Patient: Chelsea

Mendiary Labs - Norfolk, VA - 9:40am, Tuesday, 6/7/2105

It was unusually warm that morning as Chelsea pulled into a parking spot outside of Mendiary Labs. She cranked up the A/C as she stared out the window at the building in front of her. It was decently sized: two stories tall with a beige-colored exterior and tinted windows. The foyer was large and spanned both stories - probably more as a statement than for any practical reasons.

“I got this,” she muttered quietly, turning off her car. She exhaled slowly, still gripping the steering wheel, hands clammy and her heart rate steadily increasing at the thought of going through with the surgery. Her stomach let out another growl reminding her of how empty she was.I could really use a snack right now.

Chelsea took in a few more breaths, then finally forced herself out and slammed the door behind her. Before she could change her mind, she crossed the parking lot and strode through the twin-set of double doors at the front of the building. Two security guards greeted her, and she nodded politely in response.

As she walked into the waiting room, she was immediately aware of how busy it was for a Tuesday morning. Dozens of people sat in the sea of seats, their eyes glancing up from their devices to see who just walked in. Chelsea’s face flushed. She briskly walked to the rounded receptionist desk centralized in the room and signed herself in on one of the terminals. Once finished, she sat down on the closest seat available and took out her phone to distract herself.Thank God for Instagram . . .

Not ten minutes later, she heard her name being called. “Miss Higgins?”

Chelsea looked up from her phone toward the receptionist desk, smiled, and gave a small ‘I’m here’ wave. She picked up her purse and walked up to speak to the middle-aged woman. “Yes?”

“We’ve got all your paperwork in, but just to be sure, you haven’t had a change in insurance in the past fourteen days?”

“No.”

The woman looked back down at her tablet and read the next question. “Have you eaten in the past twenty-four hours?”

“No,” Chelsea replied curtly. She didn’t need to be reminded of that fact.

Getting the gist, the receptionist picked up the pace with her obligatory questions; have you had any alcohol? Have you had any substances like medication or marijuana? Have you developed any sickness or fever? No, no, and no. Finally, she handed the tablet to Chelsea, told her to read through the seven-page document and to sign where prompted. “Bring it back to me when you’re done.”

“Okay, great. Thanks.” Chelsea grabbed the tablet and returned to her seat. As she began to skim through the documents, she noticed a few key words and phrases that made her pause: she couldn’t sue the company if anything went wrong; her insurance would cover the costs of the surgery, but not the cost of death—should that occur; the signer acknowledged that this was an inherently risky surgery that has the possibility to cause chronic dull headaches or, in the worst case scenario, paralysis.

With a gulp, Chelsea kept skimming through and signed on each highlighted underline. Her heart began to beat faster and she felt her face flush.Did someone turn the heat on?She began to fear if she would sweat and come off as the “super out-of-shape fatty”.

C’mon, Chelsea, stay focused!

Reaching the final page, she needed to simply print, sign, and date.

Done.

She collected her things once more and returned to the receptionist desk, placing the tablet on the counter. The receptionist looked up from her keyboard and – almost as if by habit—asked, “all set?”

Chelsea nodded, then added a quiet, “yep.” She held her arms tightly against her body, hoping she wasn’t sweating through her t-shirt.I should have worn a tank top . . .

“Great! Now, sweetie, what I need you to do is go over to that door and wait for one of the nurses to call your name, okay?”

“Sounds good, thanks.” Chelsea walked over toward the door to wait her turn, but it swung open mere moments later. A stout nurse in teal scrubs stood in the doorway and shouted her name so loudly, Chelsea nearly flinched. She managed to put on a tense smile.

“Hi. Welcome. Follow me,” the nurse said without so much as a smile back. She led her through the corridors at a brisk pace, forcing Chelsea to keep up or risk getting lost, until they arrived at Dr. Heather Wilmet’s office. The nurse peered in without bothering to knock. “Dr. Wilmet? Your ten a.m. is here.” Stepping back, but not making eye contact, she made way for Chelsea to walk into the office.

“Thank—”

Have a nice day.” With that, the nurse walked off down the corridor.

Rude, Chelsea grimaced. She rubbed her left arm and stepped into the office. Inside was a large cherry-oak stained desk with two computer monitors on top. Along the 9wall behind the doctor’s desk were large floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and in another corner she could see a sofa and loveseat accompanied by a small round end-table, more bookcases, and a ficus. Though she didn’t show it, Chelsea found it amusing that at every office she has ever been to there always seemed to be a fake potted plant

“Chelsea! Good morning, how are we today?” Dr. Wilmetgreeted warmly, standing up from her desk to shake Chelsea’s hand. She was a few inches taller than Chelsea and lanky. Her hair was dark brown, almost resembling black, tied up in a bun with tufts sticking out. Her slim-framed glasses went well with her sleek jawline and high cheekbones, and she wore her lab coat over a tucked-in black v-neck shirt and black slacks.

Chelsea refocused her gaze to meet the doctor’s and reciprocated the handshake and smile. “I’m well, thank you,” she replied, sounding unconvincing.

“That’s wonderful! Please, take a seat!” Dr. Wilmetgestured to one of the two green-upholstered chairs in front of her desk. The doctor returned to her computer.

The sounds of keys filled the quiet air, leaving Chelsea to nervously look around the room instead of staring straight ahead.Is this the right thing to do? Chelsea wondered. Is it more awkward if I stare ahead or if I don’t make eye contact? I wonder if there is a study on this. Is this awkward for others? I wonder—

“Okay, Miss Higgins, here’s your file.”

Chelsea’s gaze snapped to the doctor, who gestured toward one of the monitors on her desk that she promptly spun around for Chelsea to see. She quickly read through the cover page.

Before Chelsea could read more, Dr. Wilmet interrupted. “I read over your file yesterday, but I’d like to ask a few questions just to clarify and go over a few things, okay?” She didn’t wait for Chelsea to acknowledge. “It says you’ve been struggling with a food addiction, which is why you’re here, is that correct?”

The uneasiness crept back up Chelsea’s spine as she nodded.

“Mmm . . . and were you diagnosed by a medical professional for addictive personality traits?”

Chelsea nodded again and replied, “Yes, Dr. Reinfield’s office.”

Clack clack clack.

“Ah yes, Dr. Reinfield’s Associates in Psychiatry and Psychotherapy. Here it is. It says here you’ve been diagnosed by Dr. Riddle and have been on numerous treatment plans since . . . 2089. Is that correct?”

Chelsea swallowed and slowly nodded, hoping she didn’t look too nervous.Why do doctors have to ask the same questions so many times? They have all the answers, so why bother asking again?

“And according to the words of your psychiatrist, it hasn’t been going well. At least, that’s what I’ve read in his notes. Would you agree?”

Another twitch of a nod. Chelsea’s anxiety was starting to make some of her muscles micro-spasm.How much longer with this? Can’t we just move on?

“Okay, Chelsea, skipping ahead: based on Reinfield’s report, you’ve tried diet regimens, numerous medications, and even bariatric surgery, all to which have —”

“Failed,” she blurted, her bundling nerves finally getting the best of her. She wanted the questions to stop; she hated going over her failures and her weaknesses, and she was tired of answering the same questions to every new doctor, expert, nutritionist, and fitness coach she met.

Dr. Wilmet nodded slowly as she shifted her gaze to the monitor, punched something in, then redirected her attention to Chelsea. “I know this must be uncomfortable to relive the past and admit your weaknesses,” she said calmly, noticing Chelsea’s unease. “But it’s . . . protocol.”

Chelsea readjusted herself, sinking a little lower into the cushioned seat and muttered a small apology to the doctor, all while avoiding eye contact.

Dr. Wilmet smiled patiently. “It’s okay, I get it. You’re nervous. You’re not the first patient to want me to shut up.” She chuckled, but it did nothing to ease Chelsea’s nerves. “There’s nothing to be ashamed about in here, Chelsea. Now, let’s wrap up this silly review and get to the good stuff, okay?” Dr. Wilmet tapped her desk with all her fingers, resulting in a small thud, then offered another attentive, patient smile. “Tell me about your journey and what you seek to gain out of this procedure.”

Chelsea took a deep breath, exhaled sharply, then dove right into her impromptu speech. “Well, I, uh, have been struggling with . . . my weight, er . . . my, um, addiction for, since I was twelve, and I’ve been on, uh, like a, um, bunch of treatment plans and my mom and dad have always tried to help and encourage me, and some of my friends, but, I, uh, don’t feel like . . . like, well . . . they understood—understand me.” Chelsea took a wavering breath before continuing. “I-II have gained . . . every year . . . no matter what p-plan I was on.”

But youhavelost weight before.” Heather interjected.

“Yeah, but like, it was always temporary. It’s like I can’t 13control these urges to eat, and after the bariatric surgery failing I just . . . I . . .”

She began to tear up and choked on her words, but Dr. Wilmet patiently waited, listening with her hands folded. After a few seconds of lip quivering, Chelsea took another breath and carried on. “I don’t like being like this, doc. I hate that I’m, I’m, like, always hungry, and I hate how I have no control. I just feel so bad about myself.” Chelsea futilely wiped away her tears, which continued to streak down her red cheeks. “What I want is to be normal. I don’t want this addiction controlling my life anymore.”

Dr. Wilmet handed Chelsea a box of tissues so she could clean herself up. “I understand this is a very emotional and difficult time for you, and I commend you for your bravery and willingness to move forward with your life. Thank you for sharing this with me.” She waited a few moments until Chelsea’s soft sobs became sniffles. “I’m sure you’ve already read through the procedure, but I’ll run through it once more. Are you ready to continue?”

“Yeah,” Chelsea mewed.

“The first step is to get you fitted with a custom neural transmitter, what we call the NRPD. This device is what will allow us to help reroute, or recalibrate, your brain to not respond to certain stimuli.”

Dr. Wilmet pulled up a diagram on her desktop. The screen showed a sectioned illustration of a human head with multiple patches on the inside of the cranial cavity. Extremely thin wires routed from the patches to the back of the neck, near the base of the skull and C1 vertebrae. There, a device that spanned C1 and C2 was embedded into the skin and had numerous needle-like appendages connected into the spinal column. The attachment points on the skeleton were shown in great detail.

Dr. Wilmet clicked on different parts of the diagram to 14highlight them as she continued. “The NRPD is located here at the back of the neck. This is the part that will be used to send out the signals that we program, as well as receive and record signals from your brain and central nervous system.” She circled the back of the neck, right behind the ear lobe. “With the system, you will have small protrusions behind each ear, and one centralized between C1 and C2. Eight nodes will be placed inside your skull.”

Chelsea’s eyes widened as she stared at the diagram. She knew what she was getting into and already made her resolve over a week ago; but seeing how it would be incorporated into her body was still frightening. She realized it must have shown on her face because Dr. Wilmet paused her explanation and reached out to touch Chelsea’s hand.

“Not to worry. These are very, very small nodes that are as thin as a sheet of paper. The incision points will be so small that you won’t even notice them once done,” Dr. Wilmet assured, though it didn’t do much to relieve Chelsea’s worries. “As I was saying,” she continued, “the nodes are what will both send and receive signals, in conjunction with the NRPD attached to the spinal column. Simple enough. This surgery will last approximately twelve hours, and you should be fully healed up in three days. Next is the calibration phase, which is just a fancy way of saying we’ll be syncing our machines to your new neural system. This will be done during the recovery phase—”

“Will it hurt?” Chelsea asked meekly, thumbs nervously twiddling about themselves.

Dr. Wilmet smiled warmly and shook her head. “No, it won’t hurt a bit. In fact, the biggest complaint we’ve gotten from a patient is that the first few days made them feel tingly on the back of their neck.”

Chelsea nodded and exhaled a sigh of relief.Thank God.

“After the NRPD is synced, we begin the brain mapping 15process, which will be done on the premises for the first week. Then you will take home the neural router that will continue to monitor your brain as you go about each day. Coupled with the Neural Recalibration Program Optic Drive, or NRPOD, I’ll be able to see what triggers you, when, and where.”

Chelsea wasn’t thrilled about the fact that Dr. Wilmetwould literally be able to see what she saw, let alone understand fully how that worked, but drastic measures needed to be taken to free herself. “Okay. Makes sense.”

Dr. Wilmet sat a bit straighter, putting on a more professional demeanor. “Now, for legal purposes, I have to specify verbally that these recordings are saved and stored on our servers for research purposes only, and per your signature will remain as long as the company does and cannot be accessed by any unauthorized personnel, nor the patient. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do,” Chelsea said, clearing her throat. At that, the doctor broke a smile and relaxed once more.

“Good. From there, about after - eh - I’d say a week, our technicians should have a code that will be sent to the router and uploaded directly to your NRPD. Do you have any questions so far?”

“What happens after all of that?” Chelsea asked, her voice laced with hope.

The doctor leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap with a grin. “Then you’re free.”

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