“I’m not spiritual, but I guess I still carry some fuzzy sense of God from childhood. I’m just wondering about religious people—those who claim to have spiritual experiences.” Like those who had flocked to my bedside for miracles. “Or even not-so-ordinary people, you know, shamans, mystics, priests, saints—Joan of Arc.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“You’re saying their claims of feeling God or seeing Jesus or whatever are no more than electrical discharges in the brain?”
She played vague again. “Neuroscientists are interested in understanding the neurological basis of human experience.”
“‘The Role of Serotonin … Receptors in Spirituality.’”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You’ve been checking.”
“That’s right.” He had found a complete copy of her article online. “I’m just wondering if your theory doesn’t make you feel a little guilty.”
“Guilty about what?”
“I’m not religious, but I know people who are. And I respect their faith. I also think that with some people, religion fills a human need. It gets them through crises.”
“Okay,” she said.
“My point is, were I doing what you and your colleagues are, I think I’d feel bad.”
“Why?”
“Because the object of your research seems to be the elimination of the divine from the universe, reducing it to brain chemistry.”
For a microsecond, he felt the shuddering awareness of being in Winston Song’s head, reading his cards.
“That’s quite a charge.”
“But isn’t that what you’re doing—reducing spiritual highs and religious ecstasy to an endorphin rush?”
Her face flushed, and he couldn’t tell if she was about to burst into tears or toss her coffee at him. She did neither but took a sip to collect her response.
“That really isn’t my objective. In fact, elsewhere we applied the same diagnostics on self-proclaimed mystics—people who’d reported intense religious experiences, including Carmelite nuns. They gladly signed on and left feeling that their heightened experiences only confirmed their faith. When nuns were shown religious images—medieval paintings of Jesus, Michelangelo’s Pietà, the Vatican, et cetera—nearly every one of them said they felt the presence of God in the booth.”
“So what’s your conclusion?”
“That just because mystical experiences can be associated with specific neurological activity doesn’t mean those experiences are illusions. Likewise, nobody can say that the neurological activity you’re experiencing eating that muffin caused the muffin to exist.”
He nodded. She had a point.
Then she checked her watch and downed the rest of her coffee. “Gotta go.” She got up and put her bag over her shoulder. “See you Thursday.”
He stood up and watched her hustle out the door, wondering just what this tryst was all about.
33
Zack could tell that something was different the moment he arrived at the lab that Thursday. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but a heightened sense of anticipation charged the air. Sarah regarded him with a little gleam in her eyes, and Dr. Luria’s birthmark was glowing. Stern’s and Cates’s faces were in a forced neutral mode, but he saw something in their manner as they met in Dr. Luria’s office.
“Zack, the fMRI data the other day has been analyzed, and we’re rather impressed.”
“Because I got emotional over a few old photos?”
“Yes, in fact. Last week you asked about the nature of these tests, and we said that part of our investigation was the neurobiology of dreams. Well, the truth of the matter is that you fulfilled the requirements to proceed to the next level. Our concern is not so much with dreams or sleep per se, but with the subjective experience a person may have in a state of very deep sleep.”
Zack sensed the careful wording, but the last three words hovered in the air like plovers.
“We asked you back because the electrical activity in the temporal lobe is quite high, making you an ideal candidate for our investigation.”
“So all that was just a screening.”
“Yes, which most subjects don’t pass,” Luria said. “With your consent, we’d like to move to the next phase. We’d like to lower your metabolic activity so that your brain will be in a state of total repose, where the electrical activity is minimal.”
“How minimal you talking?”
Nobody responded for a moment. Then Dr. Luria said, “We’ll administer an anesthetic compound that will temporarily shut down the electrical activity of cell axons—the circuitry between brain cells. The individual cells will still be alive and healthy, of course. They’ll still have their enzymes, metabolisms, and ATP, adenosine triphosphate, which supplies energy to cells. But while you’re under, individual neurons will cease communicating with each other.”
“You’re going to stop the electrical activity in my brain?”
“The intercellular activity, and only for a short while. And as soon as we’re done, and you’re revived, cell communication will return.”
It was as if his ears had suddenly cleared. “You’re talking about near-death experience.”
“That’s the popular terminology.”
“Like that movie Flatliners.”
“But with a lot better results,” Sarah said.
Dr. Luria continued. “We’re investigating the few moments of space between near death and real death, which is when brain cells begin to die. But because we’ll closely monitor cell activity, we know precisely when to stop before that happens. So it’s perfectly safe. We can guarantee that.”
They stared at him—four big-deal scientists with fancy degrees, surrounded by fancy equipment and stacks of fancy journals. He couldn’t believe what they were saying. “You want to flatline me just this side of death, then bring me back? How can you guarantee that?”
“Because we’ve done it many times before. And because our methodology’s been through rigorous trials, first with mice, then higher primates. And, of course, humans.”
Stern added, “We’ll be monitoring your blood pressure and heart rate—all your vital signs—very closely and can revive you almost at once. It’s perfectly safe, believe me.”
“Has all this been approved by the FDA or whatever?”
Luria nodded. “It’s been cleared by the State Medical Board.”
“Then why the cover story about sleep studies?”
“Because we don’t want the public knowing what we’re doing here. In fact, should you agree to proceed, we’ll ask you to sign a nondisclosure statement.”
“But why?” Zack asked.
“Because of our objectives.”
“Which are?”
“To see if there’s anything to claims of near-death experiences.”
“Like what?”
“Like an afterlife.”
The coordinates of the room seemed to shift. “And I was hoping you’d cure my insomnia.”
“The local drugstore can help you there,” Sarah said. “What we’re doing is looking to see if there’s anything that lies beyond or if all the claims are reducible to neurobiology.”
“But you’re asking my consent to kill me.”
“Not at all,” Stern said. “Zack, we’ve developed a wonderful sedative that safely simulates brain death. In other words, we’ll fool your brain’s electrochemistry into thinking it’s terminal. You’ll effectively enter a flatline state for a few minutes, then we’ll give you a stimulant that immediately fires up full brain activity again.”
He looked at Luria. “It will?”
“Absolutely. There’s no way we’d endanger your life.”
“But what if my brain really thinks it’s dying and begins to turn off the rest of me?”