Several minutes pass as I fumble to tie the gown behind my neck, wondering why the equipment was ever designed to tie a knot you can’t see. The mask feels hot on my face and fogs my glasses. My fingers have become less nimble since my first year of medical school shrunk me to the size of a cell. The patient lies on his back in front of me, now a giant from my perspective, unconscious. “This will be a good case for you,” the attending tells me. She towers over me, peering down through a magnifying glass. “Thirty-seven-year-old male found unconscious in his room by his family. Go see what you can find.” She loads me up into a syringe of clear fluid and injects me into his antecubital vein without hesitation.
It is all still strange to me, the feeling of going through IV tubing into a vein. It’s not quite like going down a water slide, where gravity pulls you down in one direction, the slide slowing you as it levels off. Instead, gravity no longer matters at this size--you become one with the fluid, at mercy to the pressure from the medical team pushing you forward, the patient’s plasma enveloping your existence. “Don’t lose yourself!” my attending calls out. I cringe at the feeling of the medical team having to fish me out because I got lost. They still talk about that student from last year who spent several hours stuck in the colon. Instead, I rely on a map I was given during my first year of medical school.
My task is to inspect the various organ systems, traveling through the tortuous collection of highways, avenues, and side streets. I am an inspector, adventurer, record-keeper, entrusted to observe and report. I peer into the patient’s heart, a labyrinth of chambers with walls that squeeze and relax. These chambers continue without compromise despite the insults that may befall them until one day, obligingly, they cease. These walls keep a fossil record of the state of his bloodstream—what’s this? Pinholes in the tricuspid valve? Note it and move on.
My attention turns to his lungs, my next stop in an exercise of multisensorial perception. This capillary I occupy is encapsulated by a constellation of air-filled sacs that line the bronchioles that supply them. Eddies of air permeate these spaces through the ethereal membranes, blurring the line between this body and the universe. The walls around me expand and contract, yet between these expansions, there is a pause long enough to feel like the universe around me is holding its breath. I find myself holding my breath, too. My heart pounds in my chest: one, two, three, four times, still nothing. Six, seven, eight, finally, these walls expand around me once more. I find myself again, catching my breath. Remember, you are not this person. Don’t lose yourself. I file this away and head toward the brain.
I leave the steady flow of the bloodstream through the choroid plexus to immerse myself in the calm lagoons of the ventricles. It’s quiet here. The water is calm, clear, and through this membrane, I take in the elaborate design of my patient’s brain. Surrounding me are huge swaths of twisting, branching cables that tangle to create a universe of their own. Then, the curtains of reality draw themselves back to reveal the night sky. Scatterings of stars reveal themselves, pulsating, shooting across my field of view in continuous communication with one another. I am sure there are patterns to understand in these pulsations, a complexity beyond my comprehension that cannot see the universe of logic in front of me. Several stars coalesce into beams of light that shoot toward me. I think I will touch it this time, but the light is just off target, shooting past me to a distant forever.
Floating above me, just within reach, are scenes from a distant past. I must not dwell here; it is easy to get lost in memories. I can make out a scene of the beach, waves washing over the sand, the water lapping over a small crab. I see the empty orange eyes of a pigeon staring up from below a park bench as an arm reaches out to feed it. I am at the museum holding hands with someone I vaguely recognize, peering together into the jaws of a megalodon. I see a mother (my mother?) with her arms wide open as I run toward her. I see a friend I shouldn’t recognize, but I do. He wraps the tourniquet around an arm. Is it mine? I look down and see the needle in my arm, the rush of warmth enveloping me. I know I need to get out of here; we are becoming one.
The scenes swirl around me in that nebulous ether, my body slowly approaching them. I feel the richness of his life pulling me in. I feel the tides of his joy, betrayal, regret, despair, renewal, and relapse become my own. If I stay a little longer, I can finally understand him. Don’t lose yourself here. The memories surround me, every choice, every connection, every regret within my grasp. The tides of his consciousness wash over me. The stars return, and the lights flash again, eddies swirling in the night sky. This time, the beam of light is heading straight toward me. Do I go for it? Don’t lose yourself here.
I reach toward the light. Time slows. The light appears so warm, so inviting. It is swirling towards me. I am stumbling towards it. It would be so easy to stay here, in a body that is not mine, in a mind that I do not understand. Isn’t that why I’m here? To understand? Not just physically, but emotionally? We are so close, about to touch. I reach a little further and—
This world fades to black.
I blink, and my attending stands before me, eagerly looking at me. “So, what did you find?” I’m about to tell her but don’t know where to begin.