Chapter Twenty-Five - Ethan Hernandez & Jason Havelock
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ethan Hernandez & Jason Havelock
“PLEASE HAVE A seat, Dr. Trent will be with you soon,” the medical assistant said, wrapping up a cable after taking Ethan’s vitals.
Ethan sat on the exam room table, the tissue paper crinkling beneath him. The brown-haired medical assistant, gave both Ethan and Jason a smile, wheeling the equipment out of the room. Jason sat on the chair facing Ethan, his back against the wall. He too shifted uncomfortably, both from the hard-backed chair and the sterile exam room’s muted colors.
“I’m really nervous,” Ethan said, his hands trembling.
Jason pulled the chair closer to Ethan, grabbing his hands, “I’m here. Also, remember this is a good thing. They took photos of your brain, they’re gonna tell us what’s going on.”
Ethan nodded. He hoped it was good news, something that would explain the increase of voices, images, and sounds threatening to overwhelm his inner world.
“I still can’t believe you can hear people’s thoughts. That’s gotta be crazy. What do most people think about?” Jason asked, his finger gently caressing Ethan’s hand.
“Mostly anxious things— what others are thinking about them, how they look, how others look. Some people have dirty thoughts— a lot of people have sex on the brain,” Ethan said thoughtfully.
Jason smirked, “So you can read my thoughts.”
Ethan nodded but this time smiling, “Actually, I can’t. It was weird at first, but now, it’s not so bad.”
There was a small knock at the exam room door, “Hello, Mr. Hernandez, I’m Dr. Miles Trent.”
He was a tall man, with a no-nonsense demeanor. He stepped into the room cradling a laptop in one hand and shook Ethan’s hand with the other.
“Nice to meet you. This is my boyfriend, Jason,” Ethan said, gesturing toward Jason who gave a small tight-lipped nod.
“Good to meet you two,” Trent said, perching the laptop on a counter in the corner. He adjusted the screen for Ethan and Jason to see. Jason watched Trent’s expression, searching for any hint of reassurance. Ethan sat stiffly, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
Dr. Trent cleared his throat pulling a pair of reading glasses out and perched them on his nose. “Thank you for coming in today. I’ve reviewed your MRI scans, Ethan. I want to start by saying there are no signs of a tumor or structural abnormalities in your brain. As far as I can tell you have a perfectly healthy 22-year-old brain.”
Jason let out a small, relieved sigh. Ethan didn’t move. He stared at the screen, his jaw tight.
“However,” Dr. Trent continued, “your scans do show some unusual activity. The activity levels in your limbic system— the part of your brain responsible for processing emotions and memory— are very high. Particularly, in the amygdala and hippocampus. They’re showing inordinate amounts of overactivity.”
“What does that mean?” Ethan asked, trying to recall his anatomy and physiology class.
Dr. Trent adjusted his glasses once more, “It means your brain is reacting as though it is in a heightened state of emotional and instinctual processing. Ordinarily, these areas are active when you’re experiencing strong emotions forming memories, or responding to threats. However, in your case, the activity levels are far beyond what we typically see, even in those situations. It’s as if your brain is perceiving things that aren’t physically there.”
Jason frowned and chimed in, “Like hallucinations?”
“Not exactly,” Trent replied, “It’s more like your brain is overreacting to stimuli — or even inventing stimuli that it believes is real. This could explain the migraines and your feelings of disorientation.”
Ethan swallowed, and a lump formed in his throat. “Have you seen this before?”
Dr. Trent hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Not exactly, no. But you occasionally hear of cases like this on the fringes of neuropsychiatry — claims of psychics or individuals with heightened sensitivities. Much of it is untested theory and only really explored by fringe researchers. In most medical discussions, it’s still considered pseudoscience.”
Jason stiffened, his tone sharp, “Are you saying this isn’t real…that Ethan is faking it?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all,” Trent back peddled, “What you’re experiencing is very real to you, Ethan. The scan shows that. Your brain is responding to something. It’s just that we don’t really have the medical science to explain. Frankly, your case is quite rare and I’m unsure how to support you.”
“What can you do for him now?” Jason asked.
Ethan looked dejected.
Dr. Trent sighed, “We have a few options. I’d like to forward your case to some of my colleagues at the medical school. You’re SSU students, correct? You’re aware that the Sibley-Palmer Medical Center has now been absorbed by the university. They’re bringing on some top-notch researchers who I’d like to take a look at this--”
“No. I’ve had enough of ‘brain research,’ we are, or were rather, research assistants for Dr. Richard Bellamy. I’ve had my fill of brain scientists,” Ethan said flatly.
“Yes, well. Dr. Bellamy is a divisive figure in this field. The researchers I’m referring to are much more...sensible in their approach. But, we can hold off on that for now, but our options for treatment are few. I’m going to prescribe you a low-dose antipsychotic medication. It’s going to help regulate your over-reactivity in the brain. Essentially, we are going to calm down some of your amygdala and hippocampus functioning, so you can experience a little relief.”
Ethan flinched, “Antipsychotic? So I’m crazy?” His lips pressed into a thin line, staring down at his hands.
Jason watched, “Is there any alternative?” His eyes searched Ethan.
“For now, this is the best course of action,” Trent continued, “We’ll monitor your response and adjust as necessary. If you experience worsening symptoms, let me know immediately. And consider what I said about me bringing in some colleagues to consult.”
Trent scribbled something on his prescription pad, tore off a sheet, handing it to Ethan. “In the meantime, try to rest and avoid stressful situations as much as possible. It’s likely that stress is exacerbating your symptoms.”
It was a quiet ride home. Jason gripped the steering wheel tight as he navigated the streets back to their apartment. He stole a glance at Ethan, who just stared out the window. The prescription folded neatly in his hand.
“Hey, Stormy. You brooding over there?” Jason asked finally.
Ethan nodded faintly. His expression was distant. The word antipsychotic replayed in his mind, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. It wasn’t the relief he had hoped for. It was like a label, a judgment. Something was wrong with him, and no one knew what it was.
As they pulled into their apartment lot, Jason reached and placed a hand over Ethan’s knee, “We’re going to figure this out. Together.”
Ethan forced a smile, but the gnawing sense in him wondered how and when.