earlier. It looked like the steel braces used to hold broken necks in place, the kind that attached to the skull with screws.
He looked up and smiled. “Sit down here,” he said and patted the chair. He was wearing latex gloves and a clear face shield covered his face.
“What’s that for?” I asked and flicked the bottom edge of the facemask with my finger.
“To protect my eyes. The drill bit creates a minute amount of bone dust. Nothing to worry about.”
“Uh, okay,” I said. I slid into the seat and found myself nearly lying down. The vinyl upholstery was cold and an examination light glared overhead. Austin pumped a foot pedal and the chair bent into a more upright position.
“Try to relax,” he said, swabbing a cold cotton cloth over my head. The harsh smell of rubbing alcohol burned my nose. My raw scalp tingled.
He eased the wire frame over my head and carefully rotated several knobs until the device was cinched tight against my skull.
“What is this thing?” I asked.
“A calibration guide I’ll use to place the four cranial access points. It’s like a precision stencil to ensure an accurate borehole position. After it’s in place I’ll take a few preliminary measurements, then we’ll evacuate the bone.”
“Evacuate? You mean drill holes in my head.”
“Evacuate sounds better.”
“Not to me.” I shifted nervously in the chair. “Is it a power drill, like a Black & Decker?”
“It’s a surgical drill, very precise and very expensive. I modified the entire system with software I developed to guide the cranial vault incision and the skull boring process. Someone still has to initiate the process—it’s not like you can drill into your own head, after all—but everything is calibrated; the computer guides the whole procedure.”
“Will it hurt?”
“A little,” he said. “I’ll numb the region with Xylocaine, a local anesthetic. You’ll just feel a pinch from the needle, like a bee sting.”
“It’s not the needle that worries me. It’s the drilling holes in my head that makes me nervous.”
“It’s accurate to within micrometers. Trust me.” He lifted a syringe from a metal tray and raised it over my head, out of sight. The needle pricked my scalp and I flinched. He injected me three more times then started adjusting something. “The sound is worse than the pain,” he said. “You’ll mostly just feel pressure. If you want, I can put you under.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“No.” I glanced at him nervously. “You said you’ve done this before?”
“Yeah, with help. It’s not that hard and the computer handles the actual drilling depth. Don’t worry, you’re safe. I promise.”
I winced and gripped the chair arms as a low humming began to build above me. A tingling warmth crept across my scalp and down into my forehead as the Xylocaine spread from the injection points.
Austin worked slowly, methodically attaching instruments to the headgear, but because my neck was fixed in place and my gaze locked on a bookcase across the room, I could only feel it, not see it.
“I’m ready,” he said. “Are you?”
“Will you stop asking, already?” I closed my eyes. “Just do it.”
The drill’s whirr grew louder in my ears and my pulse quickened.
“You’ll feel some pressure as the bit penetrates the bone,” Austin said. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“Stop talking,” I said.
I clenched my jaw and drew staccato breaths as a grinding sound reverberated through my head, growing louder by the second. Pressure bore down on my skull. The sensation was like having a screwdriver burrow slowly into the top of my head. The entire top portion of my skull felt like it was compressing into my brain.
The world swayed. I blinked and tried to focus on the bookshelf, but smudges of darkness and stars played at the edge of my vision.
Is this normal? I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Something was wrong.
“Relax,” Austin said. His
He looked up and smiled. “Sit down here,” he said and patted the chair. He was wearing latex gloves and a clear face shield covered his face.
“What’s that for?” I asked and flicked the bottom edge of the facemask with my finger.
“To protect my eyes. The drill bit creates a minute amount of bone dust. Nothing to worry about.”
“Uh, okay,” I said. I slid into the seat and found myself nearly lying down. The vinyl upholstery was cold and an examination light glared overhead. Austin pumped a foot pedal and the chair bent into a more upright position.
“Try to relax,” he said, swabbing a cold cotton cloth over my head. The harsh smell of rubbing alcohol burned my nose. My raw scalp tingled.
He eased the wire frame over my head and carefully rotated several knobs until the device was cinched tight against my skull.
“What is this thing?” I asked.
“A calibration guide I’ll use to place the four cranial access points. It’s like a precision stencil to ensure an accurate borehole position. After it’s in place I’ll take a few preliminary measurements, then we’ll evacuate the bone.”
“Evacuate? You mean drill holes in my head.”
“Evacuate sounds better.”
“Not to me.” I shifted nervously in the chair. “Is it a power drill, like a Black & Decker?”
“It’s a surgical drill, very precise and very expensive. I modified the entire system with software I developed to guide the cranial vault incision and the skull boring process. Someone still has to initiate the process—it’s not like you can drill into your own head, after all—but everything is calibrated; the computer guides the whole procedure.”
“Will it hurt?”
“A little,” he said. “I’ll numb the region with Xylocaine, a local anesthetic. You’ll just feel a pinch from the needle, like a bee sting.”
“It’s not the needle that worries me. It’s the drilling holes in my head that makes me nervous.”
“It’s accurate to within micrometers. Trust me.” He lifted a syringe from a metal tray and raised it over my head, out of sight. The needle pricked my scalp and I flinched. He injected me three more times then started adjusting something. “The sound is worse than the pain,” he said. “You’ll mostly just feel pressure. If you want, I can put you under.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“No.” I glanced at him nervously. “You said you’ve done this before?”
“Yeah, with help. It’s not that hard and the computer handles the actual drilling depth. Don’t worry, you’re safe. I promise.”
I winced and gripped the chair arms as a low humming began to build above me. A tingling warmth crept across my scalp and down into my forehead as the Xylocaine spread from the injection points.
Austin worked slowly, methodically attaching instruments to the headgear, but because my neck was fixed in place and my gaze locked on a bookcase across the room, I could only feel it, not see it.
“I’m ready,” he said. “Are you?”
“Will you stop asking, already?” I closed my eyes. “Just do it.”
The drill’s whirr grew louder in my ears and my pulse quickened.
“You’ll feel some pressure as the bit penetrates the bone,” Austin said. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“Stop talking,” I said.
I clenched my jaw and drew staccato breaths as a grinding sound reverberated through my head, growing louder by the second. Pressure bore down on my skull. The sensation was like having a screwdriver burrow slowly into the top of my head. The entire top portion of my skull felt like it was compressing into my brain.
The world swayed. I blinked and tried to focus on the bookshelf, but smudges of darkness and stars played at the edge of my vision.
Is this normal? I tried to speak, but nothing came out. Something was wrong.
“Relax,” Austin said. His
Similar Books
