From: David Victor Date: Sat, 01 Jul 2000 15:49:50 -0600 Subject: Your Soul In My Heart 1/1 Source: direct TITLE: Your Soul In My Heart AUTHOR: Katvictory & Roda 93 DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, but let us know SPOILER WARNING: Several, through Milagro RATING: NC 17; for language and subject matter might be intense CLASSIFICATION: Story, M&S UST, Mulder/Scully Angst KEYWORDS: Mulder torture, Angst SUMMARY: After waking up in his car, with no recollection of events, Mulder suffers some unusual and frightening symptoms. Authors Notes: This is a tribute to my grandfather, Angus Mc Kinnon, who passed away in 1988, after battling Alzheimer's for 6 years. This story was a catharsis, helping me to deal with the memories of his long, painful decline. It also let me share a sto ry of a child, a double Ferris wheel, and a love that touched the stars. Your Soul in My Heart by Katvictory & Roda93 "What is the glue that holds a relationship together when one person in it has changed so drastically? I think it's love. Love, and affection, and respect, and a feeling of what you have gone through together up to this time. And a feeling that you have a responsibility to take it as far as you can." - Robert Lumpkins <><><><><> Chapter 1 <><><><><> One of life's great mysteries is wherein lies the soul -- in one's heart or in one's mind. Great philosopher that I am, I once believed that the mind was the receptacle of man's essence. Now I'm not so sure, because I'm still here. I still have my soul, e ven though for a time my mind was gone and it was my partner's heart that saved me. *************** I woke up with a pounding headache, sitting behind the steering wheel of my car, which was parked on the street in front of my apartment building. My first clear thought, after some of the cobwebs had left and I'd taken in where I was and how I must have spent at least part of the night, was that I really didn't want my partner, Dana Scully, to find out about this. You see, this was not the first time I'd woken up some place, with a pounding headache, and no memory of how I'd gotten there. The lump I felt on the back of my skull actually made me happy, because it meant that at least this time I hadn't been crazy eno ugh to allow someone to drill holes in my head. But I still didn't want Scully to know that I had been knocked out again and couldn't remember who did it or why. Luckily, it was Saturday and I had no place to go and nothing to do. I went on up to my apartment, fell dead asleep on the couch and didn't wake up until Sunday noon. Now, that could have dangerously stupid on my part, since I had been hit on the head. As it turned out, a mere concussion was the least of my problems. Scully pounding on my door is what woke me Sunday. It seems she'd been calling all day Saturday and I'd slept through the phone ringing. I was half asleep when I answered and I guess I appeared pretty disheveled, because her look of concern quickly turne d to one of disgust when she saw I wasn't dead or dying. She actually thought I had been on a drinking binge, that I had been sleeping it off and woke to answer her knock with a hangover -- like that has happened so often, me getting drunk and having los t a weekend. I tried to cover for my missing memory by telling her I had a 24-hour bug of some kind, but that I felt fine now, just a little shaky. She didn't buy into my excuse for one minute, but her ideas on the truth kept her from saying anything to me at that tim e, so I thought I'd gotten away with it. I don't know if I was having some affects from the illness then or if I was fuzzy that morning because of my bump to the head. All I know was I was still tired and wanted to go back to sleep. I told her as much, us ing the excuse that I wanted to rest up for work tomorrow. Scully, having other suspicions, pursed her mouth in annoyance and shrugged. "You *are* going to be *well* enough to be in tomorrow, aren't you?" She asked pointedly, heading out into the hall. I did catch her tone this time, but was too weary to care, "Yeah," was all I said and I just might have slammed the door behind her. Or maybe the wind caught it. **************** By Monday morning, I felt like my old self. I was in the office at my usual time...two hours before my partner and took that alone time as a chance to figure out what I had been doing Friday after work that might have led up to me waking up in my car with a huge egg on the back of my head. Sometimes, I could kick myself for being so paranoid, because I found no clue to let me know what happened to my 'missing time.' I didn't think I'd been abducted, but as it stood then, the last thing I remembered was lunch with Scully at a deli down the s treet from the office. From the way my reports looked, and from messages I'd gotten, I saw I must have left early from work, around 2:30 in the afternoon. What had I told Scully was my reason for leaving? I had no idea and was trying to figure out how to discover what my excuse had been when she showed up. I put a big smile on my face, to keep her from being suspicious, but it didn't work. "Now what?" she asked, tossing her things on her desk and walking over to me a frown darkening her face, "We're going to Texas again?" I was taken aback by her question and a little hurt. "Great, can't I even smile at you anymore?" Her face softened a bit, and she looked a little embarrassed at having jumped to conclusions, but she walked over to my desk. Apparently, she had a bone to pick with me. "Sorry. I'm just still pissed because you left Friday without telling me." 'Well,' I thought to myself, 'At least I won't have to try to guess what I told her.' But I knew I'd have to come up with a reason for leaving early and because I really didn't know why I'd left, it would most likely be a lie. I knew it had better be a go od one. "Wasn't anything too important, just an old friend. We met for drinks. I knew him in college." I'm good, huh, covered everything. My mind was certainly firing on all cylinders at this point. Little did I know what lay ahead. I watched Scully's expression and she believed me. In fact, it played right along with her suspicions that I'd been hung over on Sunday, so much to my relief, the matter was dropped. We had a slow day, finishing up reports -- busy work, mostly. Looking back on it, Scully claims I had my first episode of dementia then, a little thing that means nothing, until it's added to all the other small events. She still blames herself. For not realizing something was wrong with me. Nothing I say helps her, still, I've tried to let her know I don't blame her at all. I left the office, to take some reports to Skinner's secretary. When I came back, Scully wasn't in her chair, she had gone to the ladies room. About an hour later, after I'd finished up a few more reports, I decided to turn in all our work at once. I gath ered her files and was checking through the folders, when I noticed some missing. "Scully, what did you do with the Albany Reports?" I asked, spreading the files out on her desk in order to recheck them. Scully looked at me in surprise, "What?" "The Albany files, remember? Albany, secretary at DMV, claims she's giving driving tests to aliens? I gave them to you not more than an our ago. Did you take them up to Skinner when I went to the head?" She was staring at me like I'd grown another head an d I was becoming a little perturbed. "No-o-o." "What do you mean 'No-o-o'?" I was becoming angry. I could feel my face growing red, so I took a deep breath to calm myself. I didn't know why my emotions were flaring but from the look on Scully's face, I knew my response was entirely inappropriate. Mayb e she was only teasing me, and I was totally overreacting. "Come on, Scully." "Mulder, I went to the rest room and you took them up to Skinner." She was studying me now and I guess my face went pale. "Are you sure you're okay?" She was on her feet and feeling my cheek before I knew it. She was examining my face, searching for signs of illness. "You were really sick Saturday, weren't you?" She looked crushed and I felt horrible about misleading her, but selfish bastard that I am, I let her go ahead and think she'd misjudged me. I wasn't about to tell her about getting hit on the head and waking up in my car, and I'd dug a hole too deep with my lies to stop now. "I told you," I muttered. My memory lapse bothered me, though, and I had sustained an injury, so I lied to get her professional opinion on what could be wrong with me. "I was so weak Sunday morning I fell and hit my head. See? Feel here?" I showed her my bump, wincing as she probed it with sure fingers. "Mulder! Did you lose consciousness?" Scully asked, holding my face so she could check out my pupils. "Maybe you should see a doctor." I was getting tired of every answer having to be a lie. I was getting in over my head now. I grabbed her hands and gave her my best grin. "No, I think I'm just a little woozy from having the Hershey squirts all day Saturday," She blanched at my crude description of my "illness" and I knew I could soon make her drop the matter. "How 'bout if you just take me home and we can play doctor?" That did it, the matter was dropped. Scully gave me her "Oh brother, Mulder" look and returned to her chair. "Well, do you mind taking these up?" I asked hoping I wasn't pressing my luck, holding the files out to her. I wasn't. She must have still felt guilty because she even gave me a little smile before she left to turn in our reports. *************** The week passed quickly. We investigated a couple of UFO sightings in the area, a so-called demon-possessed murderer, but nothing that panned out in any of the calls. We finished up mountains of long-put-off paperwork and did research on unsolved cases, o f which in the X-Files there is always more than I care to admit. All in all, a slow week for the paranormal. To be honest, given my quickly-unraveling mental state, it was very fortunate indeed. Had we had a case like most of the ones we take, either Sc ully or I might have wound up dead. We both need to be in top form to survive our usual investigations. And I definitely wasn't at my best. Scully noticed I was on edge, that something just didn't seem right with me, but I am an expert at hiding things, having had lifelong experience. I, on the other hand, was starting to believe there was a plot underway to drive me insane. Little things wer e missing, people would tell me one thing and then do another. Once, someone even hot-wired my car and moved it to another place in the parking lot. My emotions were in turmoil and because THEY were so clever in their fiendish plot, I never could recover any proof, so I couldn't even tell Scully what was going on. Monday of the second week brought everything to a head. I woke up, went to my closet and found all of my clean suits -- suits that I always put in Friday afternoon at the 24-hour cleaners to pick up on Saturday for the week ahead, dirty on the floor. I ha d nothing to wear for work. A quick smell check produced the suit I wore Friday as the best choice and I hurried on to work, my temper flaring at this, the latest of THEIR persecution. I was going to inform Scully of the plot against me, I had proof now a nd she and I together would find out who THEY were. Since I was running late, I didn't have to wait long for my partner's arrival, nor, once she took in my appearance did I have to explain that I'd had a problem with my wardrobe. "Mulder, Skinner's going to kill you if he sees you like that," she announced after one glance of my attire with her hypercritical eye. " That's the same suit you wore Friday." That was all it took for me to begin my tirade. I was too irate to notice that her first look was one incredulous disbelief when I put forth my "Let's-drive-Fox-Mulder-crazy" conspiracy theory. I didn't catch her expression until I was winding down and by then her look was one of pure fear and concern which I read as sympathy for me and support of my belief I was getting the "gaslight" treatment by some unknown enemy. "Did they take your razor too?" she asked calmly, when I'd finally paused to take a breath. Her question caught me by surprise and my hand flew to my face. That morning, in my anger and frustration over finding my clean clothing violated, I had forgotten to shave. I moved to the mirror we had hung on the coat closet for spot inspections of our g rooming and discovered I had neglected my hair and personal hygiene, too. I stood there stunned, shocked by my appearance. The man in the mirror was a stranger to me. Something bad was happening here, but it wasn't what I'd thought. Realization hit like a ton of bricks. What was wrong with ME? I turned to see Scully standing right behind me, her eyes full of concern. All anger was gone, I began to cry. She came to me with out stretched arms and I melted into her. "Something's wrong," I whispered to her as she held me. "I know," she answered, smoothing my hair, rocking me as she calmed me. "Don't worry, we'll figure it out." It felt like a weight had been lifted. Scully knew, and she would take care of everything. I didn't have to worry any more. I wiped my face with my sleeve and offered her a reassuring smile that I felt better now. "I'm going to call Skinner, then we'll take you in and get you checked out, okay?" She spoke slowly, almost as though to a child, but I was too exhausted and relieved to care. I felt like a child at that moment and she was better at mothering than anyone I had ever known." Mulder, have you been having headaches?" she asked checking my eyes. "This could be from when you fell, when you were sick." Now I'm used to feeling like a shit, I know I am a true bastard. I just normally don't cry about it, but the way my emotions were on that day, I broke down again. I had lied to her and it was time to 'fess up to my sins. "Scully," I sobbed, hanging my head in guilt. "I didn't hurt my head falling, I wasn't sick Saturday. I must have gone somewhere Friday after work and gotten into some kind of trouble, 'cause I woke up in my car..." "You don't remember what happened!!" she interrupted me, jumping to the correct conclusion thanks to almost seven years as my partner. My tears began anew at being caught and all I could do was nod. "We'll call Skinner from the hospital," was all she said as she quickly led me out the door. We hurried down to the car and she expertly maneuvered through traffic to get me to the emergency room in record time. I knew she was frightened by my revelations and I reasoned that I should be too, but I just felt relief that she was now handling everything. I could relax, Special Agent Dana Scully was in charge. <><><><><><> Chapter 2 <><><><><><> "Who are you?" said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, "I--I hardly know, sir, just at present. At least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then." "What do you mean by that?" said the Caterpillar sternly. "Explain yourself!" "I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir" said Alice, "because I'm not myself, you see." - Lewis Carroll *************** Scully made sure I got treatment immediately. She walked right in and loudly informed the staff that I was showing signs of dementia after sustaining a head injury that had gone untreated for 10 days. I needed to see someone STAT. That certainly got the b all rolling. It must have been a slow day in ER because almost every person there responded to her, or it might have been that my little auburn-haired dynamo of a partner just knows how to get things done. Plus she was armed. I was clad in a nightgown, IV started and undergoing a CAT scan, all within 30 minutes of our arrival. Scully stayed by my side the entire time except for when I was having the actual test. That must have been when she contacted Skinner to inform him of w hat was going on. Our supervisor told her to keep him abreast of what was happening and assured her that he would make note that the injury happened while I was working. I often wonder what the powers that be at the bureau make of some of our insurance claims, For example, being attacked by a Moth Man isn't just your run-of-the-mill, on-the-job injury. I was unusually calm and complacent during this part of the ordeal, which frightened my partner all the more. They admitted me first thing because I was showing definite signs of being disoriented. The CAT scan appeared inconclusive, so they started routi ne tests there in the emergency room, while my bed in the main hospital was being readied. A young staff doctor came in to ask some preliminary questions. The kid looked like he shaved at least once a month, whether he needed to or not. I tried to make sense of what he was saying to me, but it was as though he was speaking in a foreign language and I was too out of it to even be alarmed by this fact. I just looked up at Scully and shrugged. She, however was terrified by this development, but proceeded to lean over and repeat what the kid had asked. I was able to comprehend her for some reason, so I answered. So it went. If it hadn't been so scary it would have been funny. The young medic would ask a question, Scully would translate it for me, and I would answer if I could. One thing that concerned them was I had lost more than 20 pounds since my last visit, n ot too good a thing with my already lean and lanky frame. The early tests showed me to be dehydrated and anemic, so one of their questions was when I had last eaten. I honestly couldn't remember and Scully couldn't recall when the last time she'd seen me consume anything but coffee. Then it hit her. SHE hadn't seen me eat a thing since our luncheon at the deli the day this all started. Now, I've been in this and almost every other emergency room in and around the DC area and my reputation proceeds me. I think they have it written down in my Guinness world record size files -- Fox Mulder, refer to proctology, a pain in the ass. It was th at very fact that had them all so concerned this time. My odd personality change. I did show them a little of the old Mulder they knew and despised before I left the ER, though. Right at the end of the interview, when Scully followed the one young doctor out in the hall to discuss some aspect of my care, another child came in to start a test. My reaction to his attempt at prepping me, had Scully not intervened, probably would have caused me wind up in restraints on the psyche ward. The unsuspecting intern came in and without a word swabbed down my back. As it turned out, he was not trying to perform the spinal tap, he was just getting things ready, but I didn't know that at the time. I had almost drifted off to sleep until I felt a cold, wetness on my lower spine. I opened one eye, and watched this infant walk around in front of me and pick up a tray with a huge lumbar needle on it. "Get away from me with that fucking thing," I hissed, my displeasure evident. I leapt off the table and raced for the door, gown flapping. Doogie Howser didn't quite know what to do, he'd most likely never lost a patient this way. I don't think he wanted an escape on his record, because he foolishly stepped in front of me. That's when the screaming match began. I honestly think I would have hurt the little pisser if Scully hadn't stepped in and calmed me down. I didn't get away with not getting the test, but the kid was no where in sight when they finally did it. Some good did come from the episode, because after that my partner had them write in large letters on my chart...DO NOT PERFORM ANY TEST OR PROCEDURE S UNLESS DR. DANA SCULLY IS PRESENT. So Scully got a mini-vacation from work during my hospital stay. *************** I fell asleep, dead to the world, the minute they finally got me to my room. What followed over the next few day were endless tests and countless examinations. Most were not really painful, just very tiring. They all turned out to be pretty much useless a nd inconclusive. My doctor, a man named J.T. Johnson, explained that all they could find was that I might have been hit on the head one too many times. He informed that my problem most likely was boxer's dementia, caused from too many concussions, what la ymen call being punch drunk. It was not a good diagnosis for a field agent. I was informed I was to be released Saturday and cursed with a mandatory six-week sick leave, at the end of which I would be reevaluated. It appeared my condition had been irritated by the fact I was sufferin g from malnutrition and exhaustion, both of which in themselves can cause some dementia. I was to go home and had strict orders to rest and build my strength up. I was not very happy with what he had said and Scully read it in my face. That's when she presented a plan that she, A.D. Skinner and the doctor had cooked up. It seems that if I were to spend my convalescence at Scully's house, rather than my own apartme nt alone, all parties agreed that the six weeks could be retroactive to the date I was injured. I reluctantly agreed. Scully beamed. She really didn't know what she was letting herself in for. So, thus began Dana Scully's sentence as my primary caregiver. *************** I had stayed the entire night at Scully's once, maybe twice, the whole time we'd been together. She does have a really nice place, a bit too feminine for my taste, but all in all fairly user-friendly. She put me up in a room that wasn't too frilly and it had a really great mattress. I also had the run of the house during the day, while she was at work. My time there wasn't too bad, especially given the differences in our taste and personalities. We made do. I tried not to be a total slob and she checked h er picky nagginess at the door. I was symptom free-for almost two weeks and my emotional outburst had quieted. The tiredness and lethargy had left while I was still in the hospital, so I was back to my old hyperactive self, which did prove to be a problem. Too much time, too little to d o. That might have been why the symptoms started showing up, I really don't know -- nobody knows much about the illness. And the only way they can find out if you have it for sure is by biopsy or autopsy. At first, I blamed it on my restlessness. A.D. Skinner called each day to see how I was progressing and I think this is what spurred my next phase of delusions. I was starting to notice some little memory lapses during my second week at Scully's. They mig ht even have been just normal forgetfulness, but paranoia began to rear its ugly head. I wanted so much to go back to work and I somehow got in my head that she was reporting to our supervisor my every move. Trying to hide my slips and cover my ass just m ade me more agitated. Monday of the third week, I was cooking myself some breakfast and I sat down to watch Sports Center, forgetting completely about my omelet. I was jarred into remembering by the clanging smoke alarm and rushed into see her ruffled window curtains on fire. I put out the blaze, packed up my things and caught a cab home. What was I thinking? What was that supposed to solve? I don't know. My brain couldn't process the logical and reasonable response on how to react to what had happened. And I knew Scully would tell Skinner. My career would be over. So I ran. She, of course, followed me. I had her outsmarted, though. I bought a chain lock on the way home, so even with her key she couldn't get in. She stood out in the hall begging me to come home with her. I accused her of being a snitch. The yelling match ende d with me running into the bathroom and turning on the shower so I couldn't hear her pleas. When it grew quiet, I turned off the water. She was still there waiting, but she tried a different tactic. She promised to leave, if I'd call her. Then she left. I fell into an exhausted sleep on my couch only to wake up at 6 AM. My inner clock must have been triggered by the familiar surroundings, because at Scully's I had been sleeping until almost nine. I got up, dressed in one of the suits my partner had graci ously had cleaned for me and after a mad search for my weapon, in which I totally destroyed my apartment, armed myself and went to work. Jack, the guard that works the late shift, was still on duty. He had no idea I was not supposed to be back, so he let me pass with a smile and a "glad you're better." I went down to the office happy as a clam and picked up where I had left off, doing reports. Scully went to my apartment to bring me back home with a bolt cutter and a prayer that I had not found my pistol. She was disappointed on both hopes. She called Skinner to check to see if I had gone to the office. He saw that I had and she told him she al one should be the one to fetch me. He reluctantly agreed. She didn't mention I was armed and said another prayer Skinner would keep his word and let no one come near me. When Scully walked in, I flashed a big grin at her, all out differences of the day before forgotten. For a while at least. We conversed about our plans for the day, her leading the fanciful conversation because I had no idea what had been happening in my absence. Skinner rang in, apparently getting worried that we had not emerged from the office. It was one of the few mistakes I'd ever seen the man make. Scully talking on the phone triggered my spy delusions and I sprang from the desk, flew across the roo m and jerked the telephone from her. When I heard Skinner's voice, I lost what little reason I had. I slammed the receiver across Scully's jaw. Without a sound she dropped to the ground, stunned. Blood trickled from her mouth. *I hit you!* I don't remember much about that horrible day, but I will never forget the expression on her face when she looked up at me from the floor. Fighting tears, she reached a shaking hand out -- trying to calm ME, wanting to help ME. "I hit you," I whispered, stunned. The telephone fell from my hands, jangling when it hit the floor. She struggled to push herself up by using the desk. She saw my weapon in my holster. "I hit you," I repeated. Scully walked slowly toward me, forcing a smile across her bruised, bloody face. "I hit you," I stated in the same monotone, stuck in a groove that burned my words into my brain. "Mulder you have a gun," she stated, loudly enough so anyone listening to the phone could hear her warning. "I have a gun," I mimicked, trying to let her know that my words were a fact. I had forgotten how to speak, except to ape what I heard and those three frightening words... "I hit you." Scully held out her hand, "I'm okay, Mulder," she lied, moving closer. "Mulder, can I have your weapon?" I took out my gun and placed it in her hand. "I have your gun, now, Mulder," she announced to the listeners, then hastily added, "And you're leaving with me. Right?" "Right," I answered, walking over to her. She took me in her warm arms and I leaned heavily against her, as she opened the door. "I hit you," I cried, broken forever by the truth in my words. "It's okay," she whispered, catching A.D. Skinners eye. My supervisor... my friend, signaled the armed agents to move away and let Scully and I pass, following behind us to make sure we were untouched on our way out to her car. Scully paused as she opened the door to get me my seat and she offered Skinner a teary look of thanks as she handed him my fully loaded weapon. I saw his face as he nodded to her and he caught my eye as he shut the door. "I hit her," I told him, sobbing in guilty anguish. He nodded again. There was nothing else to say. <><><><><><> Chapter 3 <><><><><><> "At first, friends, relatives, and coworkers notice increasingly persistent forgetfulness, mild personality changes, minor disorientation, frequent loss or misplacing of familiar items, and mild difficulties finding the right word (aphasia) or performing arithmetic calculations. The affected individual may or may not be aware of these changes. This is Stage 1 Alzheimer's disease. As the disease progresses to moderate Alzheimer's disease, memory deteriorates more noticeably, inappropriate use of words becomes more frequent, and the person begins to lose the ability to perform normal tasks of daily living (cooking, dressing, bathing , shopping, balancing a checkbook, etc.). Affected individuals may wander off, become agitated, confuse day and night, and fail to recognize friends and relatives with whom they are not very close. In the final stage of severe Alzheimer's disease, affected individuals become uncomprehending and mute. They lose all ability to care for themselves, become incontinent, and are unable to feed, dress, and bathe themselves. " Taken From Alzheimers.com *************** I look at these words on the computer screen and my stomach knots. I know Scully must have seen them or ones very much like them as soon as the doctors amended their diagnosis to "Severe dementia/early-onset Alzheimer type. Which in essence meant it looks like Alzheimer's, _he_ acts like its Alzheimer's, so it must be Alzheimer's. The wonders of modern medicine. Short of them taking a biopsy or doing my autopsy, they couldn't know. Scully was there, when Dr. Johnson came into the room to tell me, a week a fter I was admitted. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm not totally recovered yet, as you can tell by my rambling disjointed tale, so guess I better start up where I left off. Scully got me back to the hospital. A.D. Skinner had called ahead, so they were ready for me, but apparently, they were not prepared for the remorseful, shivering, half-conscious mass of humanity that arrived at their door. Our supervisor had told them I might be showing signs of violence. They were confused, but one look at Scully with her bruised and battered jaw and they had me in restraints, even with her pleading against them. I can't say that I blame them, given the sight of my partner as evidence. I didn't fight, I actually didn't even care what they did to me. The only words out of my mouth proclaimed my guilt and I deserved whatever they did to me. "I hit her," I told anyone who came close. Scully, knowing that the marks on her face were a constant reminder to what I had done, found the time somewhere to clean herself up. She returned to me with the blood washed off and I think she had even applied a little makeup to conceal my sins. It didn 't work. "I hit you," I whispered, as she moved beside me and grabbed my hand. "I'm fine, Mulder," she said, whispering the words that became a mantra in response to my three-word litany. Her gentle hand smoothed my hair back and I began my whimpering sobs anew. Another CAT scan, another spinal tap, more tests, then let's do them all again, until finally the decision was made to give out a death sentence. They ruled out vitamin deficiency, lead poisoning, kidney failure, thyroid problems, syphilis, HIV, meningitis, encephalitis, brain tumor, stroke, and last, but certainly not least -- good old Creutzfeldt -Jakobs. Scully certainly had to have breathed a s igh of relief that I hadn't eaten any infected brains lately. By that time, they had started Xanex for depression and a new drug, Aricept, to slow my cognitive decline. They seemed to help, for I regained much of my ability to speak, though I still had trouble stringing complex thoughts together vocally. What did up set me was that I lost the ability to read. Single words I could understand, but more than that and the written word became incomprehensible. What baffled the doctors was the rapid progression of the illness, though. Because it was so rare in people of my age, they couldn't even say how things would progress. They were very interested in studying me, because no one knows what causes Alzheimer's to develop, so I allowed myself to become their guinea pig. That week in the hospital, being poked and prodded, I did a lot of thinking. Yes, I could still think. Not always clearly, not always logically, but losing some of my communicative skills left me little place else to go but into my mind. Being diagnosed w ith an incurable mind-degenerating disease makes you wonder about your future. In my case, I hoped, if the diagnosis was true, my future would be short. I had nowhere to go. I couldn't ask my mother to take care of me. "Wouldn't" and "couldn't" are words that come to mind with her. I didn't even bother to call her and tell her I was ill. It was hard enough to make myself understood to others, much less tr ying to make myself understood to a woman who never understood me my entire life. If and when I left the hospital, going home to Mother's was not an option. But, there WAS no where else - -except a nursing home. The thought chilled me, but I could see there was no other option. I knew Scully was going to try to argue with me that I could return to her home. I'd already made up my mind that wasn't going to hap pen. But, I needed my partner to understand my wishes and help me to carry them out. She was the only person I could turn to for help, and I had a feeling that time was not going to be on my side. The morning after Dr. Johnson had told Scully and me the diagnosis, Scully was back up at the hospital early. I was still trying to gather enough courage to eat what they had given me for breakfast. It was a Saturday, and she came up ready to spend the da y with me. "Hungry?" I smiled, offering her a spoon of my wonderful egg substitute omelet. "No, thanks, I've had my breakfast," she replied, and her expression relayed her disgust at my meal. "I'm full, too," I said pushing the tray aside, with a shrug. She took her place in the chair beside me, where she'd been every chance she'd had since I been hospitalized. I looked at her, studying her face, hurting at seeing the dark shadow that marred her chin, now fading to a yellowish-brown. I knew I had to tell her my decision today, this morning. "Scully, I need you to help." I spoke slowly, the only way I could, to get anything more than monosyllables past the barrier that had sprung up between my thoughts and my tongue. She started to come over to aid me, but I held out my hand to stop her from rising, quickly shaking my head. "No, I need you to find me a home." The minute the words left my mouth I knew she would misconstrue my meaning, so I hastily tried to amend them. "A nursing home." There was no way for her to misunderstand that. I should have foresaw her reaction, though. I knew what kind of strain all this had put her through. That was what I was trying to relieve, some of the pressure she was putting on herself to care for me. Her eyes misted over to shine a crystal blue and her bottom lip began to tremble as she fought her tears. I began to tear up myself, wishing I could say what I had locked inside. "Please," I whispered. " It's what I want." She turned her head, and I could see the small shoulders square as she struggled and won her battle for control. "Okay, but in Georgetown, It has to be in Georgetown," she insisted. I needed to be near her, too. I nodded. "Mulder, you don't need a rest home." The unspoken *yet* hung in the air. "Well, first, you're coming back home with me," Sully stated bluntly. She saw my frown and gave me her most coquettish smile, the one where she lowers her head and you can just see the tiny quotes at the corners of her mouth. "I promise not to bitch about the toilet seat." I shook my head sadly. She read my expression and realized that I didn't want to, no, make that couldn't, stay with her again. "I hit you." She flinched as though I'd slapped her. Her face fell as she blinked away sudden tears. "It's okay, Mulder," she whispered, for what had to have been the hundredth time. "I hurt you," I stated emphatically. Her chin came up defiantly," Well if they release you Monday, you can't stay at your apartment by yourself." "I know," I interrupted. It hit her then, what my plans were, why I had asked for her help now. I could see her throat working as the realization sunk in to her that I planned to go from the hospital to a home. A nursing home, where one with my illness goes to wait to die. She g rew quiet, lost in her own thoughts. I stretched out my hand and she grabbed it, holding on to it tightly. "I'm afraid," I admitted, gazing into those deep blue eyes. "Me too," she spoke in a broken whisper, as she lay her cheek against my hand. Silence. "Well, I'll see if I can find a place that offers assisted living. But it has to be in Georgetown!" I nodded. I needed her to be near, too. *************** I was released from the hospital on Tuesday. Scully had found a place, near her home, that offered both assisted living apartments and primary care nursing, for when the time came that I would need that option. It was extremely nice. I had a small kitchen ette, fully equipped right down to a microwave, but there was also a cafeteria that offered restaurant-style dining for the residents and their guests. The place also boasted a complete gym, swimming pool and a rec room with a big screen TV and Bingo twice a week. Yee-ha! Although the majority of the resident were elderly, there were a few who were my age and some even younger. The other non geriatric re sidents either had Downs Syndrome or were severely disabled. I was the only person in the building who was under 40 and afflicted with dementia --early onset Alzheimer type. It's so great to be special. My first night there, Scully and I ate microwave lasagna and salad, dining together in my new apartment. I had given up my lease, so most of my belonging were being stored at her place, but she'd brought me my TV, computer and stereo. After we ate, we tur ned on the radio and tried to play cards, but much to my frustration, I discovered I could no longer read a deck of cards. The spots and numbers both were beyond my reasoning abilities. I was just about to sink into a grumpy pout when a familiar song came on the radio, "Put on my blue suede shoes. Hopped aboard a plane..." Scully leapt to her feet and proffered her hand. I grinned broadly and took her in my arms. We danced. She laughed, God, I love that laugh -- so full throated and natural. I spun her and tried to impress her with my best John Travolta-like moves. The nex t tune was one of my favorites, from my college days and we continued to hold each other, swaying in time to the '80s-style tune. When the chorus came, remarkably I was able to sing along, so I whispered the words softly into her ear, "You're in my heart, you're in my soul You'll be my breath, should I grow old You are my lover, you're my best friend You're in my soul." I stopped, when she suddenly pulled away. She wrapped her arms about herself, bending over as though in pain. I moved to see what was wrong and saw she was silently sobbing. It was the type of anguish that is so huge it can only come out in tears, the pai n is too big, so it sticks in your throat, there's no way to even voice it. I pulled her close and eased onto the couch to hold her in my lap, rocking her gently to soothe her, softly kissing her silky vanilla-scented hair. Together, we cried. *************** That Friday, everything fell apart. My illness was proving to be one of short plateaus followed by sharp drops. I woke that morning from a nightmare, not knowing where I was. Nothing was familiar, nothing made sense and I was terrified. I ran out of the a partment and down the hall. I could recognize none of my surroundings. Luckily, the building had security cameras, for I was met by two interns and a nurse as I fled down the stairs. The nurse gave me a shot to calm me and I was taken over to the primary care wing for observation. I was fortunate that my escape was thwarted, for I was wearing no clothes. <><><><><><> Chapter 4 <><><><><><> "No magic mirror can erase These lines of living from my face. Lessons learned and lost..." Taken from "Into My Own Hands" - by Richard Page and J.Lange **************** Scully came from a military family, so, I suppose how she responded to my au naturale early morning escape attempt and subsequent rapid deterioration should be called -- closing up the ranks. I didn't see her until the next morning, but she was there, as always, by my side, not 10 minutes after they called her. It was at this point, she began to make vocal her qualms about my diagnosis. In early-onset Alzheimer's rapid deterioration is common, but nowhere had she found, in all her research during my illne ss, a slide as rapid as mine. I was careening toward the final stages of the illness at breakneck speed and to Scully's logical and fact-grounded mind, something was wrong with the way the disease was progressing. I woke up to find I was completely mute. Me, Fox Mulder, could not utter a single coherent sound. What came from my mouth terrified me more than anything else I had ever faced -- when I tried to speak mouth, the words stayed locked in my brain, all that e merged were animal-like squeals, moans and groans. I was devastated, humiliated and very, very frightened. Scully placed a warm, comforting hand on my forehead and leaned over to brush soft lips to my cheek. "It's okay, Mulder." But it wasn't. It wouldn't ever be okay again. I tried to tell her this truth, but all that came out was a mindless tone that so sickened me, I screamed in anguish. "Don't, Mulder" she whispered, leaning close to speak directly into my ear. She could see in my eyes I was lucid, so she offered me advice. "If you get upset and don't control yourself, they'll sedate you again. You don't want that, do you." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. She knew I didn't want to be doped up again. I nodded to her and met her eye, letting her know I understood and would do what she suggested. "The aphasia's worse?" Again I nodded. I wasn't about to try to speak again. I was too frightened by what my last attempt had produced. "Do you know what happened? Why you're here?" I really hadn't looked around to see where "here" was. She had been all I had focused on up to that point. I glanced around and saw I was in a hospital-style room, complete with the typical medical equipment, but the ambiance was a bit more homey. The bed -- while sickbed-like in having the push button adjustments, had a comfortable mattress and I was even covered with a handmade quilt. I recognized it as one of the rooms in the primary care wing of my new home. We had toured the nursing home part of the facility that first day I moved in. I did however, not know the reason I was now in this part of the building, so I shook my head. Scully tried to keep her face bland, but it pained her to have to tell me of my forgotten escapade. I could still blush and I did, when she relayed to me the fact I had not been dressed when I'd fled mindlessly out my door. At my old apartment, I had alwa ys been the neighbor from hell, what with fake suicides, informants and spies coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I'd even broken my lease and had a waterbed that wound up leaking through to the apartment below. But I had, fortunately, nev er streaked naked down the hallway. Knowing how the manager felt about me, I probably would have been arrested, if this incident had happened there. Scully related the tale and all I could do was lie in the bed, tears springing to my eyes. No smart ass rejoinder, no sarcastic glib replies. I had nothing to hide behind, now, nothing to defer or distract people from seeing who I really was. Not that Scu lly couldn't read me before, but now there could be no chance for subterfuge. Everything I felt, whatever thought I wished to convey, had to be there for others to see or I would be trapped by my silence. But, to lay myself out like that, open with no pr otection --the soft, vulnerable underbelly of my soul exposed, was both scary and tiring. I did it only with Scully. The one in 8 billion I could trust. When she finished, I shook my head, over and over again. NO, I couldn't take this. Things would only get worse. "Mulder, you gotta give me a chance, please," Scully pleaded, somehow knowing the turn my thought had taken. "Something is not right about this. I know it, Mulder. I feel it. Hang on and give me a chance to find out why this is happening. I don't think it 's what they say. Don't give up hope." Once upon a time, Scully had been frightened, and she clung to me like my very touch would save her, could take away her fears. This time, SHE was MY hope and I held on tight. **************** I was right, time was NOT on my side. My decline was day by day. I was losing my battle and myself. I would try to stay in the here, in the now. But, I began to wander. Scully would be there, by my side, talking to me and I would quietly watch her. The wa y she spoke, her mouth, her voice. There was so much I wanted to say. So much I wanted to tell her. And now I couldn't. It hurt. It hurt too much. So I would go back to the time, there in my memory, when I had shown her at least a little of what she meant to me. You wonder why, as we grow older that memories of the past come to us so readily. I can tell you now, I know why our mind works that way. I t's because in the past, we still have all our chances -- they still lie there ahead. The past is when we still had reason to hope. Scully watched me fade, watched me leave her, moment by moment. She says she would study me and it was as though I had gone somewhere else. She was right. Systems shut down one by one, and I wandered. I walked with my father. Not grown, but a small boy. Back when he loved me, when he could bear to look at me. Before I became the chosen/unchosen one. Bill Mulder hated heights. Only those closest to him knew this fact -- his family and a few close, select friends. Even I, his son didn't know it then, but I was only 5. He never told me his secret phobia, and by the time I would have understood, we were n't talking. My mother told me, after Sam was taken. During one of my hospital stays. I think it was the one where I "fell" down the basement stairs and first separated my shoulder. I was afraid, so she told me of Dad's fear. There in the past like, now in the present it made me remember... the county fair...he'd bought me cotton candy. It was just us guys. Samantha and Mom stayed home. I had always loved the night sky. Even that young, I would stare up at the heavens and wonder what was out there. Classic Trek, the Apollo space program, I w ould sit in front of the black and white box and visit the stars. And on that Indian summer evening I saw how I could touch the sky. The biggest ride in that little fair was the double Ferris wheel. I had to go on it. I looked up and saw my dad looking down at me. He knew what I wanted. I don't remember him even hesitating. We had the tickets and were in line. I never even had to ask. My father knew what I wanted. When the ride stopped, we climbed on board and with a r ocking jerk, we rose up into the sky. I remember reaching up my hands, high in the warm night air and touching the stars. When we set back down on terra firma, Dad quickly gave me some tickets for the bumper cars and said he'd be right back. He told me he needed to go check in on Mom and Sam. My mother told me, those many years later -- after the father I knew so well had gone, had become a broken, bitter man consumed by alcohol and guilt -- that Dad had left because he was sick. She said he'd arrived home, green of face and confessed he'd vom ited for at least 10 minutes. I went back to that night, my eidetic memory serving me well. I relived what it was like to have my father's hand, so big and strong there to guide me. How he would look at me and smile, telling me with his eyes, that I was his boy and he loved me. All th ose years, even after all that happened, all the pain his troubled mind made him inflict on me, I never stopped loving him. I finally found a way to forgive him, when I got that second chance to relive that warm autumn evening. You see, my dad once helped me to touch the stars. *************** "And Mr. Mulder do you know when our last BM was?" the witchy angel of mercy asked me, fiddling with my urinary catheter. Like I could answer, like I cared when my last shit was. My days were spent sitting in a chair, staring at the floor, losing myself, letting my mind take me wherever it chose to wander. Mom lost interest in me, slowly, that year after Sam disappeared. It was all lousy timing, everything that happened. It was bad enough hitting puberty, starting high school two years younger than all the other kids; having a sister kidnapped -- "or was she murdered by your father?" "He's been molesting her, right?" "No, I heard HE did it, he was watching her that night." "HE killed his sister, you know? They're covering for him." "He's nuts, he missed the whole fall semester cause he went crazy." "They never found her body." * Mom, why can't you look at me? What? You say you're just -- tired? Well, I'm tired too, MOM. I'm tired of being invisible. Sam's gone, but I'm here. I'm still here! Do you care? I'M HERE! * I know what tired is, Mom. Now. I know. Tired is seeing the look in everyone's eyes when you can't make it to the bathroom in time -- after they've given you another enema. Tired is trying to eat, but you start choking -- because you forgot how to swallow . Tired is waking up and not knowing why they've got a tube up your dick, so you yank it out, and bleed like a stuck pig -- then you forget and do the same thing the next morning. I understand now, Mom, why you shut down after Sam was gone, there was just too much to face. I understand now, Mom...why you forgot about me, why you couldn't bear to see what Dad did to me. I understand now, Mom. Mom, I'm so tired. *************** Scully slipped the tape into the player. She knew I slept better with it on. She'd made it with all my favorites. Called it the "Mulder Bedtime Mix." The classic golden moldies lived nightly in my room. I'd float to sleep to Trower's "Bridge of Sighs," P ink Floyd's "The Wall", The Allman Brothers' "Blue Skies", Ten Years After's "One of These Days" and Janis singing "Piece of my Heart." I had to laugh at Scully picking that one. She chose Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" Why hadn't I ever played that for her? " I feel wonderful, Because I see the love light in your eyes. And no wonder, I get awed That you just don't realize, how much I love you." Why hadn't I ever told her I loved her in a way she would have believed me. I wanted to kiss to her, to give her a real kiss. If I'd been given one dying wish, it would have been to tell her "I love you." and to see in her eyes she knew I truly meant the words. But we'd lost our chance; and all I had left regrets and silent memories. I remembered when we danced. I dreamed of her laugh, her smile. She wasn't laughing too much at that point in time. I was bedridden. My arms and legs had begun to draw up into the fetal position. They'd inserted a gastric tube, directly into my stomach - -minor surgery. I guess you could say, that tube feeding was inv asive measures, which really didn't jibe with my living will. It turned out the place Scully had picked was pretty lax on interpretation and as long as the family didn't object they would carry out whatever procedures necessary to keep their clients going . And Scully was my family and she wanted me to hang on. She didn't believe I was dying. She was going to find the answer to what was really happening to me. I actually didn't care about finding truths by then. I was only waiting for the end. I was tired. <><><><><><> Chapter 5 <><><><><><> "Next fall when you see geese heading south for the winter... flying along in V formation ... you might consider what science has discovered as to why they fly that way: As each bird flaps its wings, it creates an uplift for the bird immediately following. By flying in V formation the whole flock adds at least 71% greater flying range, than if each bird flew on its own. People who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are going more quickly and easily because they are traveling on the thrust of one another. Finally...and this is important...when a goose gets sick or is wounded by gunshots, and falls out of formation, two other geese fall out with that goose and follow it down to lend help and protection. They stay with the fallen goose until it is able to fly or until it dies, and only then do they launch out on their own, or with another formation to catch up with their group. If we have the sense of a goose, we will stand by each other like that. " Taken from - Lessons Learned From Geese - Author Unknown *************** With all the time I've had on my hands these last few months of rehabilitation and recovery, there's a lot of free moments for thought. I've become a bit of a wheelchair philosopher and I can't help mulling over how the progression of my illness is such a good reminder that life is a cycle. To every thing there is a season, a time to live -- a time to die. Dust to dust. Yadda, yadda... In the final days, it was as though I had returned to the womb. I lay curled up, arms and legs drawn protectively to my chest, a purely sensory creature, responding only to light, sounds and touch. My thoughts were trapped within me and I lived in what me mories were left to me. Scully felt such guilt. See, she didn't want me to suffer. It tore her heart, what she witnessed when she would come sit with me, but she couldn't stay away. I try to tell her now, it was she who suffered most. The X Files were closed, by her request. She returned to her teaching job, because it left her more time for me, and more time to do research. Like I've said, she was convinced that my illness was not what it seemed. She knew that with early onset Alzheim er's, a person's rate of decline could be variable, In fact, with any disease there are great fluctuations within the norm. "Scully the Scientist" would admit that is where miracles come from. Ask her today how she knew I didn't have the illness with whic h I had been diagnosed and she'll allow that it was just her belief -- one that came from her gut. I personally think what she was feeling, originated up a little higher and a bit to the left. She was driven. Every spare moment away from my side was spent hunting for answers. She bullied, cajoled, even tried sweet-talking in order to get every result from every test that was done on me. She would sit by my side, every night, long after she shou ld have been home in bed, surfing the web. She found red herrings, guesses and what she hoped were clues to what was happening to me. But she never found the final answer and every time she looked at me, she was reminded our time was running out. *************** I was almost in a completely vegetative state. This is what bothered Scully so much about my diagnosis. She knew in her soul, that in order for me to have slid as far as I did, in the six weeks since I had been admitted to the primary care wing, there had to be some underlying cause. But it was rapidly getting to the point that what had caused my illness really didn't matter. Dead is dead, no matter if it comes from the familiar or the unknown. In my dimly-lit room, she sat at her post, listening to the music that now played mostly for her benefit. After checking her last website for the night, she stood up to stretch her legs. My temperature had been elevated since early evening and gently movi ng my clenched arms aside, she placed her hand on my emaciated chest to feel how I was breathing. The harsh crackles of congestion made her frown. She knew that the fluid building in my lungs was probably what was going to take me from her. Scully wandered out into the hall, to see if she could find one of the staff to help her rearrange me to a more upright position to ease my breathing. She walked to the end and spotted one of her favorite nurses, Debbie, around the corner in another patie nt's room. Debbie agreed to stop by as soon as she finished caring for the woman she was with, so Scully gave her a nod of thanks and headed back to me. She stopped short at the corner, when she saw a man enter my room. Knowing the entire graveyard shift was female on that night, she hurried to see what was going on. Standing at my side, silently watching me sleep was C.G.B. Spender. Special Agent Dana Scully was across the room in two seconds flat. I don't know what she had planned, she was not armed, but our old adversary was cagey enough to know he didn't stand a c hance against Scully when she was trying to protect me. A mother lion protecting her cubs has nothing on her. He held up his hands in submission and cautiously reached inside his jacket. Scully thought for a moment he was reaching for his ever-present cigarettes. If that had been the case, I think she would have beaten him to death with any blunt object on hand, however, a small vial is what he held out for her to take. She grabbed it from him without a word and while she studied the clear, amber-tinted liquid, he spoke, "We only wanted to make him forget that one night," he offered sadly. Before she had a chance to respond, he was out the door. *************** Our friends, the Lone Gunmen, were the first people she called. The boys met up with her at the nursing home and took her to see a friend at GW who was well versed in chemistry and medical research. The young, paranoid genius grabbed the vial and retreate d to his lab without a word. "I think he likes you," Frohike laughed, ushering her away from the door that had opened and closed so fast it almost bit off her nose. "How can you tell?" Scully asked sarcastically, wondering to herself if she really had the energy to deal with my eccentric friends and their odd network of paranoids. "Why my little, red, foxy lady," Frohike murmured with a lecherous eye, " he was happy to see you, that wasn't a test tube in his pocket." *************** It was the wee hours of the morning when Scully and the three Gunman had all gathered back at my room. The boys were not too comfortable with the sickroom vigil but Scully refused to wait anywhere else. It was the first time any of them had visited since I had become comatose and Scully's heart ached for them each time she saw a Gunman glance over to my still, sleeping form, then quickly look away, wincing in pain. While they waited for news from the lab tech, they discussed what might have happened the night this all began. Scully asked the Gunmen if they had ever found out anything about where I had been on that, my first forgotten night. "Mulder never told us anything that day, but I remember he'd been talking about something curious going on near Baltimore. Had to do with the mouthless guys he'd told us about. The resistance?" Langly commented, twirling a clump of long blond hair as he t hought. "He saw something and that black-lunged bastard did this to him! They spent all those tax dollars and..." Frohike's voice rose with indignation. Scully shushed him, and he blushed, realizing that this was not the appropriate venue for his soapbox. He glanced over to see if he had disturbed me, and though relieved that he hadn't, it was a reminder of what THEY had done to me. My partner almost crie d when she saw his eyes glisten with tears behind his thick lenses. "They're not going to get away with this, not this time," the eldest Gunman choked, absently cleaning his glasses as he wiped the wetness from his face. " Payback is a mother-fucker." Scully was just about to ask what he had in mind when the phone rang. Langly hit the button so all could hear what was said. "Where did you guys get this?!" Jamison Bradley's voice crackled excitedly over the speaker phone. "Guess," Frohike spat back, disgust lacing his voice. He, unlike Byers and Langly, showed his pain in anger. " What is it?" There was a pause, the sound of papers shuffling as the unseen speaker scanned through his notes, then finally answered , " It's some kind of anesthesia that inhibits Acetylcholine, I can't say for sure but it seems to go directly to the cholinergic syste m and temporarily causes memory loss. Hey is the government putting this in our water or something? Is this why Alzheimer's on the rise? If that's the case..." The Gunmen all looked at Scully, questions in their eyes. They understood less than half of what their friend was saying. To my partner however, the cause of my illness became all too clear, but it wasn't the news she wanted to hear. She now knew what had given me my Alzheimer's-like symptoms, but what she was hearing offered no idea as to a cure. However, it was a start. "Jamison?" she asked, moving closer to the phone. "Yes, Dr. Scully?" "I was told the effects of this were supposed to be temporary, does it look like it could cause permanent damage?" Scully asked, biting her lip as she struggled to put the pieces of a puzzle together. Again, there was the sound of shuffling paper and then they heard Jamison dropping the receiver. "Sorry, ahh...I tried a little experiment and found that one subject recovered fully but the other, the one I concussed, showed signs of dementia from the get go. The autopsy showed no signs of pathological damage to the brain. but of course this was onl y a preliminary test." "Did you look for signs of Beta amyloid?" Scully hurriedly asked. "Of course, isn't this supposed to mimic Alzheimer's disease? I didn't see any, but it was only four hours that passed." "We'll get back to you Jamison," Scully said quickly, reaching to disconnect, "stay close to the phone. And see if you can do some more trials using the same criteria. " All three men stood around waiting for Scully to explain. She was oblivious to this fact. Her mind was searching for an answer that seemed so close, yet so far. "Agent Scully?" It was Byers. My partner blinked in surprise when she saw the trio all clustered around her. "What gives, pretty lady?" Frohike asked. Scully smiled her embarrassment and tried to let them in on what Jamison's call had told her. "Jamison says that Mulder was given this...stuff, that's in the tube. From what the Smoking Man said, I think it's only supposed to cause temporary memory loss. For some reason, on Mulder, it wasn't temporary. It works by impeding the neurotransmitters to the part of the brain that affect memory and cognitive abilities. What we have to find out is why Mulder was different. Was something triggered that caused the Alzheimer's-like symptom?" Byers seemed to understand and asked with a nod toward me, "But does it cause the twisted fiber things and plaques that Alzheimer's does? Is it already too late to help him?" Scully raised a brow in surprise at his knowledge. She smiled at the blush on his bearded cheeks. "My grandmother, she's back home. She's in the last stages, too." "I don't know. It looks good that he doesn't show any of the signs of developing the plaques -- but he never has. I want Jamison to try a couple of more experiments, give the symptoms a little longer to develop, maybe a couple of days, then well know bett er if we can try some things I've found." All three men turned at her words and looked over to me. They could hear me struggle to breathe in the stillness and they all turned back to stare at Scully, wishing they had her faith that I had two days left. *************** It was late Sunday when Scully finally called Jamison to discover how the tests were going. The Gunmen, each with his own laptop, had been helping her track down all possible treatments in the event that the young chemist's experiments showed a reason to hope that my condition had not caused the same permanent damage that Alzheimer's did. Scully was speculating that my reaction to the amber memory-loss liquid had been spurred by my body's reaction to me getting hit on the head. If she could find a connection, and the test on the lab animals looked good, she had a few ideas on treatments th at might help. Jamison Bradley answered after the 12th ring, just as Scully was ready to hang up. The young man had gone the entire weekend with little sleep, but he sounded his normal hyper-excitable self when he told her of his findings. "I think Dr. Scully, that as long as your subject isn't ApoE4, there's a chance that upping his Acetylcholine treatments and maybe adding large doses of Beta Carotene could restimulate the neurons. Might even try estrogen, that's shown to help." "Thanks, Jamie," Frohike answered, because Scully was already phoning Dr. Johnson with the news she had prayed to hear. I had the test long before and they had discovered I was ApoE2. In laymen's terms that meant I had inherited certain protective qualities in my brain that allows waste cells to be carried away and that help the brain to regenerate itself. This might be th e reason, after all the concussions I've suffered, I'd never developed, before the CSM's little injection, any signs of brain injury-related diseases. It was a good thing for the treatment that Scully planned. Those who have the ApoE2 gene tend to respond to THA and estrogen combinations better. The doses Scully planned to give me to jump start my neurotransmitters were unheard of, but it was the only way she could see to counteract the drug I'd been given. The problem now, was twofold -- first, would my body survive the many potential side affects of the rigorous treatment Scully proposed, and second, had my brain sustained too much irreversible damage during the long time it wasn't receiving the necessary neurotransmitters? Just how many neurons had been destroyed and would my body be able to repair the damage that had been done? Would I be saved, but not be able to make it back? This is what worried Scully most and there was no way to know for sure. Immediately, I was given huge doses of Acetylcholine-increasing medication combined with a new synthetic form of DHEA, a sex hormone. What Scully hoped was that since there had so far been no clear signs of the plaques and tangles that make Alzheimer's th e irreversible disease it is, I might have a chance to recover. If Scully had her way, the miracle would happen and tell me, how often have you known Dana Scully not to get her way? <><><><><><> Chapter 6 <><><><><><> A Gifted Unity Tears give voice to my pain. Silent, you do not hear them fall. Silent, as the sense of helplessness that surfaces when I recall... you, a shadow of your former self, somehow a reflection of me a person on a journey here a human being. I feel the pain and face the fear, then slowly letting go I bring your picture near, knowing your body is a harbor for your soul and this part of your journey leads to your becoming whole. We are connected you and I both born to live and someday die. Your living stretches me beyond the corridors of pain to a gifted unity on a spiritual plane. Beyond Alzheimer's your spirit lives. Written by Viola Doncaster *************** Two days into my treatment, I recognized Scully. I smiled at her. She cried. It was working. Slowly, steadily I was coming back. By the end of first the week, they could raise my bed up and I didn't fall over. I could hold myself upright in bed -- not much, but pretty damn good, considering where I had been. What was even more amazing was that my cognitive abilities were returning by leaps and bounds. There were a few bumps in the road. Ever know anything that I'm involved in not to be bumpy? The second week I developed severe nausea and vomiting from one of the medications, one of the common side effects. Scully and Dr. Johnson cut the dosage, hoping it had done its work. It had. I stopped throwing up. The aphasia was disappearing, much to the staff's disappointment, because I was starting to bitch. This time I can blame my lousy disposition on the hormones. By the end of the first month, I was eating -- real food, through my mouth. The best thing that happened, though, was I discovered I could read. My eyes still didn't track too well, but Scully found if she cut a piece of cardboard so I saw only one word o r phrase at a time, I was able to comprehend the written word again. It was like meeting an old friend. I'd reclaimed one of the joys of my life. At the end of the second month, I was able to sit up in a chair. All my tubes and catheters were gone. My motor skills were one of the only areas that were slow in coming around and my muscle tone was shit. Simple things like brushing my teeth and feeding myself were still beyond me and though I was grateful to be alive and on the road to recovery, I was still frustrated by all the things I had lost and had to relearn or retrain myself to do. My first day outside came on a bright Saturday morning. Scully entered bearing gifts. "What's that?" I asked, when she sat a large paper bag on the bed. I was sitting in my place by the window, watching the beautiful late spring day pass before me. I was in a bit of a crotchety mood. Scully could barely contain her excitement, " New clothes, We're going to get dressed and take a stroll outside." Who was this beaming, bouncy person standing before me -- not Dana Scully? "You got a mouse in your pocket?" Old, cliché, but she had me puzzled. I'd never seen Scully this bubbly, this irritating. She ignored my sour grumpiness and grabbing the bag, knelt down in front of me. "This is ..." I couldn't find the word, and was about to give up when it came to me, "interesting." She continued to pretend I was still mute and grabbing a pair of blue sweats from the sack, she began to pull them up over my scrawny legs. With her help I stood, and placing both hands on her shoulders for balance, I allowed her to pull them up over my h ips. I was still searching my mind for an, if not glib, at least risqué remark, when she gave me a gentle shove to sit. Her blue eyes twinkled when she pulled out a Knicks sweatshirt. My mood mellowed and I held up my arms without a complaint, letting her pull my hospital gown off and slip my new shirt on over my head. She stepped back to see how she'd judged the sizes. No ne too well, for the clothes swallowed me. "Have they weighed you yet?" she quizzed, returning to her knees to put on the socks and running shoes she'd removed from her bag. I nodded, not really wanting to admit the truth, " Yeah, 121." I tried to picture what that weight must look like on my 6-foot frame. I didn't want to think about it. Even in the bath, I kept from looking in the mirror. The aides were still shaving me, brushing my teeth. Nope, I didn't want to know. Scully interrupte d my musings with a warm hand on my cheek. "You ready to go?" she asked. I could see in her eyes that she knew how my appearance bothered me, but I didn't really want her understanding compassion right then. I made my face a blank and nodded. Scully chose not to say anything, hoping my excursion outside would improve my mood. It did. She rolled me down the ramp to the empty courtyard. The air was alive with the scent of flowers, grass and a recent rain shower. The lawn in the center looked inviting and luckily, Scully moved me to it so she could sit on the bench that sat beside the li ttle patch of sod. I tried to remove my shoes, but couldn't, "Can you help?" I asked, motioning to my footwear. "Take them off." Scully nodded and once again, knelt in front of me. As soon as she removed the last sock, I inched my way over and dug my toes into the blades of grass -- heaven. I sighed in contentment, tilting my head back to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the cool gr ass beneath my feet. "It don't get no better 'n this," I murmured. Scully laughed and I opened my eyes to watch her and drink in the wonderful sound. "I love your laugh," I whispered, touching the slightly pink skin of her cheek. I could see the first of her summer freckles appearing and wished she'd let them come. My compliment caught her by surprise and her cheeks colored even more. She met my gaze and I drowned in the blue depth of her eyes. She reached out to softly touch my smile and I kissed the tips of her fingers. The mood was interrupted by the door opening, and we watched as an elderly couple made their way down the ramp. The man walked beside his wife, arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder, helping her to cross the uneven ground. He smiled warmly when the y passed us and we returned the greeting. "Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be," Scully whispered, to herself, to me -- I don't know. "Thank you," I said, grabbing her hand. "For what?" she seemed almost confused. "For everything." I smiled. She nodded and kissed my forehead, then stood and took me inside. *************** It was early summer before I was able to get an apartment in the assisted living building, but Scully came over to help settle me in and I treated her to take-out Chinese for her help. My motor skills were returning. I had advanced to a walker and only us ed the chair when the distance was long or the walking treacherous. I had gained weight too, I was up to a whopping 142 pounds. Still way too skinny, but at least I didn't look like a corpse anymore. When I looked in the mirror I didn't scare myself, so I guess things were improving. I still hadn't mastered writing by hand and tying my shoes was still a problem, but that's why God invented keyboards and Velcro. Scully finally told me about the X Files closing, not long after we'd sat in the courtyard. I was disappointed, but it streng thened my determination to get back on my feet and hopefully back to the job. I knew I still had a long way to go, but perseverance is one of my few virtues. We were discussing my plans as we ate, but were interrupted by the phone. I answered it. It was Melvin Frohike. I was surprised when he asked to speak to Scully. Dumbfounded, I handed her the receiver and tried in vain to discover what the conversation wa s about. All I could hear was the one side. "Hello. You found the place? Good, did everything go okay? Great, so it's done! Yes, perfect. Yeah, I'll let you know if I hear anything. Thanks. 'Bye." Her eyes glittered as she spoke and it almost seemed like she avoided meeting my eyes as she handed me back the phone. "Okay," I said, my interest piqued. "What was that all about?" She smiled mysteriously, "Oh, he was just asking me how I was doing," she lied. I studied her face, the picture of inscrutability and knew I would not get any more from her, " Yeah." I groused as she busied herself by picking up the empty takeout containers. "So, " she said, sitting beside me after quickly depositing the trash in the kitchen area. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?' Reluctantly, I let the Frohike matter drop and tried to get find the proper mood for the conversation I had been planning for so long. Now that the moment was here, I didn't know how to begin. All the words I'd planned to say vanished from my head and I w as left to awkwardly stare at my shoes. "Well?" Scully said after a long silence, leaning over to try and catch my eye. I don't know why I did it, but suddenly I grasped her face and pulled her to me, quickly moving my mouth over hers, before either of us had a chance to think about my actions. She seemed to resist at first, but at my tongue's gentle prompting, her mouth r elaxed and her lips parted. A real kiss, the first promise to myself was fulfilled. When she pulled away, I felt the time was right for my second desire. "I love you," I said, looking her straight in the eye, wanting her to know how much I truly meant it. She seemed stunned, but after a moment her eyes softened, "I love you too," she admitted softly. It was more than I'd hoped for, a lot better than "Oh, brother," but I wanted to reassure her, the pressure wasn't on. That we had time, we needed time to make sure this could work. I was afraid, I knew she was too. I didn't want to rush, to make a mistak e that might jeopardize the relationship we'd built over our years together. I told her as much, speaking slowly, choosing my words carefully. She agreed. We sat together in comfortable silence, listening to the mix she'd made me, contemplating all that we'd been through together and all that lay ahead. It was good and when the song came on, she lay her head against my chest. So sing it Rod: "You're in my heart You're in my soul You'll be my breath Should I grow old You are my lover You're my best friend You're in my soul." *************** 900 W Georgia Street Later, that evening He was tired. Nothing seemed to go right anymore. And he felt old. His hand moved to the telephone. He would call her, his dark-haired beauty. But then he paused, not knowing if it was really sex that he wanted right now. He knew she used him to further h er own agenda, that she really didn't love him. She wasn't capable of love, he knew that. She'd used Mulder, too. That knowledge gave him a chuckle, but it turned into a cough. It always did, now -- just like his mother... No! He was too tired to go there . He reached in his coat for his ever-present Morleys. It was empty. He groped in the dim, flickering light for the cigarettes he always kept beside his chair and found them, waiting for him. Sticking a finger in the half-open pack, he dug around for the la st one and was surprised by a painful prick. He quickly flicked on the lamp and his stomach sank. Looking at his finger, he saw the blood well up --a tiny drop, there on the tip. He felt the dizziness come and prayed that the reaction Mulder had to the potion had been passed on from MOTHER to son. <><><><><><> The End <><><><><><>