“Mr. Sanburn?” The woman’s voice was watery through the ringing in his ears. He was awake, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything. Everything was white. The woman called to him again. This time turned his head towards her voice. Her dark hair contrasted with the pure white of her coat, her blouse, her name tag. The letters meant something he didn’t immediately recall. He stared, searching his memories.
“Greta,” he said to himself, as his brain put together how to read.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Sanburn?” Greta asked. She lowered her face and inch or two nearer to the table, her eyes warm with compassion.
Sanburn lifted himself slowly, propping for a moment on his elbows before sitting all the way up. Greta pulled back, waiting patiently for his answer. He assessed himself. His head felt strange, but his whole body was relaxed. He felt lighter than he had been felt when he entered the room earlier that day. “I feel good,” he said, surprised.
“You look like it,” Greta said. “We can always tell if the procedure had an effect.”
Sanburn slid his legs off the table, dangling them for a moment before letting the rest of his body roll off the side. His feet on the floor, he raised his head high, turning his face upwards for just a moment, placing his hands on his hips and trying to really feel his own feelings. Yes. Definitely lighter.
“I’ll take you to Dr. Guldenshuh now,” Greta said, grasping the handle of the instrument cart. She waited for him to take the first step before following him from the procedure room.
The hall was just as clinically white as the procedure room had been. Greta parked the cart against the wall, just outside the procedure room. “This way,” she instructed, walking ahead of him to the left. He followed slowly, amazed at the transformation. Just that morning he had been morose, nearly talking himself out of coming. He had contemplated staying in bed, not showering for the third day in a row, and subsisting off stale cereal while he doom-scrolled through the latest news. It seemed impossible that had been just this morning.
Dr. Guldenshuh’s office was at the end of the hallway. Greta stopped outside of the door and waited for his approach. He had been lagged behind her, lost in his wonder. When he arrived beside her, she smiled tenderly, almost motherly, then turned the handle. “After you,” she said.
Sanburn moved through the open doorway into the office. Dr Guldenshuh sat behind her desk, her glasses at the end of her nose, writing furiously in a notebook. “Hello. Have a seat,” she said, not even looking up. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Unlike the rest of the facility, the psychologist’s office was rich and warm. She had large, lush, dark wood furniture. The wingback chairs looked like they belonged near a fireplace in a manor house. There was a glorious high pile carpet laid across the floor. Sanburn felt safe in this office. It reminded him of home—not his home, but a home he would like to have.
Greta took a seat in one of the wingbacks, and Sanburn took the other. Dr. Guldenshuh shut her notebook, pushed it aside, and then began sifting through a file folder that had been laid on the corner of the desk. She studied one of the pages for a moment, nodding to herself. Then she looked up at him, smiling widely. “You woke very quickly,” she said. “I trust you are feeling alright?”
“Yes, I think I feel fine,” Sanburn said. “Maybe a slight headache,” he added, as Dr. Guldenshuh continued to stare.
“Very normal. I suspect it will subside by this evening.” Dr. Guldenshuh put away the folder. Then sat back in her chair. “I’d like for you to tell me about Andre, Mr. Sanburn.”
“Andre,” he breathed. “Andre was a wonderful man. A wonderful brother. I miss him terribly.” The words were true, but they lacked the dark agony that had punctuated them previously.
“Would you mind if Greta recorded your brain while we talk, Mr. Sanburn?” Dr. Guldenshuh asked.
“Of course not,” he answered.
Greta rose from her chair, and went across the room towards a shelf that held a variety of equipment. Sanburn knew from his previous sessions that these were instruments that helped them map his memories and his track his brain waves. Great picked up two small silver disks, along with a white backed tablet and returned to his side. He tuned his head to the side, allowing her to place one of the disks on his neck. Then he turned the other way, letting her repeat the process. The metal was cool against his skin. He enjoyed the feel of it. The thought surprised him. He enjoyed it? He couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed something.
Greta sat down again in the wingback next to him. She typed on the screen for a moment before she announced, “All ready, doctor.”
“Very good,” Dr. Guldenshuh said. She wheeled her chair out from behind the desk, rolling to rest next to Sanburn. He was comforted by her presence. “Now, tell me about Andre, please,” she said. Her voice was smooth and inviting. He smiled. He smiled. Then, he began to retell the stories she already knew.
Greta smiled to herself as she hung her lab coat in her locker at the back of the clinic’s breakroom. They had done good work today. She had thought Mr. Sanburn was beyond help when she first saw his scans. Dr. Rudolph was a masterful memory surgeon though. The way he had rewired Mr. Sanburn’s brain still gave her chills of excitement. She took her overcoat from the hook inside the locker, donning it slowly as she reminisced.
She turned at the sound of the lounge door opening. Dr. Rudolph was moving towards his own locker. He looked tired. He caught her eye. “Long day,” he sighed.
“What you did for Mr. Sanburn today was just short of miraculous,” Greta said.
Dr. Rudolph smiled, then shrugged. “Yes. He was a difficult case. I just hope that it sticks.”
Greta frowned. “What do you mean?”
Dr. Rudolph regarded her with a tense stare, almost looking as if he were calculating the benefits of answering her. “Greta, this work we do…it’s rarely permanent.”
Greta felt her heart sink, her stomach knotting. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Dr. Rudolph was still staring at her, his filled with sadness. “It works for them for awhile,” he said, “but they always seem to need to come back eventually. For another treatment.”
Greta tried to swallow her shock. “Dr. Guldenshuh has never mentioned this.”
He shook his head, then rubbed a hand over his face. “No, I suppose she wouldn’t want anyone to know.”
Greta was frozen, thinking about the science she had learned here. “Why?”
“Why what?” Dr. Rudolph asked. He moved to his locker and stripped off his white lab coat.
“Why doesn’t it stick?” she asked.
Dr. Rudolph’s answer was slow in coming. “Because they don’t learn how to do it themselves.”
“Learn what?” she asked.
He turned to face her. His overcoat was draped over his arm. “When we fix a patient in this way, they never unlearn all the toxic thinking that got them into the mess they’re in when they come through the door.”
“Toxic thinking?” Greta blinked. “Most of our patients have trauma, Dr. Rudolph.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. He moved towards her slowly. “And if we were practicing cognitive therapy 50 years ago, we’d teach them how to break the hold that trauma has over them. But now, we simply take it away. They learn nothing from it and end up back in the clinic waiting room.”
She thought about what she had seen over the last year working with Dr. Guldenshuh and Dr. Rudolph. “But…I’ve not seen any repeat patients.”
Dr. Rudolph smiled slowly, sadly. “This is the third time we’ve treated Mr. Sanburn within the last 8 years.”
All of Greta’s thoughts failed to coalesce as words. She simply nodded and looked away.
“But,” Dr. Rudolph continued. She looked back at him. “This is still better.”
“Is it?” she asked. “If it isn’t permanent, why?”
“Instant relief,” Dr. Rudolph said.
Greta nodded, understanding. “I see,” she whispered. She moved past him, feeling heavy. “Goodnight, Dr. Rudolph.”
“See you tomorrow!” he said brightly, as if he had not just shattered the pedestal on which he had stood.
Greta exited the clinic, moving out into the cold night, wondering how long it would be before Mr. Sanburn was back on the procedure table.
Greta watched on the tablet screen as the tell-tale confusion moved through Sanburn’s mind, for just a moment, before he fell into a deep sleep. She was familiar with the map of neurons before her. She had been present at all the sessions with Sanburn’s psychologist as he recounted his memories of his brother. Andre, she thought, her eye scanning the image for all the places in Sanburn’s brain the name had lit like Christmas. She could imagine the dead man’s face, the sight of him stepping from the curb, the sound of metal crashing against his flesh.
“Ready, Dr. Rudolph,” Greta announced calmly, wiping her mind clear of the memories that were not her own. “I have his charts.”
Dr. Rudolph’s tablet was connected to the port on Sanburn’s skull with a long white cord. “Share the map of his trauma first. I need a reminder.”
Greta tapped the arrow icon on her screen. “Sending now.”
Dr. Rudolph pulled a pair of rimless glasses from the pocket of his white coat, placing them gently on his nose as he gazed at the screen in front of him. “MmmHmmm,” he murmured. “Okay. Yes, I see,” to said to himself. “Okay, Greta, let me have the map of his hopes.”
“His hopes for this procedure, doctor?” she asked.
“Oh. No, his hopes for the future with the brother,” he clarified.
Greta swiped through the maps available in Sanburn’s file. “Sending now,” she said.
The maps of hopes always made Greta sad. Sanburn had wanted Andre to be an uncle. He had wanted to take a trip to British Columbia with him. He had been looking forward to a summer of baseball games, bratwurst and beers together. He had hoped to be Andre’s best man. The wedding had just been scheduled the week before he was killed. The hope maps held thousands of tiny deaths, each one a reminder that life owed them nothing.
“This one is…full,” Dr. Rudolph commented, speaking to the image on his tablet.
The image of Sanburn’s brain was dotted with millions of bright lights. “Andre was very important to him, Dr. Rudolph. They were as close as two men can be, I think.”
Dr. Rudolph regarded her over the lenses of his glasses, his eyes like a bore. “Greta, I’ve warned you about letting the death of their dreams impact you like this.” He removed the glasses from his face, and stared at her with compassion in his expression. “Do you need another session with Dr. Guldenshuh?”
Dr. Guldenshuh was the psychologist. She was available on demand for any clinic employee. This job had emotional hazards. “No, doctor. I’m alright today.”
Dr. Rudolph nodded firmly, placing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and turning his attention to the brain image. “Okay, then. I see where we need to do some work,” he said.
As he typed away on the screen, Greta flipped to the application that was monitoring Sanburn’s vitals. Heart rate was steady, slow. Breathing was the same. She watched the lines flickering with each beat, each breath. She scrolled down the screen to his brain waves. Everything was perfect, the blue lines cresting in regular intervals. “He’s ready, doctor.”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Greta watched as Sanburn’s brain absorbed the incoming information, as the complex neurological patterns designed specifically for him based on his feelings of Andre reshaped how his neurons fired. The blues lines wiggled erratically, but steadied after a moment. Greta scrolled up to his other vitals. Heart rate was still stable. Breath was beautiful.
“He’s tolerating well, doctor,” Greta announced.
“Very good,” Dr. Sanburn said slowly, almost to himself. “Now, the map of what he hopes to feel afterward, please.”
This type of map was difficult to create. Sometimes, Dr. Guldenshuh had to resort to extreme measures, digging deep into memories to find ones that produced enough satisfaction, happiness and gratitude to burst through a patient’s crippling depression. Sanburn’s session had been among the longest Greta had seen. He had recounted endlessly to Dr. Guldenshuh about the times in life he had been happiest, most satisfied, safe, grateful, hopeful, joyful. His brain told the psychologist otherwise. Every memory had someone been connected to Andre, tainting the map they were trying to build. Dr. Guldenshuh pushed him to go further, deeper, until he hit on something that had few overlaps with his memories of his brother—walking to get an ice cream cone with his high school girlfriend over summer break.
Once that memory had been identified, they used it to create a new map for his neurons, one that would help him feel less of the pain of losing Andre, and more of the satisfied, happy feelings of those ice cream cone dates. The memories of Andre would become more like the memories of the ice cream. It had been painful work for Sanburn. Greta had several sessions with Dr. Guldenshuh after the fact to help her process the secondary trauma.
“Sending now, doctor,” Greta said, as she tapped the arrow on her screen.
The sing-song notes of Dr. Rudolph saying to himself MmmHmm as he reviewed the image lightened her mood. Dr. Rudolph had a passion for this work. For him, this was a regular day at the office, but he also recognized the weight his work could take from his patients. Greta smiled. Dr. Rudolph glanced at her, returned the smile shyly, and then went back to tapping on his tablet.
“I’m not sure I’m worth so much admiration,” Dr. Rudolph said, his tone light and full of whimsy. “I’m just a regular shmuck, you know. Just like everyone else.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Greta joked.
He laughed. “How’s he looking, Greta?” he asked, turned the conversation back to Sanburn.
She pulled up his vitals again. “Everything is beautiful, doctor.”
“Alright, here we go,” Dr. Rudolph said. Greta watched Sanburn’s brain waves as the new pathways were loaded. “I’ll let you take over from here,” he said after a moment.
“Yes, doctor. I’ll let you know when he’s awake,” she said.
Dr. Rudolph set his tablet on the white cart with the other instruments. He took his glasses from his face, tucking them gently into the pocket of his coat. “Good work today, Greta,” he said to her.
She glanced up from her own tablet, smiling warmly at him. “Thank you, doctor.”
Dr. Rudolph nodded to her, then made his way slowly to the door. With a soft hush, the door slowly shut behind him. The latch clicked into place, like a period at the end of a story. When Sanburn woke, he would be different. He would be better.
A notification dinged from the tablet on the cart, signifying that the data had been transferred. She set her own tablet on the cart, then picked up the one running the upload application. She shut off the program. Then unplugged the cord from the port on Sanburn’s scalp. Carefully, she peeled the metal disks from his neck, wiping them clean before placing them onto a tray on the instrument cart.
She waited. She never knew how long it would take. Sometimes a patient fell into deep sleep, and it was best to let them wake naturally. It was never more than a few hours. Sometimes, their arousal was near instantaneous. She closed the open files on her tablet, exited the records database, and laid her own tablet on the cart as well. She checked Sanburn’s pulse manually and watched the rise and fall of his chest. His eyes began to flicker. She reached for the glass of water that sat on the instrument cart. They were always thirsty afterwards.
A whimpering sound escaped from Sanburn, and he swallowed loudly. He moaned, but he still did not open his eyes. Greta leaned forward, hovering over his face. “Mr. Sanburn?” she called softly. “Can you hear me, Mr. Sanburn?”
Slowly, he lifted his lids. His eyes were different, the fog of unhappiness no longer profound. She smiled, letting the warm glow of satisfaction fill her.
The room was bright. The clinical whiteness of it brought words like sterile and pristine to his mind. He squinted. The smooth walls blended into the tile floor almost seamlessly. In the center of the room was an exam table. White leather top. White paper liner. White plastic legs. White canvas pillow. Nothing else. No counters or cabinets or windows. No sink or trash bin or sharps disposal. He rubbed his hands over his arms, his nerves fraying.
“Lay down, Mr. Sanburn,” the nurse behind him said.
He turned to regard her, staring at her white smock, her white name tag with large black block letters. Greta. She held a tablet and was tapping away on the screen. It too was white. Everything was white. Sterile. Pristine.
Greta looked up from her screen. “Are you nervous?” she asked him.
He rubbed his hands over his arms again, swallowing hard. “I suppose I am.”
“I assure you, it doesn’t hurt. It’s like waking up from a dream. You feel bad now, but we make you feel good. And it happens gradually, so you don’t get any shock from it.” She sounded as if she was speaking to a child. He imagined that she wanted her smile to seem friendly, but it only seemed robotic. How many other people did she offer than smug look, which barely concealed the impatience he heard beneath her words?
“Okay,” he said, giving her a half smile. He turned back towards the exam table. “Um…Do I need to…to disrobe or anything?”
Behind him, Greta laughed softly. The laughter was like fresh dew. “No, no. That’s not necessary.”
Still, he hesitated.
“Are you having second thoughts, Mr. Sanburn?” Greta asked. She touched his shoulder. “There is still time to change your mind.”
Her touch was cold, like the room itself. He considered leaving. This procedure couldn’t be worse that what he was living now, though. Whatever they did to him, whatever they removed from him, it had to be better than living as he was. He couldn’t go on like this. “No, I haven’t changed my mind,” he said, though he sounded weak.
“Lay down, then,” Greta prompted, giving him a nudge forward with her icy hands.
He did as he was told, slowly climbing onto the table, the paper crinkling and crunching underneath his weight. He laid on his back, staring into the too white ceiling. He closed his eyes for a moment, shutting out the brightness.
“That’s good, Mr. Sanburn,” Greta said, as her fingernail clicked against the screen of the tablet. “Just relax. Keep your eyes closed and breath deeply. Dr. Rudolph will be in shortly.”
He kept his eyes closed. Greta’s shoes retreated from him, clicking on the tile all the way to the door. The door opened slowly, then softly closed. There was silence. He was alone with the still air and the noiseless, clinical, whiteness. He tried to do as Greta had directed, and take slow, deep, even breaths.
Before too long, the door opened, and different set of shoes clicked across the floor. “Hello, Mr. Sanburn,” a man greeted.
He opened his eyes. The man standing next to the table was also wearing white and carried a white tablet with him. The black letters on his white nametag read Dr. Winston Rudolf. He was smiling, a much warmer smile than Greta had worn. His hair was salted, and his face was just beginning to wrinkle. He had a day’s worth of growth on his face, but his upper lip was carpeted in a thick, dark mustache.
Sanburn tried to rise, propping himself up on his elbows, but Dr. Rudolph placed a hand on his shoulder, softly pressing him back into place. “No need to get up, Mr. Sanburn. This works best if you stay nice and relaxed.”
He let go of the breath he’d been holding, feeling his body relax as the air left his lungs. He closed his eyes. His heart slowed, as he’d come to expect from the practice sessions he’d done. He closed his eyes again. “Yes, you’re right. They reminded me of that when I arrived today.”
“We’ll just take everything nice and slow. Easy. Light,” Dr. Rudolph said. Sanburn heard the doctor tapping on the tablet. “Now, tell me why you’re here.”
“I don’t want to feel certain things inside me anymore,” he answered. His body was like jelly. He felt like he would melt off the table with his next exhalation. He had mastered the relaxation techniques they had taught him at previous appointments.
“Yes, and we can help you with that. I’m just going to hook a few things up now,” Dr. Rudolph said.
The door opened again, and the clicking of Greta’s heels echoed through the room again, but Sanburn didn’t care to open his eyes to regard her. He knew from the other sounds in the room that she had brought in a rolling cart. He imagined it was also made of shiny white plastic. He had practiced this tool, numerous times, until he could get through the placement of all the devices without his heart rate spiking. He felt well controlled. In fact, he felt almost like he wasn’t in the room at all.
“Now, Mr. Sanburn,” said Dr. Rudoph. “Tell me what is bothering you.”
The first instrument was placed on him. A round metal disk. It was cold against the skin of his neck. He felt hands on his neck, taping it in place. Soft hands. He imagined they belonged to Greta.
“I lost someone I care about,” Sanburn explained.
“How did you lose them?” Dr. Rudolph asked, typing on the tablet as Greta placed another metal disk, this one equally as cold, on the other side of his neck.
“He was killed in an accident,” Sanburn explained. “The train was running late, so we left the station, tried to hail a cab instead. He stepped off the curb.” His words were coming out too fast.
“Stay relaxed, Mr. Sanburn,” Dr. Rudolph instructed. “Take another deep breath like you practiced.”
Sanburn did, exhaling the guilt and the regret and the grief. He wiped his mind of pain, until all he had inside himself was a void. It lasted only a moment, but it was long enough for him to regain control.
“Good,” Dr. Rudolph said. He felt the doctor’s hands moving along his scalp—he knew it was the Dr. Rudolph this time because the hands were not as soft. “Now, tell me, when your brother died, what did it feel like?”
Sanburn could not speak for a moment. The pain had been crushing, but he knew to voice this would make his heart rate rise, would force him to go through another round of breathing exercises to control his body. He stayed smooth as glass by not speaking, not thinking.
“Mr. Sanburn?” the doctor prompted.
“It felt like losing a part of myself,” he whispered.
Dr. Rudolph found what he was looking for along Sanburn’s scalp—a port. He brushed the hair sway from it. Greta’s heels clicked, and she picked up something from the tray. “Exhale one more time for me, Mr. Sanburn,” Dr. Rudolph said.
Sanburn followed the instructions, feeling his heart slow to the point that he felt that he could fall asleep. Something clicked into the port in his scalp.
“You might feel dizzy for a moment, but it will pass,” Dr. Rudolph said. Someone flipped a switch.
Sanburn was not prepared for the disorientation that overpowered him, but Dr. Rudolph had not lied. It lasted only a few seconds before he lost all conscious thought.
As an empath, I feel all the things. It can be overwhelming. I don’t know how not to feel things, even if they start to consume me. Making things helps. Being creative helps. Writing helps. This poem is one of the outpourings of the healing process.
As an empath, I feel all the things. It can be overwhelming. I don’t know how not to feel things, even if they start to consume me. Making things helps. Being creative helps. Writing helps. This poem is one of the outpourings of the healing process.
The Quick and the Dead 