Tomlinson's Syndrome

My isolation room is windowless cubicle only twelve feet by ten, and it is painted thickly in a sick-looking, drab institutional green. I am told it is a "negative pressure chamber" like those used to isolate TB patients. Doctors and nurses who enter or depart create an audible whoosh as the pressure differential between the room itself and the outside environment causes the air to rush through the door - this is, in theory, supposed to prevent the unwanted migration of my mystery microbes across the threshold. The medical staff wear disposable clothing like you might find in a high tech industrial clean room - weird looking getups that remind me of radiation suits - and no one touches me who hasn't passed through an ultraviolet chamber, a disinfectant shower, and other precautions I can only guess at. Or so I'm told.

After two months of being cooped up, I'm bored, so I've taken to jotting down my impressions in a spiral notebook that Dr.Goldman gave me. So "Hi" to anyone who ever gets to read this. I'm Tomlinson, and I still don't know when or if I'll ever get out. So far, I still feel fine. I get to exercise, I eat three square meals a day, and I read. I don't have a television in here, but that hasn't bothered me. I never used to watch it at home, anyway. Thankfully, they do let me have all the books I want.

When they first brought me here, I was almost hysterical with anxiety. I didn't know what I had, and neither did the specialists. You can imagine what it must have been like - you go to the doctor for a routine checkup and whammo - you're hustled off to the hospital. No time to prepare, psychologically. They must have drawn enough blood from me during the first couple of weeks to replenish the hospital's entire blood bank. Tests, tests and more tests. They sampled my urine, my feces, my exhalations, and even my hair and fingernail clippings. No kidding. I was X-rayed, CAT-scanned, ultrasounded, and imaged with magnetic resonance. I was even psychoanalyzed. And then, just this morning, Dr. Morton came in and told me about his article in the medical journal. Tomlinson's Syndrome. Named after me. I know I wouldn't have felt much like reading it - after all, it was probably couched in longwinded medical terminology, and the whole idea gave me the creeps anyway. You'd think I'd have been more curious, but I wasn't. They say some people get lightheaded and queasy at the sight of blood - I got lightheaded and queasy at the mere

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