Ch.11: The Seizure Strategy

My eye is on fire.

The cold edge of the scalpel rests against the white of my right eye. I can feel the microscopic vibrations of Aris's hand.

*Think, Elena. Think. You have seconds.*

If I thrash, he blinds me. If I scream, he ignores me. If I do nothing, he scoops my eyes out like melon balls.

I need to stop the surgery. I need to make my body uninhabitable.

I focus on my breath.

Not to slow it down. To stop it.

The diaphragm is a muscle. It’s controlled by the phrenic nerve. The Rocuronium has weakened it, but the autonomic system keeps it firing in a rhythm. *In. Out.*

I seize control. I clamp down on the impulse.

I hold my breath.

*Don't inhale.*

My chest freezes. The rhythmic rise and fall stops.

Aris doesn't notice. He is too focused on the incision angle.

"Here we go," he whispers.

He applies pressure. The blade pricks the conjunctiva. A tiny bloom of heat.

*Hold it.*

My lungs scream for oxygen. The carbon dioxide levels in my blood begin to skyrocket.

*Hold it.*

The mammalian diving reflex kicks in. Bradycardia. My heart rate drops.

*55... 50... 45.*

The monitor beeps slower. *Beep...... beep...... beep.*

"Heart rate is dropping," Aris mutters, not looking up. "Adrenaline response to the incision. Normal."

He presses harder. The blade slices the outer layer.

*HOLD IT.*

I push past the burning. I push past the panic. I embrace the suffocation.

My blood is turning acidic. The pH drops. The cells begin to starve.

My brain starts to panic. Not the conscious mind, but the lizard brain. The stem. It screams that we are dying.

It triggers a survival mechanism.

A seizure.

Hypoxia-induced myoclonus.

It starts in my legs. A violent, jerky spasm. Then the arms. Then the spine.

My body arches off the table. The restraints creak.

Aris shouts.

His hand slips.

The scalpel slashes sideways.

It misses the pupil. It misses the lens. But it slices deep into the sclera, cutting a jagged line across the white of my right eye.

Blood fills my vision instantly. A red curtain drops over the world.

"Dammit!" Aris screams. He jumps back, dropping the scalpel.

My body convulses. It isn't fake anymore. The hypoxia has triggered a genuine neurological storm. I am thrashing against the straps, shaking the heavy surgical table.

The monitor goes haywire. *BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.*

"She's seizing!" Isabella shrieks, backing into the corner. "Aris, she's shaking apart!"

"Stabilize the head!" Aris roars. "Grab her head!"

He lunges for me. He grabs my skull with both hands, trying to pin me down.

But I am vibrating with the force of a grand mal seizure. My head bucks against his grip. Blood from my sliced eye smears onto his pristine white cuffs.

"Get the Diazepam!" he yells at the empty room, forgetting there is no nurse. "Isabella, get the blue vial on the cart! Now!"

"I... I don't know which one!"

"The blue one! Jab it in her thigh!"

My lungs finally spasm open. Air rushes in with a ragged, choking gasp.

But the seizure continues. The electrical storm has to burn itself out.

Isabella fumbles with the cart. I hear glass breaking.

"I dropped it!"

"Useless!" Aris snarls.

He abandons my head. He rushes to the cart himself. He grabs a syringe.

He jams it into my IV port.

The drug hits me like a sledgehammer. The convulsions stop instantly. My body goes limp, collapsing back onto the wet, bloody sheets.

Silence crashes back into the room.

The monitor settles into a fast, erratic rhythm. *120... 115... 110.*

Aris is panting. He is covered in sweat.

He leans over me. He shines the light into my right eye.

I can't see the light. I can only see red. A thick, dark, impenetrable red.

"Corneal laceration," he diagnoses, his voice tight with fury. "Scleral rupture. Anterior chamber hemorrhage."

He straightens up. He throws the penlight across the room. It hits the wall with a crack.

"The eye is ruined," he spits. "The pressure dropped. The vitreous is leaking."

He turns to Isabella.

"We can't use it. It's compromised. The trauma is too extensive."

Isabella looks at me with horror.

"What about the other one?" she asks.

Aris looks at my left eye. My good eye.

He looks at the monitor. My vitals are erratic. The oxygen saturation is low. The heart rate is unstable.

"She's unstable," he says. "If we stress the system again right now, she'll code. The organs need to be perfused to be viable. If she dies on the table, the tissue dies with her."

He strips off his bloody gloves.

"We have to wait," he says. "We have to stabilize the donor."

He looks at me with pure hatred.

"Patch the eye," he orders Isabella. "Stop the bleeding. Start a course of antibiotics."

"Me?" Isabella gasps.

"Do it!" Aris roars. "Or you stay blind!"

He storms out of the room. The door slams.

Isabella trembles. She picks up a gauze pad. She approaches me.

I lie there, exhausted, broken, bleeding.

But I am still whole. Mostly.

I have one eye left. And I have time.

I bought myself 24 hours. But I'm blind in one eye now.