The sea swallowed Solomon. Eels swarmed him from below, tangling in his arms and legs. They nipped at his face and slithered into his ears. Crowded inside his skull, they tightened around his brain and electrified his body. His neurons exploded, showering sparks of terrorists, childhood fears, pediatricians, metal stools, foliage, and everyday stressors. His eyes burned in the water, singed from the fevered images. He writhed and grabbed around him, but the water held no purchase and the eels wriggled through his fingers. He needed some bearing. He needed to make sense.
Then he came to, the sea exploding around him. The particles evaporated and formed into three concerned faces. One held a bottle of ammonia by his head, the smell stinging his nostrils. They told him he had fainted with his eyes open, perhaps for eight or nine seconds. His head buzzed warmly.
The phlebotomist returned to organizing the blood samples. Solomon had arrived dehydrated to his blood draw, and his veins had coughed up enough for the majority of the bottles before wheezing out. Dissatisfied with such results, the phlebotomist had “chased the vein,” the equivalent of using the needle as an auger, which amounted to little more than a sputter of blood. Solomon had known well enough that looking at the needle would make him faint. He had not anticipated the phlebotomist’s candid descriptions and the digging sensation in his arm to result in the same.
The research assistant graciously offered two minutes for Solomon to recover. He gave Solomon a cup of water with a bendy straw, the medical counterpart of the cocktail umbrella. Solomon had hoped that the staff would provide a snack as well—perhaps orange juice, anything with sugar—but it seemed this research study did not have the budget to provide such luxuries to lightweights. As the nausea roiled in his stomach, Solomon wondered if one of the several papers he had signed warned him of this potential danger.
He qualified for the study because his mother was ill. It was the type of ill which caused others to routinely ask Solomon if his mother was well. Their questions came from concern and compassion, yet their repetition conveyed a grating naïveté. His response described his mother as slowing down but ultimately okay. People needed the second part to feel comfortable asking the question. They needed to hear she was well.
Yet she was unwell. “Autoimmune” did not connote recovery. The unwell would persist, if not advance, and Solomon could inherit it. The study intended to track traits in the direct relatives of those who struggled with illness, but for Solomon, it meant a free MRI to detect brain lesions.
In the confines of an examination room, he braced himself against the countertop as he stepped out of his jeans. Darkness fuzzed at his periphery, and his fingers trembled as he unfolded the disposable scrubs. He wanted to sit and close his eyes, but the research assistant was waiting outside the door. The assistant feared the MRI technician, urging Solomon to hurry lest they anger her by being late. Solomon wondered what troll lurked by the MRI scanner to rattle the underlings so.
Solomon shuffled in his scrubs behind the assistant, an Isaac led to his slaughtering. His paper outfit shielded nothing, a façade of clothing which rebuffed eyes but allowed the sterile air to caress along his skin. His memories of the inpatient facility were unpleasant.
The MRI troll—disguised as a middle-aged woman—coaxed Solomon into the tube. She provided him a panic button, informing him he could use the button at any time to stop the scanner. Her tone insinuated the button was a courtesy, not an actual option. He nodded in understanding, the polite response.
The machine whistled and squeaked as it woke. Solomon closed his eyes and focused on his shallow breathing. The tube buzzed and tapped a tribal dance, its ritual to commemorate slicing into Solomon’s brain. He remained still, fearful of a botched procedure. He imagined himself a corpse, rotting at some avant-garde electronica concert.
The chittering MRI foretold his health, playing its role as a medical shaman. It employed magnets and monotone hums as it read Solomon’s brain like a palm. Some believed these readings accurately reflected the past, present, and future. Solomon regarded it as a cold reading, presenting the truth he knew but denied subconsciously. He was aware of his current unwell.
His paternal grandfather had bequeathed Solomon with a set of ailments. The kidney stone caused a week of pain but did not return. The colitis and fissures persisted, staining the toilet on a weekly basis. Solomon had grown sick of the smell of blood and shit, and he wondered if his grandfather could have empathized. Depression and anger also possessed his grandfather, poisoning him with hatred and a propensity for violence. Solomon wished he could not empathize.
The sciatica was Solomon’s alone. It had snaked up into his left leg one day and took up residence in his nerves for months. His doctor’s and physical therapist’s puzzled looks gave way to concern when the symptoms survived past their expiration date, and Solomon considered investing in a nicer cane. The sciatica did die eventually, leaving with as little reason as when it came.
The fatigue outlasted all temporary ailments. The bags under his eyes grew darker, regardless of the sleeping pills, regardless of the vitamin D supplements, regardless of the inhalers. The headaches and back pains ignored the Advil. Nausea crept from Solomon’s bowels when the other symptoms tapped out. Solomon assumed depression had expanded its business to the physical front, and his doctor assumed Solomon understood his depression well enough. Solomon’s body paid little attention to their assumptions.
The MRI completed its prophecy. Solomon’s head still pulsated from the machine’s ramblings and his earlier fainting spell. He longed to remain in the tube, to embody the resting cadaver. The troll did not humor bodies and discarded Solomon’s carcass with the research assistant.
As they walked back to his changing room, Solomon asked if he would know the results before he left. The assistant chortled unintentionally, caught himself, and then explained the readings would be finished in three to four business days. Solomon smiled in thanks, grimaced when he turned away. Illness was unaware of instant gratification.
He fled from the medical halls. Adjusting the music to an incessant roar, he drove home and set to partitioning his brain. He dissected the amygdala, excising the ominous pit in his gut. He cut off the hippocampus, stunting his memories. He lobotomized himself, removing any ability to analyze the MRI possibilities. The pieces left functional would carry him through the work week.
The scans would perhaps show a single lesion from a previous concussion. That possibility was alone able to meet his cognitive capacity. The ghouls of his other anxieties haunted the edges of his mood. The IBS acted as a more potent poltergeist.
On the fourth business day, Solomon checked his phone as he walked through the halls of his work. He tapped at his email, expecting the junk mail from book stores and monthly subscriptions. “ENCRYPT MRI Results” lay beneath his hovered thumb. He paused mid-step and wheezed. He pivoted toward his office, pivoted back, caught between responsibility and fear. He followed fear.
He threw himself into his desk chair and opened his laptop, cursing the internet speed as he accessed his email account. He chewed at his nails as he skimmed the email body and followed the link to his results. He fumbled through the blood tests and HIPAA documents, scrolling through needless medical jargon and meaningless numbers.
Solomon’s face slacked. He had found the document. The words on the screen grew fuzzy as he pressed the back of his head into his chair. He errantly flicked through the blood tests and HIPAA documents once more, looking for clarification in the medical jargon and numbers.
His brain destroyed the partitions and reformed, bringing with it the anxieties and depression. It brought the realization. He had dinner with his parents and fiancée that night. He had promised to tell them the results.
Their expectant faces appeared before him, and he closed his eyes. He could hear their questions, their responses. He knew what he would have to say, but he didn’t want to say them. His words would break years of delusions, and he feared the repercussions. A fingernail split in two between his front teeth. He found himself staring at the original email, the email which held the results without any need to click additional links.
“Found to be normal.” His brain was healthy, spotless. Unremarkable. Solomon’s grip slipped from the armrests, and the eels overtook him once more.