hopes dashed. He would not let himself believe in the One Guy anymore.
And anyway, who the fuck needed the One Guy? He was still alive, wasn’t he? He could beat this thing on his own, couldn’t he? Fuck the One Guy. Fuck the One Guy’s answers and the One Guy’s hope.
Bagdasarian spoke over their heads for twenty minutes about advances in brain imaging technology. He discussed radioisotopes and motion degradation and atomic magnetometers. Considerable progress had been made, he said, since Tim’s last extended medical examination. In fact there were some very cutting-edge developments that allowed a clean image of the brain to be taken
in situ
.
“In other words,” the doctor said excitedly, “in other words, we no longer require complete immobility, you see. We can capture what’s happening in your brain
when
you’re walking, at the very moment it’s changing. In neurological circles, this is extremely significant. No one dreamed we could be where we are at this moment for another fifty, sixty years. I know some who said we would never get there. But it’s true. We no longer need to lay you out on a slab and push you inside a tunnel to get a very good idea of what’s going on inside your head.”
To his dismay, as he listened to the doctor, he couldn’t prevent a little bit of renewed hope from belly-flipping inside him.
“What does that do for me?” he asked.
“What does it do?”
“Where does it get me? Does it get me a diagnosis? Does it get me a cure?”
“Well,” said the doctor, “no, not a cure, certainly. It is only a tool, but a more refined tool than we’ve ever—”
“Not interested.”
“Not interested?” said Jane.
She hung between the two men in the backseat. Tim pivoted to look at her.
“Why would I do that to myself, Janey?”
“Do what?”
“Allow myself to hope again, when it’s really only another opportunity to be disappointed?”
“How do you know you’ll be disappointed when you haven’t tried it?”
“You just heard the man. It’s not a cure, and it’s not a diagnosis.”
“But,” said Bagdasarian, “it still might be of some comfort to you, Tim.”
He turned back to the doctor in the dim light.
“I know how you’ve struggled to validate your condition,” said the doctor. “I know you’ve fallen into depression because no empirical evidence has emerged to exonerate you—I use your word, which I have remembered many years—to exonerate you from the charge of being mentally ill. You hate it when people say this is something all in your head. You place great importance on having your condition regarded as a legitimate physical malfunction, something that members of the medical establishment like myself must take seriously. That is the very prerequisite of a real disease—that it’s taken seriously. We have a few new tools to do that now—possibly, possibly. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to prove to the world that your unique condition is as you insist it is, a matter of organic disease, and not something—a compulsion, or a psychosis—for which you, for personal reasons—and perfectly naturally so, Tim, perfectly naturally—feel you must be ashamed of? Wouldn’t that be, in its humble way, some measure of progress?”
Bagdasarian was good. Tim could feel himself getting sucked in again. “What would I have to do?”
The device Bagdasarian had in mind would be a prototype made to order. As such it would not come cheaply. Because his was a disease of one, they did not have at their disposal prefab medical supplies. Tim told him not to worry about money, they could afford it. In that case, the doctor resumed, he would approach one of the two private biomedical firms he knew capable of engineering the kind of thing he had in mind, an ambulatory helmet of sorts. It would take snapshots, so to speak—some before he walked, some during his walk, and some after. From that they would be able to reconstruct a full picture of what was
And anyway, who the fuck needed the One Guy? He was still alive, wasn’t he? He could beat this thing on his own, couldn’t he? Fuck the One Guy. Fuck the One Guy’s answers and the One Guy’s hope.
Bagdasarian spoke over their heads for twenty minutes about advances in brain imaging technology. He discussed radioisotopes and motion degradation and atomic magnetometers. Considerable progress had been made, he said, since Tim’s last extended medical examination. In fact there were some very cutting-edge developments that allowed a clean image of the brain to be taken
in situ
.
“In other words,” the doctor said excitedly, “in other words, we no longer require complete immobility, you see. We can capture what’s happening in your brain
when
you’re walking, at the very moment it’s changing. In neurological circles, this is extremely significant. No one dreamed we could be where we are at this moment for another fifty, sixty years. I know some who said we would never get there. But it’s true. We no longer need to lay you out on a slab and push you inside a tunnel to get a very good idea of what’s going on inside your head.”
To his dismay, as he listened to the doctor, he couldn’t prevent a little bit of renewed hope from belly-flipping inside him.
“What does that do for me?” he asked.
“What does it do?”
“Where does it get me? Does it get me a diagnosis? Does it get me a cure?”
“Well,” said the doctor, “no, not a cure, certainly. It is only a tool, but a more refined tool than we’ve ever—”
“Not interested.”
“Not interested?” said Jane.
She hung between the two men in the backseat. Tim pivoted to look at her.
“Why would I do that to myself, Janey?”
“Do what?”
“Allow myself to hope again, when it’s really only another opportunity to be disappointed?”
“How do you know you’ll be disappointed when you haven’t tried it?”
“You just heard the man. It’s not a cure, and it’s not a diagnosis.”
“But,” said Bagdasarian, “it still might be of some comfort to you, Tim.”
He turned back to the doctor in the dim light.
“I know how you’ve struggled to validate your condition,” said the doctor. “I know you’ve fallen into depression because no empirical evidence has emerged to exonerate you—I use your word, which I have remembered many years—to exonerate you from the charge of being mentally ill. You hate it when people say this is something all in your head. You place great importance on having your condition regarded as a legitimate physical malfunction, something that members of the medical establishment like myself must take seriously. That is the very prerequisite of a real disease—that it’s taken seriously. We have a few new tools to do that now—possibly, possibly. Wouldn’t it be satisfying to prove to the world that your unique condition is as you insist it is, a matter of organic disease, and not something—a compulsion, or a psychosis—for which you, for personal reasons—and perfectly naturally so, Tim, perfectly naturally—feel you must be ashamed of? Wouldn’t that be, in its humble way, some measure of progress?”
Bagdasarian was good. Tim could feel himself getting sucked in again. “What would I have to do?”
The device Bagdasarian had in mind would be a prototype made to order. As such it would not come cheaply. Because his was a disease of one, they did not have at their disposal prefab medical supplies. Tim told him not to worry about money, they could afford it. In that case, the doctor resumed, he would approach one of the two private biomedical firms he knew capable of engineering the kind of thing he had in mind, an ambulatory helmet of sorts. It would take snapshots, so to speak—some before he walked, some during his walk, and some after. From that they would be able to reconstruct a full picture of what was
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