Posterior-Superior Parietal Lobules PSPL and Self-Transcendence.” The words
Morris Stern was listed as a professor of behavioral neuroscience, Department of Brain and Cognitive Sciences, Tufts University School of Medicine. He was an expert on brain imaging and directed a lab investigating the neural basis of learning and memory. He had a long list of publications in the journal
Byron Cates was a professor of computational neuroscience and health sciences and technology at MIT. From what Zack gathered, he was an expert on “neuropsychological recordings” and “mathematical modeling to establish definitions of anesthetic states.” That was as meaningless to Zack as was an impressive list of published titles.
They each had research and/or teaching jobs, so this sleep study was something they did on the side during the evenings.
Sarah Wyman’s Web site listed her as unmarried and a former nurse who was doing postdoctoral studies at Tufts. On a list of her publications was a paper called “The Role of Serotonin 5-HT (1A) Receptors in Spirituality,” published in
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At six P.M. that Tuesday, the same unfriendly Bruce picked up Zack at the corner of Huntington and Massachusetts Avenues. Same trip to the lab. Same ensemble music. But this time Zack was alone. Damian had not passed the screening. He said he didn’t mind. He also wasn’t drowning in debt.
Zack arrived a little before seven, this time prepared to sleep over. Again Drs. Luria, Stern, and Cates and Sarah Wyman met with him in the same office. Dr. Luria explained the evening’s plan. “This is going to be a different kind of procedure. We’re going to establish a baseline recognition pattern of various images, but we’re going to do it in a functional MRI machine. Have you ever had an MRI scan done?”
“Just on my shoulder some years ago.”
“What about on your head?”
“Are you at all claustrophobic?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good, because we’re going to position your head and shoulders in the MRI with a visible monitor that will project a series of randomly selected visuals. All you have to do is simply look at them. Okay?”
“How long will I be inside the tube?”
“Maybe forty minutes.”
“No problem.”
“If you feel the least bit uncomfortable, let us know,” Sarah said. “What we’re doing is trying to determine neuroelectrical signatures of your emotional states.”
“For what purpose?”
“Well,” Dr. Luria said, “in our next session—and hopefully you’ll agree—we will give you something to let you sleep, then do a scan of your brain activity.”
She went on with more technical language that didn’t clarify much. Zack’s main concern was another $250. “Fine,” he said, and followed them to another room.
Zack was startled by the size of the MRI machine—a giant white cube with a tube magnet and an attached gurney that slid into the bore. It must have taken some creative engineering to get it down here.
He changed into loose-fitting pajama bottoms behind a small screen, then lay on the gurney at the opening of the MRI tube. A computer monitor was attached to the lip of the tube for viewing from inside.
“The images will change every five seconds,” Sarah explained. “All you have to do is look at them. Don’t say anything, don’t move, just look at them. Okay?”
“Easy enough.”
Before they rolled him inside, Sarah and Byron Cates taped electrodes to his chest, chin, and scalp. A sensor was attached to his upper lip to measure temperature and airflow from his mouth and nose. Other sensors would measure body functions as well as the oxygen and carbon dioxide blood levels, his heart rate, breathing rate, and blood pressure. Elastic belts were placed around his chest and stomach to measure respiration. A clip to his earlobe measured oxygen levels.
Sarah positioned a videocamera on a tripod. “As with all subjects, we’re going to record the procedure. Again, if you’re at all uncomfortable, just say so. We’ll be right here.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing,” Sarah said. “We’re going to fit plugs in your ears with a muffler so the sounds of the machine won’t distract you.”
He agreed, and when she was done, all ambient sound disappeared. He then signaled that he was ready, and she pressed a button, sending him into the tube up to his chest. They adjusted the monitor for his viewing.
For the next several minutes, bright-colored images flicked across the monitor: sunsets, cats, beach scenes, mountains, cityscapes, a disturbing war image, product logos, cars, and so on. There were also a few of the photos he had sent Luria—shots of himself, his parents, and his dog, Coco, a cocker spaniel that died when Zack was seven. The ordering seemed totally random. And after countless minutes he felt himself become bored and sleepy, although he kept his eyes open as instructed.
Toward the end, a few photos of his father appeared, including some that had been cropped from family shots, isolating just him. Also the same photo of his father posed with Zack and the striper, taken a year before his father disappeared. Eleven years before he died for real. Then more shots of sunsets, dolphins, flowers, churches, sports cars. But it was the shots of his father that touched him to the quick.
When the session was over, they rolled him out of the machine and removed the mirror and laptop. “How are you feeling?” Sarah said.
“A little tired.” But his eyes filled up, which, he told himself, was ridiculous since he had supplied the photos in the first place.
She put her hand on his shoulder in comfort, clearly seeing him holding back. So as not to embarrass him, all she said was, “You did fine,” then walked him to the changing screen.
When he was dressed, Dr. Luria came over to him. “We’ll need some time to analyze the data. But if it’s all right with you, we’d like to do another session.”
He nodded, hating the stranglehold of emotions in front of everybody. In his head he recited the value of pi to twenty places, knowing that if anyone tried to comfort him, he’d crack.
“Is this Thursday evening good?”
He nodded and choked out, “Yeah.”
Luria handed him a check.
He thanked her, and Sarah walked him to the door, where Bruce waited.
“See you soon.”
“Yeah.”
He got into the car and settled into the comforting dark of the empty rear seat. As they drove in silence, Zack felt anger well up inside. Sarah knew they had cut him at the knees with those cropped and enlarged shots of his father. They were calculated to give them the spikes they were looking for. Maybe it was that helmet the other day. Maybe they had zapped some nostalgia node, leaving him vulnerable. Whatever, he was certain that tonight it was spiking in the red zone of grief.
So what the hell did that have to do with insomnia?
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