Friday, August 16
Men’s restroom, the Plantation, Atlanta Georgia
The man reached up with his left hand to pull a clump of toilet paper from the oversized role and wipe the spittle from his face. He looked down into the eerily ivory porcelain bowl at what once had been an exquisite prime rib, medium rare dinner at $200 a plate, painstakingly prepared by world-renowned chef. His heart raced and he felt the sweat flowing out of his pores soak in the rented ruffled shirt of his tuxedo.
As a tenured professor and recipient of the prestigious Salk endowed chair of virology and infectious diseases at John Hopkins University he knew exactly what was happening deep within his body the first twinges of discomfort clutched at his bowels as the waiter cleared away the dinner plates. The subsequent arrival of the rich peach tart and ice cream forecast the impending end to the five-course meal at the wake in tribute of the man who served as his mentor and friend. The intestinal muscles began twitching to disrupt the normal rhythmic contractions of peristalsis. He laughed inwardly as the thought developed that under other circumstances the elaborate meal would take hours passing through his digestive system converting it into a much less palatable bolus of fecal matter only to be deposited in a similar receptacle. The rebellion of his body is simply reversed the direction and sped up the discharge of the meal into the toilet. As he closed his eyes again, he could almost sense the signals coursing down his spine from the vomit center in the primitive depths of his brainstem to his abdominal muscles. The system worked perfectly, if that word truly described such an unsavory process expelling toxins from the stomach before they can build up to poison the body.
The nausea seemed to have passed so he gripped the back of the stool as he tried to stand. “You got pull yourself together,” he mumbled to himself before suddenly dropping back to his knees. His eyes filled with tears as his stomach began churning silently signaling impending reemergence of the appetizer.
Left brain… right brain… logic… emotion… As a scientist the analytical skills seared into the logic center of his brain should be able to diagnose accurately his condition he never got the opportunity in his mind struggled to control the flood of memories of the events from earlier in the day. His career began with aspirations of sitting at his lab bench and discovering the cure to cancer. Over time, his research gradually evolved into the study of the influenza virus. The flue is not as awe-inspiring as the virus contributing to cancer or as pedestrian as the rhinoviruses causing the common cold. Still delving deeper into the mysteries of the flu could only improve the treatment for the millions of people that suffer through the symptoms of the flu each year.
Of course, the version of the flu that he studied was not found widespread on doorknobs, telephones, and child’s toys. As one of the few people in the world that had access to the reconstituted Spanish flu, he studied, or more accurately played with, the cause of the greatest disease-based holocaust in history, at least in modern history. The estimated 100 million people that died of the flu pandemic of 1918 rivaled only the Black Plague of the fourteenth century. Sure the 75 million people that had died in the 1340’s had wiped out half of the world’s population, but the Spanish flu affected families in ways that people still talked about today. You couldn’t go to a family reunion anywhere in the country where Great Grandpa Bob wouldn’t remind you that he lost two brothers and a sister to the flu that winter.
Whether or not scientists should have exhumed bodies buried in the permafrost to collect infectious samples from the flu victims remained for ethicists to debate in philosophical exercises or in less formal but more heated discussions over drinks in a bar. Like so much of modern science the concept of whether technology to do something progressed more rapidly than the discussion of whether we should. For that reason, the nasty little bug that had lain dormant for almost a century only before resurrection to once again begin reproducing and killing cells in his lab back in Baltimore. The only difference this time is that the confinement of the biological death to a secure laboratory setting. The enormous associated with working with a virulent strain limited the number of people willing to study the virus. The volume of forms documenting the procedures for preventing the release of the virus from the lab or infecting one of his staff further culled this number to a select few. Still in theory, having the proper precautions and procedures in place will minimize the risks. The potential benefits of knowledge gained in providing a better understanding was essential to prepare for future epidemics made the activities acceptable. Federal regulations ensure that the work occurred only in secure, specialized facilities by individuals fully trained in the proper and safe techniques.
Endless meetings filled most of his days with frequent interruptions caused by the almost constant to send in requests for additional funds to support his work or to put the finishing touches on a manuscript to communicate the results to colleagues worldwide. He loved the thrill of discovery experienced as a scientist and barely tolerated pushing papers around on a desk. Every opportunity he could steal away found him hovering around his lab. He wanted to observe firsthand what most in a similar position waited days or weeks to hear from technicians or fellows. For that reason, earlier today he rolled up his sleeves and put on the space suit to enter the hot lab, even though his skills were a bit rusty from lack of practice.
In life, there are mistakes, and then there are Mistakes.
Everything had gone well in the lab until it happened. The sound of his voice muffled sound through the plastic face shield of the bioisolation suit provided the perfect opportunity to work on his Darth Vader imitation to while joking with Chi, his research technician extraordinaire, about focusing on the infectious force of the virus. He had just successfully planted the virus onto sheets of cells growing on the bottom of plastic dishes in order to study the spread of infection. However, the heavy protective gloves severely hindered his dexterity and the cap that should sealed the flask spun away from him. As he reached to retrieve the errant top, he knocked the flask from the protective enclosure and splashed the blood red culture fluid, new viruses and all, across the front of his suit.
In theory, the chemical shower that he had taken after exiting the hot lab and before he had removed the space suit had killed any infectious particle on the surface. In theory, the plastic coating covering the space suit would prevent any contaminants from passing through it. In theory, the ultraviolet light that had irradiated his naked body like a perverse tanning salon had killed any viruses prior to taking a shower and putting on his street clothes. In theory, it simply was not logical to worry, but that did not stop him from considering the worst possible outcome. Theories were great when applied in the abstract or to someone else, the reality was that he had screwed up in the lab and potentially exposed himself to the modern-day plague.
Next: Chapter 2
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