Overstimulated

The boy seems fine now, in his cancer ward bed. A little sleepy, but responsive, vitals all well inside the normal range. At 16, his mother's hovering by his side is more frustrating than calming, and he tries to ignore her constant attempts at reassurance. She is frustrated and confused, adrift in a world of dying people, bombarded by esoterica beyond her experience. The machines beep quietly at his side, but she can't help staring at them, a post-traumatic worry that they will start up in their cacophony of alarm one more time.

He doesn't have a typical form of cancer. The invading army of malignant growth is not his primary concern, at least not right now. He has pheochromocytoma, a tumor of the adrenal gland or of a sympathetic ganglion, an overgrowth of the cells responsible for deluging your body with epinephrine or nor-epinephrine. His body produces these neurotransmitters in pulsatile waves, spikes of fight or flight driving through his system. A system reserved for bringing your body to its fullest capability in moments of extreme need is being over-stressed, damaging him further each time it happens. Each wave constricts his arteries, raises his blood pressure, drives overreaction of muscles and mind. Each time it is painful and confusing, the physical sensation of terror dropped onto an unsuspecting overlay, incongruous and uncomfortable.

He is hospitalized because any of these pulses could kill him. At any time arterial constriction could become to pronounced, blood pressure too high. Each time his body speeds up it takes time away from his life, the internally generated neurochemical poison improving his bodies performance beyond its tolerance.

We are imaging him. If we can find it, we can hopefully remove it. Hopefully, the tumor is adrenal. A ganglioma can be harder to get to. But until then, he lies in his bed, almost normal.