(I originally wrote this in December 2006 for the Medgadget Sci-Fi Contest. I wanted to create a more compelling dénouement, but I was unable to come up with anything more powerful. I’m still not happy with the ending.)

—Post-Op Day 1—

The operation went well. There were no complications and I anticipate that his recovery shall be uneventful.

I still wonder if it was prudent of me to personally operate on him… but then again, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to perform the procedure.

He wasn’t living anymore; he was merely existing. If he had died on the operating table, that would not have been a bad outcome. Witnessing a man wither away from dementia is painful and, honestly, I didn’t want to support a man who looked like my father, but was actually a useless biped whom I did not otherwise recognize.

It’s like he became a different person: an infantile creature who could no longer do anything for himself. It was embarrassing to see him transform into a child.

Sometimes I can’t believe that only a hundred years ago, people actually tried to prolong the lives of these demented people with those pitiful medications that did nothing but make people nauseated and help them draw an accurate clock for a few more months. My father—or anyone else, for that matter—is better off dead than simply existing with little, if any, quality of life.

Dad was (how I want to use the word “is”) a brilliant man. When he was basically forced out of the symphony because of his memory problems, he was devastated. At that time, he had some insight into what was happening. Reminders were everywhere about his declining memory—and how heartbreaking it was for him to witness the deterioration of his talents.

And why couldn’t he be one of those pleasantly demented people? The ones who aren’t as bothered with their deficits, the ones who don’t wander around, talking all night long and reorganizing useless items all day in an effort to “make things right”?

It is completely unfair that this happened to my father. He brought life and joy to so many people with his music—why was he struck with this illness? He had so much to give. His life was robbed from him—except he wasn’t the only one who experienced this loss.

So did the rest of the music world.

—Post-Op Day 3—

My brother called today, asking how Dad is doing. He just started a new job as a curator for the art museum. It’s hard to talk about the procedure without using medical jargon, but I think I explained it well enough. I had to leave some details out so he wouldn’t get angry.

The procedure was initially tested on cats, then ultimately on monkeys. In the past, people thought that the brain was a permanent structure: once mature, it never changed, grew, or had any plasticity. Medical science demonstrated otherwise with Parkinson’s disease. Scientists were able to grow neurons from the substantia nigra in a dish and implant them, along with a solution of neurotrophic factors, into the appropriate nucleus of the basal ganglia. It’s not unlike planting flower seeds with rich fertilizer in suboptimal soil. To everyone’s surprise—remember, everyone thought that the brain would not tolerate such invasive trauma, despite the advances in brain imaging and surgical instrumentation—the neurons easily integrated into the existing neural network and the body did not reject the donor neurons. In animals, at least, the manifestations of Parkinson’s disease eventually melted away within a few months and function returned to normal.

The success has been less consistent with cortical neurons, for reasons that I don’t completely understand. There hasn’t been anything in the literature for neuron implantation to treat dementia (this could feasibly be a cure!). Although most memory seems to be consolidated in the temporal lobes around the hippocampus, Brodman himself delineated disparate and scattered areas of the brain that seemed to contribute to memory. The remarkable thing about implanting these various neurons with neurotrophic factors is that the brain somehow figures out where the neurons should go and seamlessly incorporates them into the appropriate areas. Both original memory and function should gradually return during this process.

So that’s what I told my brother. I grew some brain cells that were associated with the areas of volume loss in Dad’s brain, bored open his skull, and injected the brain-cells-plus-neurotrophic-factor soup into the specific areas.

He bought it.

What I didn’t tell him, though, is where I got the brain cells from. I didn’t know if Dad had even a few months to live, given his condition, and I wanted to hasten his recovery and get him back to his former self. It would have taken too long to grow all the different cell lines for the various areas of the brain.

I got the tissue from the buskers downtown. Though some of them have aptitude in music, it’s marginal. They’re useless. They spend their days playing mediocre music on a corner and people don’t pay attention to them. No one will notice that they’re gone. It’s a fair sacrifice, I think; their unknown, yet plentiful, brain tissue as a donation to promote longevity in my father, a man who has composed numerous pieces and has been called the reincarnated John Williams.

I find it oddly satisfying that my hands that took life away are the same hands that will hopefully allow my father to live fully again.

Maybe I’ll tell my brother about this small detail in the future.

—Post-Op Day 4—

We took Dad off of the ventilator last night and he’s now awake. He looks well. He recognized my face and, with that post-ventilator scratchiness in his voice, said my name and smiled.

I almost cried. Just a month ago, he had no idea that I was his child.

He’s still understandably tired, so I’ll save the testing for later.

I wish the time would pass faster. Given that the neurons he received were mature, I’m guessing that he should regain all of his prior function in about two weeks. He’ll have no problems fastening his own buttons, shaving his face, or walking around the city.

And then he’ll effortlessly write glorious music.

I want him back now, not in two weeks.

—Post-Op Day 12—

I took Dad home today. He looks great. He’s walking, talking, and eating. His head wound is healing nicely, there is still no evidence that his body is rejecting the neurons, and his head scans show that the cells have migrated to the appropriate locations and integrated themselves fairly well into his brain tissue. This is fantastic and I couldn’t wish for a better result.

I think we’ll go through neuropsychological testing soon. Give Dad a chance to reorient himself to my house—though, so far, it doesn’t look like he’s having any problems. He even recognized the music box in the study. He gave that to me when I was ten years old. There was a time when I was the only one who remembered and recognized the gift.

—Post-Op 13—

Dad sat through the five-hour battery of tests today and—would you believe it?—his cognitive function has significantly improved! His visuospatial skills are essentially normal and his semantic and categorical memory functions are the best I have ever seen them. His language skills are still lagging a bit, but are improved compared to a month ago. He no longer has any problems with attention.

It’s been several years since he’s looked this healthy. I think we all first noticed the onset of his dementia about seven years ago. His function rapidly declined about three years back. It was amazing to watch him talk and take these tests with ease; it’s like he’s received the priceless gifts of time and youth.

He really is a different person now—he is becoming who he once was: a great man.

—Post-Op Day 15—

Dad has taken a strange liking to steak. He was a vegetarian for many years. It’s not that he abhorred cattle cloning and farming practices; he just never liked beef. I can’t remember him ever eating a steak in the past.

That being said, it was nice to grill up a couple of steaks tonight for dinner. It’s wonderful to have him back in my life again. He’s not a demented old man anymore; he’s my dad.

—Post-Op Day 19—

Dad sat in front of the piano today and tapped on the keys. The last time he touched the piano was about five years ago. As the dementia consumed his brain, he lost both interest and skill in music.

“I vaguely remember playing this thing,” he said, “but I can’t for the life of me remember what I used to do with this. Did I really write music?”

I asked him to relax; I don’t want him to feel too much pressure right now. But, he had difficulties creating melodies and when he reviewed his past music, he couldn’t even read bass clef–which is appalling. He was known for writing moving bass lines that would carry the spirit to places only imagined.

I don’t get it. We’re nearly three weeks out from the procedure. Maybe I’m just impatient. Maybe the synapses have yet to coalesce but, with a little time, his skills will return.

I’ve already got this much of him back. I should be grateful. But I want all of him back. And soon.

—Post-Op Day 21—

Dad told me today about memories of his childhood in Utah and wondered where his two sisters now live. He then asked me where I had put his guitar and harmonica.

He ran his fingers over the photograph of Mom.

“She looks familiar,” he said, “have I ever met her?”

After taking a shower, he curiously asked me if I had also removed the tattoo from his shoulder during the operation.

He was born and raised in Vermont. He doesn’t have any siblings. He’s a pianist. He was married for over thirty years. And he never had any tattoos.

Who is this man?

One of the buskers was a guitar player who was wearing a Utah Jazz cap when I took him.

I don’t even want to think about what this means.

My dad is not demented anymore, but he’s not my dad.

He really is a different person now.