In the latest of our shortlisted entries to the 2011 Wellcome Trust Science Writing Prize, Stuart Farrimond describes a distressing experience and looks at the mechanisms behind it.
The hard wooden floor hurts my back. I am awoken to the sickly plastic smell of an oxygen mask. A large figure looms over me as fluorescent yellows and greens begin to appear. This stranger’s smiling face comes into focus. He seems to know my name but I can’t understand why. Slowly my bedroom ceiling comes into view. It is the middle of the night, not the normal alarm and sunrise I expected. Like a drunk, I blindly fumble for something to hold on to. When I grasp a handful of electric cables and an extension lead I feel oddly reassured. The friendly paramedic, now kneeling at my side, asks me my address, date of birth and occupation. This is a quiz in which I should be an expert but each answer sticks to the tip of my tongue.
I have just had an epileptic fit and I am scared. Lying on my bedroom floor I am awake but not completely present. This detached twilight existence after a seizure is called the ‘postictal’ state. My mind is enshrouded in fog, but as I am wheeled to the back of an ambulance I begin to remember my name.
The human brain is both an elegant work of art and a scientific enigma. Unbecoming in appearance, it has a soft, slimy surface of pinkish-grey wrinkles. Hiding under this dull exterior are three dimensional spirals and shapes that look like the swirls of an artist’s brush. This masterpiece is unique – elegant in design, unsurpassed in power, yet tragically fragile.
More adept than any supercomputer, our brain is unlike any PC. It has neither transistors, silicon chips nor magnetic discs, and is made of a single microscopic component. This basic tiny part – the neuron – gives the brain its incredible abilities. Every thought and feeling is a product of these tiny cells. Like rush-hour commuters squashed into a Tokyo underground train, 100 billion neurons are squeezed into the skull’s rigid confines. Individually each one is insignificant, but together they interlock to form vast networks. Shunning loneliness, each cell uses finger-like tendrils to grasp other neurons. Countless connections between the cells are continually established, broken and re-formed, allowing us to form new memories and ideas.
In response to every sensation, be it spoken word or emotion, regions of neurons burst into activity, with different areas of the brain responsible for different faculties. Within our skull, electrical charges surge along these twisting biological wires, but technology allows us to watch these hitherto unseen firework displays. We can look on as patterns of activity of flash in and out of existence, each crafting unique images.
Lying on my bedroom floor my wife reassures me with calming words. Neurons, like people, communicate among themselves. However, neurons talk not in sound but in chemistry. At the cell’s terminus bubbles of chemicals burst, releasing liquid fragrance messages for their neighbours to receive. Using a chemical vocabulary as diverse as spoken language these chemicals, known as neurotransmitters, combine into communication cocktails. Nearby neurons interpret these signals using molecular receptors on their surface. These chemical words are just as fleeting as the electrical signals that initiate them, vanishing mere milliseconds later.
The brain, with its chemicals and electricity, is constantly held in a delicate balance. In health, this world is in harmony. On the night of my seizure, something unknown tipped the scales. The symphony of electrical beats and chemical melodies degenerated into dissonance. Neurons sparked uncontrollably, meaningless chemical messages spewed forth and I let out a scream. Anarchy was unleashed. Lightning blazed throughout this once tranquil landscape and my body shook violently. Mercifully, this fierce electro-chemical storm did not last forever. As screaming neurons eventually became quiet, so my uncontrolled cries silenced. Families of neurons became calm and bodily convulsions ceased. Clouds of chaos eventually started to clear and slowly a peaceful new day began.
Stuart Farrimond
This is an edited version of Stuart’s original essay. Views expressed are the author’s own.
Find out more about the Wellcome Trust Science Writing Prize in association with the Guardian and the Observer and read our ‘How I write about science‘ series of tips for aspiring science writers.
Over the coming months, we’ll be publishing the shortlisted essays in this year’s inaugural competition
Image Credit: Wellcome Images
Filed under: Guest posts, Wellcome Trust Science Writing Prize Tagged: Brain, Epilepsy, Neuron, Wellcome Trust Science Writing Prize
