When I was in 4th-turned-8th grade, I was assigned the short story “Flowers for Algernon” in English. It appeared in one of those ridiculous textbook readers of stories that always comes with grandiose seventies-style illustrations and a total excess of mundane observations and question-prompts about the work. The story had a profound impact on me, though, despite its setting, and is one that I carry to this day.
The story went on to be novelized and is probably more known in that form, though I never got around to reading the novel. I really should (put it on the list – the endless list that is making no progress since writing full-time has somehow rendered me more or less unable to read). I’m not sure of the subtle differences and there’s a part of me that thinks what was in the reader may have actually been (gack) the abridged novel and not the actual original short story. Doesn’t matter. What hit home was the concept of the work.
The gist of “Flowers for Algernon” (spoiler alert!) is that this guy with a 68 IQ is given the opportunity to undergo an experimental surgery that triples his intelligence. Algernon is the lab rat that preceded him in this test and becomes his friend. The surgery works and we get information from the primary source (the guy being experimented on) about his increased intelligence and how he can see the world. His intelligence not only initially surges, but it increases over time, making him smarter and smarter while the rest of the world is left sort of dumbfounded by their inability to relate to him.
Now reading this after skipping four grades would seem to have a pretty obvious and explicable impact right there. But this is not actually what stuck with me particularly, though I could well relate to the isolation the subject was feeling. Rather, what stood out was the tail-end of the story, where Algernon suddenly declines precipitously, eventually dying as his brain basically atrophies to the point of disappearance. And of course the subject, the source of the story, realizes this is his fate as well and is irreversible. And the slow creeping horror of having intelligence, of knowing that you’re going to lose it, of being capable of understanding one’s own impending decay – this is what stuck with me.
The story aided this, of course, by being extremely well written and chronicling his slow decline as his speech slurs and his grasp on understanding slips and he finds himself increasingly desperate to chronicle his last intelligent thoughts, then thoroughly frustrated by what he can’t do, and finally rendered utterly amazed by what he used to write and can no longer comprehend.
Today, I slammed my head into an absurd metal bar protruding from the dumpster-sized recycling bin across the street from us. I was carrying an overfull box of paper recycling and had set it down under the bar without seeing the bar or consciously registering it, making sure to set it down out of the street.
Then I stood up. Fast.
I didn’t see stars or lose vision or even hurt that much. It took me a second to realize what had happened and then I had a frantic 30 seconds trying to assess how bad the injury was. I feared blacking out in the road. Then it didn’t hurt too much and I looked at the nasty metal pole and cursed its arbitrary existence and wondered why I wasn’t hurt worse. And lamented the fact that I seem to be remarkably accident-prone lately, what with the tiger toe and all, and then I settled in and worried about Algernon.
I think I worry about this a lot, for some reason, and it’s hard to say if I did before reading the story or if the story is entirely responsible. Discussions of Alzheimer’s have a similar affect on me, though it’s unclear how long one has to be aware that one is losing one’s mind under those conditions. I think it all has something to do with my general sense of urgency, my concerns about an early death, the whole picture. The sense that I’m just one stupid accident away from being plunged into a slow devastating decay toward unintelligence.
It’s not that I’m one of those super klutzy people or am always going around walking into walls. But I do have trouble with spatial realities, as those who really have logged the most time with me can attest. I fundamentally question the world’s physical existence and like to think as little as possible about my own body as a corporeal entity. I don’t always double-check my surroundings for poles or obstacles. I got in the habit around puberty or a little before of running around everywhere, moving quickly, something that probably relates to the upside of manic depression or is perhaps a lingering testament to my youthful exuberance. None of these really add up to an avoidance of objects that could do me harm, especially (I guess) when it’s combined with illness or the things I’m relenting to take to combat same. As evidenced by the toe and now the head.
Long story short, I think I’m fine. I got really sleepy at 8 PM and went to bed for two hours, prompting a huge conversation about whether I was concussed just before I rested. The thing doesn’t even hurt, unless I touch it, in which case it’s very sensitive and kind of welty and painful. But I wouldn’t notice it if I just left it alone. The thinking, though, that’s an issue. I notice myself monitoring myself, trying to make sure I’m still firing on all cylinders, that I still have my cognizance.
Maybe it’s a ridiculous fear to have. But the only head I’ve ever been in is this one and I’m quite fond of what it enables me to perceive. As Dan Quayle said, a mind is a terrible thing to lose. If only I didn’t have so many other functions attached to my head. Or could stop using it as an attempted battering ram.
