"Greg Egan - Reasons To Be Cheerful" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

rush of vertigo, as if I was facing nothing more than an audaciously harrowing fairground ride.

There was a reason for this.

The pressure in my skull explained most of my symptoms, but tests on my cerebrospinal fluid had also
revealed a greatly elevated level of a substance called Leu-enkephalinтАФan endorphin, a neuropeptide
which bound to some of the same receptors as opiates like morphine and heroin. Somewhere along the
road to malignancy, the same mutant transcription factor that had switched on the genes enabling the
tumor cells to divide unchecked had apparently also switched on the genes needed to produce
Leu-enkephalin.

This was a freakish accident, not a routine side-effect. I didn't know much about endorphins then, but my
parents repeated what the neurologist had told them, and later I looked it all up. Leu-enkephalin wasn't
an analgesic, to be secreted in emergencies when pain threatened survival, and it had no stupefying
narcotic effects to immobilize a creature while injuries healed. Rather, it was the primary means of
signaling happiness, released whenever behavior or circumstances warranted pleasure. Countless other
brain activities modulated that simple message, creating an almost limitless palette of positive emotions,
and the binding of Leu-enkephalin to its target neurons was just the first link in a long chain of events
mediated by other neurotransmitters. But for all these subtleties, I could attest to one simple,
unambiguous fact: Leu-enkephalin made you feel good.

My parents broke down as they told me the news, and I was the one who comforted them, beaming
placidly like a beatific little child martyr from some tear-jerking oncological mini-series. It wasn't a matter
of hidden reserves of strength or maturity; I was physically incapable of feeling bad about my fate. And
because the effects of the Leu-enkephalin were so specific, I could gaze unflinchingly at the truth in a way
that would not have been possible if I'd been doped up to the eyeballs with crude pharmaceutical
opiates. I was clear-headed but emotionally indomitable, positively radiant with courage.

****

I had a ventricular shunt installed, a slender tube inserted deep into my skull to relieve the pressure,
pending the more invasive and risky procedure of removing the primary tumor; that operation was
scheduled for the end of the week. Dr Maitland, the oncologist, had explained in detail how my treatment
would proceed, and warned me of the danger and discomfort I faced in the months ahead. Now I was
strapped in for the ride and ready to go.

Once the shock wore off, though, my un-blissed-out parents decided that they had no intention of sitting
back and accepting mere two-to-one odds that I'd make it to adulthood. They phoned around Sydney,
then further afield, hunting for second opinions.

My mother found a private hospital on the Gold CoastтАФthe only Australian franchise of the
Nevada-based тАЬHealth PalaceтАЭ chainтАФwhere the oncology unit was offering a new treatment for
medulloblastomas. A genetically engineered herpes virus introduced into the cerebrospinal fluid would
infect only the replicating tumor cells, and then a powerful cytotoxic drug, activated only by the virus,
would kill the infected cells. The treatment had an 80 percent five-year survival rate, without the risks of
surgery. I looked up the cost myself, in the hospital's web brochure. They were offering a package deal:
three monthsтАЩ meals and accommodation, all pathology and radiology services, and all pharmaceuticals,
for sixty thousand dollars.
My father was an electrician, working on building sites. My mother was a sales assistant in a department
store. I was their only child, so we were far from poverty-stricken, but they must have taken out a