Tunnel Vision Read online

  “What if you have a power failure?”

  “We have generators that’ll kick in instantly,” she said. “Believe me, you’ll be fine.”

  He took refuge in the promise of those tawny brown eyes. “And what about side effects—my memory, my ability to think…?”

  “There are none,” Luria said. “Your memory will return. You’ll remember family, friends, your own name, language. Your cognitive powers will be normal. Think of it like a Novocain shot. An hour later, all sensations are back.”

  “But while I’m under I’ll be brain-dead.”

  “No, while you’re under you could pass for brain-dead. Your brain cells will still be healthy and alive, just silent.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then we wake you and ask you about any experience you may have had.”

  “You mean like moving down a tunnel toward a light, angels or whatever.”

  “That’s the prototypical notion, though the experience may be entirely different.”

  “But if I’m flatlined, how can I remember experiencing anything?”

  “Excellent question,” Dr. Luria said. “If you do have an NDE, those areas of the brain where the neuroelectrical activity takes place will inform other areas of your brain once you’re awake. In other words, your experience will be a kind of residual memory once your whole brain is in synchronicity again.”

  Were their manners not so sober and serious, he would have thought they were joking. “This doesn’t even sound like something scientists investigate.”

  “You’re right,” Luria said. “In spite of all the fascinating claims in books and the popular press, nobody has ever demonstrated if the phenomenon is real or fantasy. And one reason is that all NDE claims are untestable reports of people who survived heart attacks and accidents et cetera. But here, we conduct NDE experiments under controlled scientific conditions.”

  “Of course,” Stern interjected, “we could end up discovering that it’s all in the head, which is what some of us believe.”

  “Or that there’s no such thing as death,” Luria said with a flicker in her eyes. “Just a change in state—from physical to spiritual, for lack of a better term. Think how extraordinary that would be.”

  Zack’s mind was spinning. “Okay. Say I agree and go down a tunnel or whatever. How would you know that’s the afterlife and not some dream thing?”

  “Because once you’re under, your brain cells can’t produce the necessary electrical activity. In short, you won’t be able to dream.”

  “So what will you look for?”

  “Anomalous neuroelectrical activity,” Stern said. “The key reason this hasn’t been done before is that the diagnostics didn’t exist. The MRI machine we used on you the other day is one of a kind. Its resolution power can distinguish individual brain cells.”

  “We also have the software to make sophisticated mathematical analyses of any electrical activity,” Cates added.

  “But I still don’t get how there can be any electrical activity if I’m anesthetized.”

  “What the anesthetic does is to turn off intercellular activity, the long axon connections,” said Dr. Luria. “However, there may still be microelectrical activity in the channels between individual cells—what we refer to as analog communication, driven by cell-body-based properties. That’s what we’ll be looking for. And if there is any, we’ll need to analyze and explain that stimulation.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as human consciousness separating from the brain,” Luria said. “Mind transcending the body. To some that would be evidence that the afterlife is real.”

  Zack was quiet for a moment as he tried to process what they were telling him. “And what would be proof of that?”

  “The sixty-four-million-dollar question,” Luria said. “I suppose the ultimate test would be if someone comes back from an NDE with secrets only the dead possess.”

  “However,” Stern added, “more skeptical people—me included—believe that the phenomenon is pure neurobiology—that is, the brain creating electrical-chemical reactions to impending death.”

  “Religion versus science,” Zack said.

  “Yes,” Dr. Stern said. “There’s evidence that the human brain is wired to encourage religious beliefs, some more than others. Skeptics claim it’s just biology. Others say God made us so wired in order to discover Him or Her.”

  “Which is why your questionnaire asked if we were religious or into the occult.”

  “Yes,” Luria said. “We don’t want subjects who are susceptible to paranormal phenomena because they’re prone to confabulating NDEs from something they read in a book.”

  Or people who think they mind-merge while playing Texas hold ’em. And what about quoting Jesus in Jesus’s tongue while comatose?

  “If I agreed,” Zack said, “how long would I be flatlined?”

  “No more than three minutes.”

  “Then you’ll revive me.”

  “Yes, by turning off the infusion,” Sarah said. “Plus we’ll give you a small injection of norepinephrine, which instantly increases the heart rate and blood pressure.”

  “What are the risks of something going wrong?”

  “There are none. Zero.”

  “How many others have you flatlined?”

  “Many,” Luria said.

  “And they all were revived,” Cates added.

  “And all the same as they were before being flatlined?”

  “Yes, no problems or side effects,” Luria answered.

  Zack was silent for a moment as he processed it all. Then he asked, “Why me and why not my friend Damian?”

  Dr. Luria’s birthmark darkened. “Well, as Morris said, some people are genetically predisposed to NDEs, which is why we did that helmet test on you. Your temporal lobe is highly sensitive to dissociative experiences. Damian’s wasn’t. In fact, most people’s aren’t.”

  Dissociative experiences. Is that what happened at the blackjack table?

  “May I ask how you’re funded?”

  “Privately.”

  But she did not elaborate. And clearly this was not research that was supported by university grants or the government.

  “Any chance of me checking references—you know, talk to other test subjects?”

  “We can’t do that because of confidentiality agreements,” Luria said. “But to reassure you, we have some videos of past NDE subjects in suspension and being revived.”

  She turned the monitor around and clicked on a video, which lasted maybe half an hour. There were three separate subjects, two males and a female. Their faces were blurred, but Luria said they were in their twenties and thirties and all healthy. Each was lying on a gurney and speaking with Luria and others as technicians hooked up IV lines and wires to their head and chest. When they said they were ready, a technician administered something into their IVs, and almost instantly they fell into a deep sleep. In clear view of the camera were electric defibrillator paddles. The video ran for a few minutes while Luria and others watched the monitors. Then the subjects were awakened, each appearing groggy for a spell. One man seemed to relapse into suspension and was given a second injection of norepinephrine. Then, following a time jump, Dr. Luria was shown interviewing each—asking how they felt. All said normal. Then a short list of questions to assess their memories: Name the date, the current president, the state and its capital, and so forth. Luria turned off the sound while the interview continued.

  “The rest involves their experiences, which we’re keeping confidential. We also don’t want to prejudice your own responses should you agree. Any questions?”

  He didn’t seriously believe in the NDE stuff. His main concern was coming back from the chemical cocktail. “What’s the drug, by the way?”

  “It’s called tetrodotoxin.”

  That told him nothing.

  “It’s a natural ingredient and perfectly safe,” Sarah said. She patted his arm. “I promise you’ll be just
fine.”

  “I should add that if you agree to volunteer, you’ll be paid an additional two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar signing fee—a total of five hundred dollars.”

  Zack could feel lines of expectation converge on him. He glanced at the nondisclosure and waiver forms. Then his eyes returned to the computer image of the last NDE subject, frozen at the point where he said he felt perfectly fine. “You’re asking me to be sent to death’s door, so I’d like to think this over, if you don’t mind.”

  Luria’s expression sagged. “Of course, but it’s perfectly safe.”

  He made a move to the door. “I’m sure, but I can’t just sign my life away.”

  “But you’re not,” she said, struggling not to be too insistent.

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Fine. We hope that you’ll let us know soon.” Luria went to the desk and called Bruce. When she finished, she pulled Zack aside, and in a low voice she said, “While you’re deliberating, you should know that this project is on the cusp of a great scientific discovery. Perhaps the greatest. And you can be part of it.”

  34

  Two days later, they began to put the pressure on Zack. Dr. Luria sent a letter thanking him for his initial participation in the “tests” and saying that she understood his concern. Sarah also sent him a note saying that she hoped they could continue working together. To ease his mind, she had sent him a link to a secure site on which there were more video interviews of subjects who had emerged from suspensions. Their identities were blocked, their faces smudged, but they were clearly in the Proteus lab being interviewed by Dr. Luria and Sarah Wyman.

  They all identified themselves as college students or young professionals in their twenties or thirties. Notwithstanding the selection of videos, the half dozen or so test subjects unanimously said that they experienced no side effects other than feeling a little sluggish. After the sedative had worn off, they claimed to have felt perfectly normal. Two expressed regret about coming back to the real world. One had likened the return to Dorothy leaving the land of Oz for black-and-white Kansas.

  What interested Zack particularly were their descriptions of the actual suspensions. While one recalled nothing from his suspensions, most of the others claimed that in their NDEs they had remarkable feelings of peace, unity, and unconditional love:

  I saw a light—not blinding but a wonderfully nurturing, peaceful light.

  I can’t recall exactly the environment, but I remember it was very peaceful and very beautiful. I was aware of colors—more pure than any colors I had seen in life. I also felt light emanating from me, a warm bright light that accompanied a profound feeling of peace and safety and love.

  I had a sense of great unity with all things. Also, I remember a very powerful and profound presence.

  The next day, Luria did a follow-up call to ask if he had watched the videos.

  “Yes, they were fascinating,” he said.

  “And all very positive reports, as you noticed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And all very safe, obviously.”

  “So it seems.” He knew he was playing coy.

  “So,” she said, “I hope you’re agreeable to undergoing a suspension with us.”

  “I’m still thinking about it,” Zack said.

  “Well, you should know that I met with the others and we unanimously agreed to raise the suspension fee to seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

  A $250 raise. “That’s great,” he said. “But what’s the reason?”

  “Well, frankly, because in neurological terms you’re quite special. As I said the other day, the activity structure of your brain appears especially sensitive.”

  He wondered if he should feel flattered or apprehensive. “Just one question,” he said. “How come no one in any of the videos claimed to have met dead relatives?”

  “Well, maybe you’ll be the first.”

  35

  Zack tried to suppress his anxiety as Bruce drove him to the lab the next Tuesday night. He tried to lose himself in the Vivaldi CD, thinking about those people who had been flatlined and crowed about spiritual transports of loving light and tranquillity.

  When he arrived, the core team met him, and Sarah gave him a warm hug, wishing him a belated happy birthday. Yesterday he had turned twenty-five. That made him feel better. He signed the various waivers and nondisclosure forms. They then led him into the MRI room, where he changed into pajama bottoms and lay on the gurney. They connected him up to an IV and several electronic monitoring devices. Along one wall was a viewing window, behind which were the computer workstations where scans of his brain would be projected.

  Sarah positioned a videocamera on a tripod. “Once again, we’re going to record the whole procedure and catch any movements.”

  “Like breaking into the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus.”

  She laughed. “That would be something.” She then put a mask across his brow, ready to be lowered. He felt a nervous flare in his chest.

  When they finished, Dr. Luria came over. She was beaming with expectation. “Ready?”

  “I think so.”

  “How do you feel?” Sarah asked.

  He looked up at the faces, the lights, IV stand, tubes connected to him, thinking that he was a syringe away from near death. “Nervous.”

  She patted his arm. “Of course, but you’ll be perfectly safe. You’re just going to sleep.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “I’ll be monitoring every second you’re under. Then in an hour we’ll bring you back.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And everyone came back?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And whole?”

  “And whole and healthy.” She patted his arm again. “All set?”

  “Want to come with me? I may be going to paradise.”

  She laughed. “Love to, but I don’t have your brain.”

  She lowered the mask and fitted the earplugs and muffler, cutting off the outside world. The gurney moved headfirst into the tube and he felt a twinge of claustrophobia. “How long will it take to fall asleep?” If anyone responded, he never heard. His brain went instantly black.

  * * *

  “Hey, Zack, you’re waking up.”

  A female voice.

  “Zack, can you hear me?”

  He grunted. Shards of sleep were falling away as awareness gradually returned.

  “He’s coming to.”

  A male voice.

  “Come on, Zack, wake up.”

  He forced open one eye.

  “That’s it, Zack, open your eyes.”

  Then the other.

  “Welcome back. How do you feel?” asked a pretty woman with short hair.

  He licked his lips.

  “If your mouth and tongue feel tingly, that’s normal. Can you tell me your name?”

  He looked at her dumbly without response.

  “Okay, you’re still a little foggy.”

  “Can you tell us your name?” an older woman asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No? Sure you can. It’s Zack. What’s your last name?”

  He hesitated a moment. Then he muttered, “Kashian.”

  “What was that?”

  “Kashian.”

  “Right. Good. And do you know where you are?”

  “Magog Woods?”

  “Where?”

  “Magog Woods.”

  “His voice sounds different,” someone said.

  “Where’s Magog Woods?”

  “Where I live.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Maine.”

  “Maine? No, you’re in Massachusetts. You remember.”

  Zack shook his head.

  “Yes, you’re in Massachusetts, not Maine. And you live in Boston.”

  He looked around dumbly. Then his mind slowly began to clear, and the trees faded and it became bright, and he saw people
standing around him in a large white room with all the electronic equipment and tubes and wires attached to his head and arms.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “Mmm. Guess I was dreaming. Sleep test.”

  “Good. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Zack Kashian.”

  “Great. And the date?”

  He thought a moment, then it came back to him.

  “Very good. And what state are we in?”

  “Massachusetts.”

  “That’s better. And the capital?”

  “Boston.”

  “Do you remember my name?” asked a younger pretty woman.

  He felt himself return to the moment. Sarah Wyman, the neuroscientist with the pretty face and short hair. “Joan of Arc.”

  “Joan of Arc?”

  “Look like her. Paul Delaroche, painter.”

  “Wow. You know your art.”

  “French history.” He spoke haltingly, trying to clear his brain. His mouth felt dry.

  “Where?”

  She was still testing him. “Northeastern.”

  “I think he’s fine. Zack, it’s me, Dr. Luria.” She sat beside him with a clipboard, a videocamera trained on him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your experience. Do you remember anything while under—people, locale, activity of any kind?”

  “No, nothing. Just a blank.”

  “No sense of where you were? Who you were with, if anyone?”

  Zack shook his head.

  “Any residual feelings or emotions?”

  “Just a blank.”

  “Any sense of your own physical self?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Luria asked a few more questions, then gave up, looking disappointed that he could recall nothing. They helped him to the screen, where he changed into his clothes.

  “How about a coffee to help you wake up?” Sarah asked.

  “Something cold. My mouth’s dry,” he said through the screen.

  “We have some Poland Spring in the fridge.”

  He pulled up his pants and tucked in his shirt. “Got anything else?”

  “Such as what?”