Recycled

But all I succeed in doing is to invite calming agents upon myself--the chamber, or someone monitoring it, is compensating.

They are concerned about me. I cannot hear what they're saying, but I know the sound of concern. Trouble is I should not be hearing anything; my life functions are suspended, at least they're supposed to be. Not only can I hear but I can feel as well. Something is horribly wrong.

Sometimes what I hear is soothing, like music or laughter or whispered thoughts, but at other times, such as now, there is that ambiance of concern. I know this even if I haven't a clue why.

I try to remember how I got to this point. And who I was before I started--it's not amnesia, it's just ... well, confusion. But I produce nothing more than supposition. The suspended animation thing, though supposition as well, stands a reasonable chance of being correct, but I am unable to fit into this theory why I should be suspended while those around me are not.

There it is again, and this time it is more like ... agitation. I try shouting to whomever is out there, this to let them know I'm okay. But there is no air in my lungs to propel the thought--I am not breathing. The realization of this should shock me, but I can only consider myself fortunate since I am totally immersed in liquid.

Suspended animation also makes sense for another reason; I remember something of my life, that I am involved in some way in the stars. The disorientation I face at the moment will not let me know the specifics, but that much is for sure. I can even picture specific groups of stars. And selected others that shepherd planets I have known--from close up or from Earth I cannot remember. I suppose it is possible that I am on my way to visit one now.

But then, why am I the only one suspended?

And why the concern?

I think they are trying to get me out, and the thought is not comforting. It suggests my chamber is malfunctioning, a serious matter considering the incongruity of an air-breathing mammal being suspended in liquid. What if my lungs decide to resume a more normal pattern before those outside the chamber find and correct the error? Or, failing that, while they are in the process of breaking through to me? A rhythmic thumping joins the ambience of noise reaching my ears. It is my heart, and it is registering heightened concern.

I cannot see, but I can move, at least to some degree I can--the chamber does not permit much of this. It is confining to the point that, until recently, I could not even stretch out a leg--my knees were tucked up around my chin. The walls of the chamber are soft but push in upon me like a heavy blanket. Thankfully, like that heavy blanket, there is give. When I push, it retreats, and this permits me the illusion that I have room, room to stretch, room to breathe--well, maybe not the latter.

I try unfolding the other leg, intending only that it join the first. There is grudging success but I learn nothing new. There is only the same softness. I conclude that my chamber is a silky envelope, a cocoon. I am a butterfly in the process of metamorphosis. It is not all silk, however, there are protrusions and indentations, though I see no logic in the placement of either. Nor is any of it familiar (to me this confirms a growing notion that I am trying to remember something I have never actually seen). I try concentrating less on the now and more on the before.

I search with my hands as far as the chamber permits, hoping in this to rekindle a remembrance from my past, one that might let me know how my confinement came about. I do this even though I believe it unlikely that I was fully conscious when put in here. (I imagine the trauma of having liquid poured over me as some unaffected attendant admonishes me to relax.)

My thoughts are interrupted by movement, jerky movement, as if my unseen benefactors have lost patience and are now attacking my chamber with less restraint. And something else, the touch of a hand--damnit, if my chamber is so thin that I can feel a human hand, why does getting me out present such a problem?

I know the answer, of course. It's the damn liquid. One misstep in timing and I drown. I wonder how long it will be before I have no choice but to breathe, before my rescuers' efforts succeed to the point where my chamber summarily lets go. And how can I hold my breath in anticipation of such a thing when I have no breath to hold? I think of drowning at the exact moment of rescue, and this does nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of a heart already testing its limits.

Inevitably, even with the give permitted by the chamber, I become claustrophobic. I tell myself that I can handle this, that the feeling cannot last, that I am not susceptible to such phobias, that I would have been put through rigorous psychological screening before being sent on a journey through space.

But reality is the need to get out of here, and fast!

The commotion outside increases, but it appears to be directed at something other than my chamber. I feel none of the jerking or the touching I felt earlier. Hope comes and goes, and I think how much easier it would be if I knew what they were doing. Or if I knew what they would like me to do.

They are trying, I know this, but, damnit, I wish they would hurry!

I try not to think of how trapped I am. Rather I think of the unlimited vastness of space, probably within shouting distance of my cocoon. I imagine some of the places I might have visited in whatever years have thus far passed of my life. It is an effort limited by the knowledge that it is imagination and nothing more; there is nothing I remember of any of my past. I even begin to doubt that I was ever in space.

I don't know why I suddenly doubt that. It is still the only thing that makes sense. I try again for a glimpse of my past, but meet with no greater success; I cannot defeat the allegation of make-believe.

Then it comes to me that "make-believe" is not far off the mark. I write; I write science fiction novels. I was never there (or here) in space; I only imagined myself to be. I cannot remember the specifics, titles and the like, but I remember that I was prolific--I had money, lots of money.

Okay, but how does all that relate to all this? What is this silky box that surrounds me, and why was I put into it?

I am on a roll; I remember that I was ill. Not only ill, but seriously ill. And I am in my cocoon because ... because why? Am I a contaminant, a fearsome entity to be sealed in an airtight chamber to prevent the spread of whatever vile and unstoppable disease I represent? So much for being on a roll!

Damn, why do I have to speculate?! Why don't I know?!

If I were a contaminant, the people outside this chamber would not be trying so hard to get me out (I come close to taking a breath, this as a sigh of relief). No, the illness is not that; it is not contagious. It is something else, something ... restrictive. The claustrophobia, that's why I reacted to it so! In my illness I was unable to move. At the beginning, this was less true, but later on the paralysis invaded so much of my body that in time I had trouble moving my lungs enough to breath.

Amyotropic lateral sclerosis, ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease! I was dying from it. I was suffocating in stages--no wonder the claustrophobia! I knew I had this and I also knew it could not be cured.

My heart turns cold as more of the truth reaches me. This is not a life-suspension chamber, it is a cryogenic chamber. I am not a metamorphosing butterfly, I am a dead human being. I died at age forty-two then was placed into a tiny container--I caught a glimpse of it not long before I died; it made my blood chill even then. After that, and I admit supposition here, I was quick frozen then sent into the deep cold of an Earth orbit, there to await some future cure.

And now I am warm. And now they are trying to get me out.

Even though surrounded by liquid, I can still feel the weight of my body--it tells me I am not in orbit. And rather than frozen, I am almost too warm. Best of all, I can move. My hands, my legs, even my head. Everything but my lungs. I am cured! However unlikely the prospect as I lay dying some unknown ages ago, it worked! It actually worked!

I imagine--perhaps not the best choice of words--that what is happening now is the final step in the restoration process. They are trying to release me from my coffin. They are trying to restart my system, in particular my lungs. My heartbeat increases, this time in anticipation.

But then I remember the concern and the clumsy manner in which they are going about freeing me. Sure signs of trouble. It tells me they have gone so far but are unable to go further. I imagine myself a cake that is fully cooked but sticking to the baking pan. I may well come out in pieces.

I cry in silence to my liquid chamber. It is not fair! Not this close to success. To know I was dying, to actually have died, to be frozen then cured then thawed out and brought back to life, all this only to die a second time?

I struggle again, in protest this time. But the result is as before; someone or something quickly counters it. They are letting me know that I have to remain calm, that my panic is only making their task of freeing me more difficult. I drum the logic of this into my brain, and tell myself that I can do as they ask.

But, they've got to hurry!

Unable to take a calming breath, I try in other ways to force relaxation upon whatever my body has become. I think of something other than the danger I face, like what kind of world I will emerge into, how far into the future my corpse has traveled. And who among those I once knew are even a distant memory.

Surely anyone my age or close to it would be dead by now--ALS was not even close to a cure when I succumbed to it.

Without wanting to, I think of my first death, the time it took, the misery and the pain of it--why this comes to me now, I don't know. It will never be among my most treasured memories.

For a while I am as close to calm as a person in my situation could hope to be. But then I am distracted by a new pattern of sounds that filter through to my chamber, sounds of sadness as if my mysterious attendants are already morning my passing--my second passing. I listen intently, wanting to believe it is not that at all, that there is hope as long as I am alive. To prove the latter, I tap my fingers against the top of the chamber, softly this time so they will know that I am intent on remaining calm.

I am unable to tell if they get the message, but at least the tone of their voices changes. They become louder and more assertive; they even shout. I wonder at the change, even as I mentally urge it on.

Then something happens that not only confuses but frightens as well: The liquid is withdrawn.

I wonder what that means. Are they moving in a methodical manner to the next stage of recovery, or have they succeeded only in breaking my chamber--is it to be life or death? I test my willingness to take a breath and find that, so far at least, I have no inclination to do so. I wonder if they will give me a signal as to when I should begin. I try to steer my mind away from this, fearing that the suggestion alone will be enough to make me want to do it. Before that happens, I need to be sure. I will wait until that lid opens and someone assures me that I am ready to give it a try.

A "try." God, what if a "try" is not good enough?

The jerking resumes, but now it includes a pressing against my chamber, the force so great that I come to believe the intent is to crush it as one crushes an eggshell--have my rescuers given up on a more studied approach? The touch resumes as well. I feel a hand, a large hand; someone has succeeded in breaking through to my chamber. This someone takes hold of a leg and begins to pull, and although this causes me pain, I welcome it for what it is: a means of rescue. Further, I regard it as proof that I really am cured of my ALS. The touch is so ... electric, so unlike the numbness I experienced at the depth of my disease.

I hear someone wailing, and this puts me again in touch with a disturbing thought, the thought that I am already being mourned, that however much effort is being put forth, it will fail. I become anxious again and wonder what I can do to help save this new shot at life. I consider shouting to the voices to hurry and come close to doing so before remembering what that would mean--my first breath would be my last. As before, I pry my mind from the thought, but this time I feel as I do so a tickle in my chest, a warning that my body will not wait much longer.

I begin to doubt that a disaster can be avoided. Unable to open my chamber, my rescuers are resorting to breaking it up, popping it as one would a large pimple--I envision myself as the proverbial blackhead. I cry again at the injustice of this, that after bringing me to such a spectacular cure, they lose me to a mechanical glitch!

I race to help, using whatever grip I can secure to propel me in the direction the hand wishes me to go. The walls of the chamber are slippery and present little to assist me in this, but I keep trying. All the while my ears are bombarded by the echo of my racing heart. I wonder at its ability to continue at that rate. Especially considering all it has gone through. Death, for example.

The decibel level outside my chamber retreats, and so sudden is this that I cease all movement hoping to gain a hint as to why. When nothing happens, I begin to fear they are giving up, and this throws me into a panic. I try even harder to push my body toward the opening, thinking in this that I might get them to resume their end of the effort. But all I accomplish is to demonstrate how powerless I am to act on my own behalf--I move not an inch toward my goal. I am forced to stop and do so with a sob, too late realizing that the action brings with it not air but traces of liquid.

Not much of it has entered my lungs, but even so it brings on such a gagging reflex that I am certain I will soon have to take the large "breath" necessary for an expelling cough. The echo of my pounding heart threatens to drown out all other sounds.

My would-be benefactors begin anew, and I imagined in this that my increasingly feeble movements are the cause. They make new attempts to defeat the covering of my chamber and, although it is suddenly more difficult to hear this, they engage again in shouting. They are shouts of disagreement ... and concern. The hand returns as well; it secures a grip on first one leg then the other then begins again to pull, this time with more effort applied. The hope this brings helps me fight off the taking of a breath, a breath that I know I could not survive. (Incredibly, I take a moment to consider which of my deaths is the easier.)

I inch forward in the direction they wish me to go, and for the first time I begin to believe that however crude and unscientific their methods, my rescuers might actually bring this about. When the movement pauses I am disappointed but not overly concerned. I consider that they are merely catching their breath--another poor choice of words. By now one foot has come free, and I wiggle it as best I can to let them know that I am alive and that they should continue their efforts.

The urge to breathe comes to me again, this time without a suggestion on my part. I resist, of course, but it is more difficult than before. I concede the likelihood that the chamber is programmed to initiate a breathing process at some time, even as I hope this is not the time it has chosen--there is no longer liquid to worry about, but there is no air either. Remembering my earlier success, I attempt to divert myself by wiggling my feet and pushing with renewed purpose against anything and everything available to me.

I accomplish nothing, and the pain of denied lungs becomes so intense that I begin to see in the spots flashing before my eyes the window of success rapidly closing.

I know by the flurry of activity surrounding me that they understand, but I also know I can no longer resist. I am holding a breath I do not have, a breath I cannot hope to have unless they pull me out immediately. I wiggle my foot to the extreme, hoping in this to demonstrate my panic--in response the hand pulls harder, this time freeing the other leg as well. The pain of the renewed effort is intense, but it pales in comparison to the horror of desperate lungs reaching out for what they have too long been denied. Inevitably I try to take in something--I have no choice.

But there is only vacuum and traces of liquid, and I convulse first in pain then in panic. I am a drowning man grasping for that one breath of air he despairs of ever finding. And each failed effort brings more strain upon a heart already weakened by earlier assaults upon it. Aware of my distress, the hand pulls with such purpose that I know that, even if I do survive, I will not escape damage of some kind. I find I care little. In comparison, it is a welcome alternative.

Controlled by pain and fear, I lash out. I punch, I kick, I grab for air that isn't there. At that moment there is nothing I would not do had I even a hint that it would provide me a second of relief.

Then I feel my body pass through the opening of the chamber.

At first I can only continue the gagging--my lungs seem not to know that what they seek is now available. But then, as my eyes become used to the explosion of light that greets my arrival, I begin to seek out those who might yet release me from this unending convulsion. There is fog about them, and as I wait for it to clear the convulsions slow, not because I am recovering but because I am too weak to continue. I feel a lethargy fall over me, paralysis as well--hands and legs that worked so well only seconds before now fail me; they seem no longer mine to command. As spirit and determination retreat, I wonder only half-heartedly whether the paralysis means my previous illness has returned. Perhaps it never left; perhaps it was only the medicinal effects of the chamber that gave me the illusion of cure.

I find I care less than I thought I would. I tell myself it is the weakness, that I will rebound as I must have rebounded before, but all I can manage is to lie back on what is a soft but exposed table and await with enforced patience my first look at what the human race has become in my absence.

It is a world of giants. Either that or I am so wasted by my experience that I appear small by comparison. In other respects, however, the race I remember as my own has not changed. Even their hair styles are the same--so much for the great passing of time.

With sounds no longer masked by the walls of my chamber, I understand some of what they are saying. They are speaking English and, although the tone and volume play havoc with my ears, I can tell they are discussing my situation. None of the words are directed to me. I think to ask a question, but find no strength with which to do so. Not that it matters; apparently knowing I will be of little help to them in my current state, they ignore me as they go about the business of saving my life.

I am moved to a different position by attending hands, and on the way I get my first look at the chamber from which I so recently emerged in trauma. It brings a terrible confirmation, confirmation of what I had begun to suspect but could not bring myself to believe. It is not a machine at all; it is a woman. She is naked from the waist down and shows the effects of a recent expulsion from her womb.

Although weakness prevents all but me from knowing it, I am on the brink of hysteria. What this suggests is impossible. I try to dispel myself of the notion by examining again what I know of my past. I view it step by step, and with each review comes the knowledge that what I remember is true. I am a writer; I did have a fatal disease; I did die from it (The latter I know even if I cannot remember the final seconds). And anticipating my death, I did arrange to be frozen--I even remember how much it cost!

Yet here I am emerging, not from a cryogenic chamber, but from a woman.

I long for answers to questions I have no strength to voice, but instead I get movement, movement of my weakened body from one side of the room to the other. Those transporting me have sadness in their eyes and sadness in their expressions, and they are talking to others within the room who are even sadder--I hear crying. Collectively this speak volumes about my future.

I see nods, slow and reluctant nods, and I know in this that a decision has been made, a decision concerning me. I yearn to participate, but my lungs will not support the effort. Unseen hands reach for me again, and as I am carried to yet another table, this one cold and lacking the softness of the other, I am able to see to one side a small vessel, a tank of some sort out of which pours a heavy mist. I stare at it with more intensity than my depleted spirit suggests is possible.

I stare because I know what it is. I have seen it before, or at least one like it. And I know what it means. It is an ice chamber or, more properly, a cryogenic chamber. I am to be frozen for a second time.

The irony of this erases any thought of resistance. Indeed, were I able, I might even chuckle. Aware of how short my time must be, I worry my head around to where I can glimpse the face of the woman from whom I so recently emerged. It leads me to wonder who will be my mother next time. I also wonder what will happen if someday a cure is found for my empty bodies.

Noel Carroll is a husband and wife team with six novels and a number of short stories to their credit. Noel J. Munson, Prior to taking up writing full time, served as President and CEO of two U.S. corporations. Carol S. Munson was first a nurse then an executive in a medically-oriented private corporation. They share a love of sailing and this is often reflected in their writings.

E-mail: noelcarroll@worldnet.att.net

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