1

The Seer

Clifford Beck

Copyright©2016

For My Brother, Randy

No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness.

-- Aristotle

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 1

His life was ruled by logic, and having been deemed a genius, received his bachelor's degree at the youthful age of fifteen. From there, he was accepted by Harvard Medical College, where he excelled beyond anyone's expectations. He seemed to soak up the material at an astonishing rate, more so than some of his colleagues. However, his only difficulty was the anatomy lab. Even with their heads shaved, and their faces covered, the sight of the dead disturbed him deeply. But logic replaced fear, and once he began to see the medical cadavers as objects of learning, his genius, again, expressed itself. Four years later, at almost twenty years old, he stepped down from the stage, having graduated in the top two percent of his class, as Doctor Gordon Richards, and with the help of his mentor, he had secured a residency at Maine Medical Center. It was one of top cardiac hospitals in the country, and licensed as a level one trauma center, with over six hundred beds. It was guaranteed that he would witness human tragedy, and suffering on a level his mind couldn't possibly imagine.

His first rotation was the Barbara Bush Children's Hospital, and as rational and stoic as he tried to be, he found the sight of suffering children nearly overwhelming. There was no doubt in the young doctor's mind that he would not go into pediatrics. He did his job brilliantly, but privately, expressed his belief that no child should be in a hospital beyond their birth. This idea was compounded by his first experience of seeing one of his small patients die. Born with an aggressive brain cancer, the two year old was not expected to survive beyond the age of three, and when the time arrived, he sat with the child's single mother as her first born died in her arms. As a doctor, he was supposed to be objective, but as a human being, he reacted the way anyone else would. However, he was not at liberty to express his sorrow until returning to the quiet solitude of his apartment.

His next rotation was the emergency room, and critical care. It was there that Doctor Richards would receive the broadest experience of human ailments and injuries. He would everything from babies, short of breath, to traumatic open head injuries, sustained in collisions or freak accidents. He was fascinated with the variety of cases that seemed to endlessly flow into the emergency room, but there was one particular type of case he found especially interesting. Illnesses and injuries are generally fixable, but it was mental illness that most drew his attention. He was fascinated by such conditions as schizophrenia, ego spitting, bi-polar disorder, and suicidal ideation. But, he was not yet specialized, and lacked a complete understanding for the dynamics of the human mind. Yet, he got as much pleasure in learning as he did in talking with those compelled by their illnesses, consumed by irrationality and confusion. The variety of symptoms was amazingly diverse, with claims of involvement with the CIA, conversations with God, and catatonic immobility.

By the time Doctor Richards finished his rotation in the emergency room, he had discovered what would become his life's work, as a practicing psychiatrist. He knew he couldn't save people from themselves. After all, people are never comfortable with the idea of change, and cannot be 'fixed'. It was also through his interactions with these particular people that he realized that all he could do is open the door to recovery. The patient would have to walk through, even if turning the knob took months or years to accomplish. However, the remaining two years of his residency were filled with valuable learning experiences--not only in medicine, but also in the matter of the human element. One can be an experienced specialist, and still have no people skills. Without these, the practice of medicine becomes devoid of humanity.

Chapter 2

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Three long years later, Gordon found himself not only a licensed physician, but a different person. He had witnessed more than enough human pain, and done things that few would have the stomach for that he had matured far beyond his years. But as his last rotation began, he took the time to apply for his fellowship, and once again, returned to Harvard. As a psychiatry fellow, his genius blossomed as his fascination grew. He was particularly impressed by a bizarre case of a woman in her twenties who had suffered frequent and intense sexual abuse at the hands of her father, beginning at age four. The horror of these experiences only continued when she gave birth at thirteen years of age. The child was taken by the state, but not before the father was taken into custody on, among other charges, incest. One might think that this would be the end of her trauma, but the damage was already done, and in an attempt to protect her psyche, her developing ego splintered into fragments, each forming its own identity. By the time she began therapy, the young woman had developed twenty separate personalities. She likely would not have sought treatment at all, had it not been for one of her personalities attempting to commit suicide. One night, she rolled into emergency room of Boston General Hospital, where Gordon was assigned the residency for his fellowship. She had driven a serrated knife into her chest, but because of the serrations, she was unable to either pull it out, or push it in the rest of the way. Some of her personalities withdrew, while others panicked. Fortunately, the strongest personality took charge and called 911. As soon as fire fighters and paramedics burst through the door, the young woman blacked out. Because of the trauma associated with the nearly successful suicide attempt, all her personalities withdrew, and none would be able to recall what led to her bout of self-destruction. But, it was Gordon who was able to get her to open up, as at least, two of her personalities told almost identical stories of the event. However, the reason for it was not clear, and it would take years of integration therapy to see only a partial recovery.

Again, what took years, culminated in the accomplishment of his long term goal, and Gordon left his fellowship a board certified psychiatrist. There was only one more decision to make--where would he practice? He remembered back to his residency in Maine, and although he hadn't seen much of the state, he recalled the smell of the ocean in the early morning hours, sunsets over the White Mountains, and the howl of winter winds as they spun their way around the hospital during cold, dark nights. He had his choice of going anywhere in the country, but felt himself pulled back to Maine. But before leaving his fellowship, Gordon also decided against working in a hospital. Positions were rare, and the hours were long. He was not, at this point, a married man, and thus far, did not have time for dating. However, he still required something of a personal life, a way to blow off steam, and eventually, this came in the form of photography. When he wasn't working on the business plan for his practice, he was making his way up and down the southern coast of Maine, photographing everything that caught his eye.

Chapter 3

After going through the convoluted process of provider approval with the insurance companies, Gordon acquired a small rental property where he would set up his practice. A small office on Saint John Street, it was not what he had initially envisioned, but it was a good location, and there was an additional space for a secretary. He knew that money would be tight, and for the time being, he would have to field his own calls. This was not as difficult as he had first imagined. Having ten to fifteen minutes between sessions, he would check his voice mail, return calls and make appointments. For now, it seemed to be a well working system, and soon after he began circulating his name amongst primary care physicians, his appointment book began to fill up. People came to him with a variety of problems, some more serious than others. One young woman, referred to him by the court, had been in trouble with the law since her early teens. He noticed her gaunt, aged face and the lines of red inflamed needle marks alone her arms. After her initial assessment, he reached the diagnosis of bipolar disorder, with symptoms ranging from tears, and fits of anger to uncontrollable bouts of physical activity, and racing thoughts. With its rate of suicide, he wrote her a prescription of Lithium. There were newer drugs available, but Lithium was an older drug, and there was more data regarding its use.

It was during this first visit that Doctor Richards also inquired about any use of street drugs. Self-conscious about her track marks, the woman slid a hand up one of her arms, as if trying to conceal them. But after a few moments, she explained that she'd been using heroin since the age of thirteen, and that once, while in a hospital, she had been caught in her room while cooking up the substance in a spoon. And yes, she was still using. The doctor referred her to an addiction center in Portland for methadone treatment, and scheduled her for weekly sessions. Knowing how much she needed the help, the young woman agreed to attend, and true to her word, she was there every week, pouring out her soul. Recovery would be lengthy, and managing her medication would be a lifelong process.

It was at some point during the first months of his practice that Gordon's mother passed away. She had been in treatment for an aggressive brain cancer, and the family knew that death was inevitable. But, know that death would soon arrive didn't make things any easier when the time came. Her death was merciful. One day, she slipped into a coma, and was gone within a matter of days. On instructions from the family, the machine used to keep her alive was turned off, and she was allowed to quietly fade away. When he was younger, she had always told him, 'pick one thing to do with your life, and commit yourself to be better at it than anyone else'. As he stood in front of his mother's open casket, he wondered, for only a moment, what advice she might have given him as his life unfolded as a practicing psychiatrist. Two days later, he returned to Portland, and was back behind his desk, trying to escape the distraction of his own crisis. His patients, however, would never know. Not only would it be unprofessional to share his personal difficulties with them, but it would be unfair. They had enough to deal with.

Chapter 4

A few months had passed, and Gordon was well on the road to resolving his mother's passing. However, he had taken adequate time to grieve. His patients needed their doctor, and one or two had him paged through his answering service. Had he been faced by someone in similar circumstances, he would have strongly advised that they take the proper time to express their pain. But Gordon was not the patient, and ignored the whisperings in his mind, telling him to take him to take a few days off. Perhaps, he let his sense of commitment get in the way of his health, or maybe he believed himself to be immune from the need to cope with the pains of and uncaring world. Whichever it may have been, Doctor Richards would soon be visited by someone who would irreversibly change his life, forcing him to stray outside the boundaries of logic, investigating things that defied the objectivity he so firmly stood by.

As usual, his appointment book was full, and he would soon be able to hire a secretary. Life at the office was becoming routine, and Gordon took it as a sign of business stability, but this would soon be shattered by the arrival of a new patient. Patrick Green had been referred by his physician with symptoms of heightened anxiety. He suffered from insomnia, palpitations, sudden feelings of doom, and difficulty leaving his house. He considered it a minor miracle that he was able to get to his appointment at all. Upon his initial assessment, Gordon found him to be of above average intelligence, with features of depression, and obsessive disorder. He questioned him about his past, mostly his childhood. Many times, the brain can be 'rewired' by trauma, especially abuse, only for some event, or stressor, to trigger an illness that might be with someone for the rest of their life.

It was during Patrick's second that Gordon decided that medication was necessary, and prescribed him an anti-depressant. He considered an anti-anxiety drug, but wanted to see how Patrick would progress first. Some drugs work better than others and often, the prescribing of medication is done on a trial and error basis. If one presents problems, another is tried, and new drugs are developed constantly. But as luck would have it, the first drug seemed to be the right choice, and as time passed, Patrick's symptoms began to ease. However, although his depression was improving, he was still experiencing moments of heightened stress and distraction. Over time, Gordon reached the conclusion that either there was something Patrick was holding back, or he was being affected by a repressed memory. In the meantime, Patrick needed a way to relax. Gordon taught him a breathing technique meant to provide a build-up of CO2 in the bloodstream, triggering the release of the brains natural painkillers, prompting relief. At first, it seemed to work, until Patrick began hyperventilating. Gordon was still hesitant to prescribe an anti-anxiety drug, as most were narcotics, and until he knew his patient better, he didn't want to take the chance that Patrick might become addicted.

At a loss for other solutions, Gordon began researching for other methods of relaxation, and turned to the internet for assistance. He read many articles on meditation, bio-feedback, and self help book promising instant results. But, he knew the idea of a quick fix was a fallacy, that healing takes time. However, after hours of reading, he stumbled onto something he's never heard of before, a piece of technology that could provide results within a short period of time. It didn't seem to be anything close to a cure, but appeared to represent a step in the right direction.

According to his research, these devices were referred to as floatation tanks, and there were two in Portland that could be used by the hour. It was constructed to light proof, and sound proof, with a highly concentrated solution of salt water. One would enter naked and lying down, float on the salty solution. With the absence of light, sound, and sensation, a deep state of relaxation could be achieved with the experiencing of hallucinations, as the mind attempts to create its own reality. Gordon spent hours reading personal accounts by people who experienced such things as seeing lights, colors, hearing music, and the feeling of leaving their bodies. Considering Patrick had never displayed any symptoms of psychosis, Gordon felt it was safe to recommend it. As a form of treatment, it was highly unorthodox, and not approved as a tool for therapy. However, his recommendation would not be formal, and would go undocumented. He didn't expect anything significant, and didn't want to over medicate his patient.

Two days later, Patrick arrived for his next scheduled appointment, and during their conversation, Gordon noticed how cold he seemed to be. His skin was mottled, and he displayed a noticeable glimmer of sweat across his forehead. Patrick denied any physical ailments, leading Gordon to conclude that his symptoms were the result of continued stress. Upon further discussion, he discovered that, currently, life was anything but stressful for Patrick. His job was stable, his relationship with his was healthy, and in spite of living alone, he did have something of a social life. The doctor came to the conclusion that Patrick's stress was reflexive, that something from his past had rewired him, forcing him into a life of anxiety, likely brought on by a trigger. If he could discover the trigger, the trauma would lay just under the surface. That was the long term goal. But for now, Patrick needed a safety valve, a way to vent the constant stress that was dominating his life.

Patrick, he began. I can't officially recommend this, but have you ever heard of something called a floatation tank?

After a moment's thought, Patrick, never even having heard of such a thing, inquired as to what it was. Having thoroughly researched its use, Gordon explained it to him, stressing again, that it was not approved for clinical use. He also asked that, regardless of the outcome, he'd like to know what effect it had on him. He didn't expect any problems, but he was highly curious, and if it worked, it would represent a positive step in Patrick's treatment. However, Patrick was not so sure he wanted to be shut up in such a confined space. Combined with the absence of light and sound, the idea of being cut off from his senses brought up an unknown variable he wasn't sure he wanted to experience.

Chapter 5

Over the few days, Patrick continued to entertain the idea of seeking the use of a floatation tank, and doing his own research, discovered there were two in Portland that could be used for fifty dollars an hour. Like Doctor Richards, he read the personal accounts of those who had used one for the first time. They were well written, and told of a pleasant floating sensation, religious experiences, hallucinations, as well as a profound sense of mental clarity. Overall, it seemed as though nearly everyone who had documented their experience left the tank with something positive. Some made the claim that the experience changed their life, and if there was one thing Patrick needed, it was change. Sometimes, finding 'x' has nothing to do with academics, but everything to do with locating a misplaced variable, that one piece of the puzzle that provides for a healed life.

He rose one morning with an odd sense of resolve, and after eating breakfast, Patrick got in his car, and headed to work. He held a lower management position in a medical lab on the edge of Portland, one that many of its employees felt to be at the bottom of the barrel regarding wages, and a positive approach to management. Throughout his day, Patrick repeatedly considered Gordon’s advice, becoming more comfortable with the idea of using a floatation tank to drift off into an oblivion of sorts, where the negativity of life no longer existed. It was as though the decision had already been made for him. He simply needed to follow though, and make an appointment. If nothing else, he would fall asleep, wasting both his time and money. But, if the accounts he read were reliable, the hour he'd spend in sensory deprivation might lead to an eternity of self discovery, a way of becoming someone with a mind reshaped by the nothingness of floating in a soundless black void.

Arriving for his appointment, Patrick was shown to a small room where the glossy blue tank was placed near the far wall. The door to the room had been replaced by a curtain, and a privacy screen set in the corner. As soon as he walked in, he noticed an obvious new age ambiance. A small table stood against a side wall. Near its middle sat a Tibetan singing bowl, surrounded by crystals of every color. Next to that was a ceramic plate where a tied stalk of sage lay. Patrick didn't see how these items had any practical use, and wasn't the kind of person to believe that such things possessed any unusual properties. But, having paid for the hour of use, he stepped behind the privacy screen, and removed his clothes. Opening the tank, he dipped a hand into the heavy solution of salt water, and found it to be the perfect temperature. He found a small stool nearby, and used it to climb up into the tank. As he laid down, he reached up, grabbed the inside handle and close it. Stretching out, he relaxed his body, and allowed himself to float on the mix of salt water. After a few minutes, the water became as still as glass, and slipping into the silent darkness, hear the beating of his heart, probably for the first time in his life. Moments later, the overwhelming sound of his churning stomach entered his ears. The world of sensation and perception fell away as Patrick drifted into a deep meditative state, and from within his mind came a flood of colors, lights, ideas, and music. By cutting off the world outside, he was to experience the world within, and somewhere deep inside, Patrick the tumblers of a lock engage as the door of his soul opened. But, some things are best left locked away, far from view, concealed from awareness.

Suddenly, Patrick was transported back to another place and time, as he found himself in the house he grew up in. The outside walls were bare, and gray with an old rickety two car garage behind it. Inside, the walls were stained with age, and small leaks that had run down from the attic. The kitchen's linoleum floor was torn in places alone its edges, and displayed small holes from years of wear. It stood out as an eyesore of poverty in a middle class neighborhood. From the kitchen came the enraged voice of a dark haired man, and as Patrick moved closer, recognized the face of his father. In the corner, near the back door was a woman, screaming and cowering, terrified for her life. Directly behind him was a small child, a boy no more than six. He stood in the kitchen door, wide-eyed, with tears rolling down his face. The man's tirade escalated into violence as he picked up a wood handled kitchen knife, and grabbing her by the throat, thrust it deeply into her abdomen. The woman was immediately consumed by shock as her mind quickly shut out her perception of pain, and closed her off to what would soon end her life. The still enraged man ripped the knife from her body, only to continue with his violent outburst. By the time it was over, the woman lay on the cold linoleum floor in a rapidly growing pool of blood, while a small amount of fat and bowel protruded from the deepest of her wounds. The child, however, still standing in the doorway, bore a blank expression, with unblinking eyes as the spark of his psyche was extinguished by an event he was unable to absorb,

Having heard the woman's screams, a next door neighbor called the police, and by the time they arrived, the woman was dead. Her husband sat on the couch with the knife on the coffee table in front of him. Its wooden handle was deeply stained with blood, and layers of clots had begun to form on its steel blade. The man was hand-cuffed and removed to a waited police car, while the coroner examined the woman's body. Upon conducting a search of the house, police discovered the small boy curled up in a corner of the cellar. A social worker tried to gently question him, but found him to be in a state of shock, and unable to speak.

Patrick was suddenly pulled back from what he realized was the scene of his mother's murder. The dark silence of the floatation tank had brought out something he was not ready to cope with, and in a state of panic, Patrick threw open the lid of the tank, climbed out, and ran out of the room. During the chaos, the woman who owned the tank rushed out to investigate. Patrick, not having completely dressed, ran past her, and out the door, leaving her confused. Getting into his car, he turned on the engine, and blindly pulled out into traffic, missing an oncoming truck by were inches. Going into the floatation tank, Patrick anticipated the experience Doctor Richards had described, and didn't expect anything negative. And although he had uncovered the cause of his anxiety issues, the memory of his mother's death had emerged far too soon. In fact, it could do him more psychological harm than good.

Chapter 6

Four days later, a detective from the Portland Police department arrived at Gordon's office. Patrick had not been at work for three days, and without so much as a phone call, his boss decided that a visit to his apartment would be wise. After calling the police, an officer was sent, and the first thing he noticed was that Patrick's car was still in the driveway. Circling the house, the officer found the curtains drawn, and shades pulled. Trained to suspect the worst, he entered through the front door of the apartment building, walked through the dimly hallway, assuming he would find evidence of a break-in, or a violent crime. Finally, reaching the door of Patrick's apartment, the officer listened intently for even the smallest sound – the creak of a floor board, a sigh, anything that might indicate something suspicious. Hearing nothing, the officer knocked on the door.

Mr. Green? he said. Portland Police! You okay in there?

There was no response. The officer stepped back from the door, and looking near the floor, noticed a light still on. Stepping up again, he knelt near the floor, and noticed a strong odor wafting up from under the door. Although he was trained to recognize the scent, it was one he rarely encountered. He quickly assessed that something in the apartment was decomposing, and in the summer, the heat only sped the process.

Moving away from the door, the officer radioed for backup, reporting the situation as a possible homicide. Within a couple of minutes, the apartment house was surrounded had become surrounded by police, as well as other emergency vehicles. A battering ram was brought in, and the front door of Patrick's apartment was shattered into toothpicks. Officers swarmed in with guns drawn, and quickly discovered that the apartment was not the scene of a murder, but a suicide. The found Patrick in his bedroom, lying on his side, his brains scattered on the wall behind him. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that, having acquired a handgun, Patrick had sat on his bed, his back toward the wall, and put the barrel of the gun in his mouth. Pulling the trigger, a single round exploded out of the barrel, entered his throat, and blew out the back of his skull. Having occurred within the last three days, the trails of blood and brain tissue clung to the wall in a dried clotted mass. Evidence technicians were called in to photograph the room, as well as Patrick's blood soaked remains. Every shard of bone, every clump of hair was located, photographed and cataloged. Arrival the arrival of the county coroner, Patrick's body was zipped into a vinyl bag, and removed. Three hours later, the police left the scene--leaving someone else with the gruesome task of cleaning up the stinking mess of decay.

Now, the detective stood in Gordon's office, inquiring about Patrick's treatment.

Doctor Richards, he began. Do you know a Patrick Green?

Gordon answered wit a quizzical expression.

Yes, Patrick is one of my patients. May I ask what brings you to my office?

The detective took a small appointment from his pocket, and laid it on Gordon's desk.

We found this in his apartment, he said. Can I ask you what you treating him for?

Gordon was bound by confidentiality, and apologetically refused to give the detective any information.

Doctor Richards, the detective continued. "Let me be clear. Your patient is dead. We believe