responded.

Dr Taylor smiled.  'It's fine.  I'm used to this.  Many patients in your situation already suspect the worst and stop listening.  ...So I'll explain again.  As your wife already knows, I'm cautiously optimistic.'

I wasn't expecting that.  At all.

--

With conventional therapies my prognosis didn't look good - with a combined course of radiotherapy and chemotherapy I might have a year if was lucky.  Except Dr Taylor wasn't proposing that.  She was suggesting an alternative - a new treatment she called PEP Therapy.

She would examine the tumour with an ultrasonic collar.  Then, using a beam of electro-magnetic energy, the malignant cells would be 'touched' - so disrupting their molecular structure making them collapse in on themselves.  Apparently it was an application of  something called the 'Pauli Exclusion Principle'.  She explained a bit more about the procedure, but it seemed just a confused jumble of physics jargon and medical terms to me.

But I did understand this: if the procedure was successful the cancer would be gone - forever.  And if I followed Dr Taylor's post treatment advice to the letter I would live a long and healthy life – the treatment would have no impact on my longevity.

Well, it did seem too good to be true, ridiculous almost.  Even half an hour ago I had resigned myself to dying before my thirty-eighth birthday, to never seeing Amelia grow up.  But now I have the opportunity to live again. 

So I agreed to the procedure. 

--

Seventeen months ago:

It was a wet and dismal Monday morning in January when we returned to the clinic.  Christmas had been stressful to say the least.  Peculiar, almost.  On the one hand I was still in shock about the diagnosis.  Would I see another Christmas?  How would we explain to Amelia that Daddy may not be around for it?  And then...  What if this PEP Therapy succeeded?  How will that change things?  As a joke, Charlotte suggested trying for another child once I had recovered.  Or at least I think she was joking - sometimes it is hard to tell. 

As I said, it was a peculiar time. 

--

The procedure was not what I was expecting at all.  I had anticipated the whole operating theatre, surgical gowns, latex gloves, bright lights, general anaesthesia and crash cart-on-standby experience.  Instead, I was treated in a pastel walled room reminiscent of the maternity ward where Charlotte had had Amelia.

During the procedure I had to lie down on a comfortable leather couch with a plastic and metal collar around my neck.  Dr Taylor explained that the collar had two purposes; firstly, it was a 3D ultrasound scanner and secondly it used a strong electromagnetic field to prevent the tissues in my neck collapsing further.

Dr Taylor examined the ultrasound display, zapping the malignant cells using a stylus on a touchscreen.  Previous treatments had made me feel nauseous, but this was almost... pleasant.  Imagine someone pinging tiny elastic bands against your neck or perhaps tickling with a slightly scratchy feather.  I remarked that I was glad that the tumour wasn't behind my knees otherwise I would need a local anaesthetic to stop the giggling.  Dr Taylor and Charlotte both gave me an 'I can't believe you just said that' look.  Funny how they looked so alike when they did it.

Then there was the final stage.  To stabilise my neck following the treatment I had to be given an injection containing an initial population of nanobots.  These would multiply in number and then create an electromagnetic barrier surrounding the void left by the removed tissue. 

It took two hours to complete the treatment.  Dr Taylor removed the collar and smiled, satisfied that the procedure had been successful.

--

Following the treatment I would have to wear a monitor; this would monitor the nanobot population and ensure that their programming was up to date and correct.  It had a black resin case and an LCD display.  It looked exactly the same as a cheap digital watch I wore in school.

Dr Taylor told me that the number in the top left hand corner represented the number of nanobots in my body, measured in billions.  This value had to remain in the range 10 to 20.  

The top right of the display had a small icon.  If everything was okay the monitor would show a green tick.  If I needed a check-up, the monitor would show an exclamation mark on a yellow background. If there was ever a flashing 'E' on a red background I should contact A&E immediately.   

Dr Taylor then gave me a leaflet about post-treatment care, instructing me to read, understand and memorise every word.  She said all the information was important, but it effectively boiled down to one simple instruction.

Behave as though you have a pacemaker.

Whenever I saw warning signs for people fitted with pacemakers I had to assume that they also applied to me and then act accordingly. 

No exceptions.

--

Sixteen months ago:

After a month, the yellow exclamation mark appeared on the monitor indicating that I was due for my first post-treatment appointment.  Dr Taylor said there was no sign of malignant tissue and there was a good nanobot barrier between the removed tissue and the rest of my neck.  She was very pleased with my progress. 

Of course I had read the post-treatment leaflet. Many, many times.  It too encouraged me to imagine I had a pacemaker. To begin with I was particularly vigilant, always asking ahead if I was going anywhere unfamiliar.  If I saw a sign saying 'Please notify a member of staff if you are wearing a pacemaker' I was there, notifying.  I had that special credit card sized information card in my wallet warning all and sundry that at some point in the immediate past I had undergone PEP Therapy and I now had umpteen billion nanobots inside of me.  Some people were curious, most were indifferent.

After a while I stopped worrying. 

--

Six months ago:

This year Christmas was everything the previous Christmas had not been.   I understand now why my father said that he didn't really appreciate life until he nearly died after a motorbike accident.

I have had monthly check-ups following the treatment.  So far I've remained in remission.  I haven't felt so well in years.  Charlotte says that I'm looking younger and fitter too. 

The nanobot population on the monitor has remained at a steady 15, always accompanied by the green tick. 

--

Five months ago:

'Stephen?  Do you think Amelia would like a younger brother or sister?'

'You weren't joking, were you?'

Charlotte looked into my eyes, put her arms around my shoulders and smiled.

--

Four months ago:

Today was the first time I had to fly since the treatment.  Yesterday I was told I had a client meeting in Edinburgh at 9.30am.  So here I am, 5am in Heathrow Airport, wishing I was somewhere else.

Airports lull me into a floaty, half asleep state.  I know I need to get to a certain place by a certain time, but thanks to the muzak and the banal shopping mall ambiance I drift away, not really paying attention to anything around me.

I was approaching airport security in this absent minded state, just like the hundreds of times I did before the treatment.  Unfortunately...  I forgot to be aware of the pacemaker warning signs.  I forgot to mention to the security guards that I had a medical condition.   I placed my bag on the conveyor for the X-Ray machine, shuffled along to the body scanner and waited in line. The security officer motioned me forward and I walked through the scanner archway.  

And then I remembered.  

I suddenly felt very, very nauseous.  I reached out for the scanner archway and my hand sunk into it and then passed through.  I couldn't hold it, no matter how much I tried.  Then I made the mistake of looking down for a second and... the bottom half of my legs had melted into a sticky goo and I was gradually sinking into the carpet.  

Imagine if someone had melted one end of a candle then pushed the melted end onto a saucer.  That's exactly how I looked.

As I passed out I noticed the monitor said 45.  ...And there was an 'E', flashing angry and red.

--

When I came to I was laying on a couch in the first aid room.  My legs had returned and - apart from a lingering sense of slight nausea - I felt almost normal again.  There was a nurse and doctor present.  They had found the PEP Therapy information card in my wallet, thank God.

Unsurprisingly I didn't make it to my meeting.

--

Dr Taylor looked at me.  She had an odd expression on her face - a mixture of concern,  anger and, I guess, disappointment too. 

'Mr Peterson, let me explain what happened. The airport scanner disrupted the electromagnetic barrier created by your nanobots.  They multiplied three-fold in an attempt to counteract the disruption.  As soon as the scanner was turned off, your nanobot population stabilised and your body returned to normal.'

She lent forward.

'I hope you realise that this incident will have some impact on your recovery.  Fortunately it is unlikely that the cancer will return, but you have perturbed your nanobots and their programming.  All this will eventually correct itself, but for now you will be more sensitive to electromagnetic radiation.' 

I tried not to laugh at the idea of my nanobots being upset with me.  She noticed.

'Don't laugh - you were very fortunate.  This time... it’s just a friendly warning. Next time you might not be so lucky.'

She paused.

'Tell me; are you a sun-worshipper, Mr Peterson?'

I shook my head.

'Just as well.  Keep out of bright sunlight for a few months, Mr Peterson, and you'll be fine.'

--

Today:

Amelia was with her grandparents, so we decided to go for a day trip down to the New Forest.  We had a picnic, a blanket and each other. 

We walked for a couple of hours then found the perfect spot for lunch.  There was an oak tree, next to a stream.

We ate, chatted, cuddled and fell asleep.

--

I woke up on the picnic blanket.  The sun had moved from before; it was now shining directly upon us.  Charlotte was still lying beside me, sleeping.  I touched her hair.  It felt... different.  Somehow less solid than before.  My fingers touched her hair and passed through it at the same time.  The monitor said 17; the green tick remained.  I remembered thinking I was just imagining the whole hair thing.

--

'Charlotte?  Hey you, are you awake?'

She stirred then raised her head. 

'Hello...  Have we been asleep for a long time?'

'Not too long. About a couple of hours.'

She grinned.

'Have you given any more thought about Amelia's brother or sister-to-be?'

'Should I?'

'Well, it's a lovely day, there's no one around and...'

Charlotte kissed me then rolled me over onto my back.

--

While we made love I could sense Charlotte slowly moving lower and lower onto me.  I briefly looked up and realised with horror that the bottom of Charlotte's hips were a good centimetre inside mine.  Oddly my flesh didn't seem to impede her; her eyes were closed.  She hadn't noticed what was happening - yet.

I was reminded of something I learnt in Secondary School. In one of the books we were studying - I forget which - a character gets lost on a stretch of coastline and is led into some quicksand by an apparition.  The more the character struggled the deeper she sank.  There was a word for the behaviour of the water sodden sand...  

Liquefaction - yes, that's it. 

The number on the monitor was slowly increasing.  18, 19, 20...  At 21 the green tick changed into a flashing red 'E'.

Suddenly Charlotte opened her eyes and screamed.  She tried to push herself off me.  Her hips were entwined with mine, so she couldn't.  Thrashing with desperation, she lost her balance and fell on me head first with a wet squelch.  The number on the monitor jumped to 70 as she was gradually absorbed, flailing violently within my chest.   

Then she stopped moving.  The rest of her gradually disappeared inside of me, slowly, inexorably.

I realised that I had become quicksand.

--

The number on the monitor has been falling precipitously.  Ten seconds ago the number passed 15 - my 'normal' number.  My 'Green Tick, Everything Is Okay' number.

I know this is the end.  I did live longer than my initial prognosis suggested so perhaps I should be grateful.  And in a funny way I'm curious what is going to happen when there aren't any nanobots in my system.  If they were holding my neck up, what's going to happen when they are gone?  What will happen if there is nothing inside, no structure?

Well, I guess I'm going to find out soon.  The nearby grass, leaves and plants are slowly collapsing into me.  As they do, it's getting harder and harder to tell where I begin and where I end. 

Up above the clouds and sky are parting, leaving just the night sky.