NEUROBEHAVIORAL PLANKTON ii
(Autistic author)
The doctor stepped in,
his tentacles moving
gently as he spoke.
"Mr. Plankton, it's
important to stay
calm. This is a
big change. Can
you tell me your name?"
Plankton's gaze
flicked from Karen
to Dr. Kelp, his
expression a mask
of confusion.
"I'm Plankton," he
managed to say, his
voice shaky.
The doctor nodded,
his tentacles still
and calm. "Good. That's
good, Mr. Plankton. Do
you know where you
are?"
Plankton's eye
darted around the
room again, his
breathing growing
rapid and shallow.
He looked down
and then back up at
Karen. "What's happening?"
he repeated for the third
time, his voice
now a little more
frantic.
Karen's heart
was in her throat.
The doctor's
explanation was
beginning to take
root in her mind,
and she could see
the stark reality
of their situation.
Plankton's repetition,
his difficulty with
understanding new
surroundings and his
increased sensitivity
to sound—these were
all hallmarks of his
new autism.
The doctor
continued his
assessment.
"Mr. Plankton,
can you tell me
your wife's name?"
he prompted.
Plankton's gaze
shifted to Karen,
his expression
becoming more
focused, as if her
presence was the
only familiar
thing in the room.
"Karen," he said,
his voice
softening slightly.
The doctor
nodded, making
a note on his
clipboard. "Good.
Now, can you tell
me what happened
before you woke up?"
Plankton's eye
flitted back to
Karen, searching
for answers.
He began to
rock slightly, his
body moving in
a rhythmic
motion, a common
self-soothing behavior
for those on the
autism spectrum.
Karen recognized
it immediately
but seeing it in
Plankton was
jarring.
His gaze darted
around the room,
his pupil dilating
with every new
sound or movement.
The doctor's tentacles
were a blur of
activity making notes.
"Mr. Plankton, I
see you're feeling
You're almost ready
to go back home
with Karen." Dr. Kelp
says calmly. "Just
one more question,
if you don't mind. Now,
can you tell me if you
have any pets?"
Plankton's eye
flitted around the
room. "Pets? Spot!
Yes, Spot. Amoeba
puppy; Spot.."
The doctor nodded,
his tentacles
still scribbling notes.
"Very good, Mr. Plankton.
It seems like your long-term
memory is intact, which is a
positive sign. Now Karen can
take you home!"
Karen felt a
wave of relief
crash over her, but
it was tinged with
the stark reality that
their life was never
going to be the same.
Plankton's autistic
mannerisms were
now a constant
reminder of the
accident—his
newfound need for
routine, his heightened
sensitivity to
surroundings, and the
way his eye would
dance around the room
as he tried to
make sense of
his environment.
As they arrived home, the
stark reality of their new
life hit Karen like a wave.
His once-quick steps had
been replaced with a
cautious shuffle, as if the
very floor beneath him was
unpredictable.
Inside, Plankton
was drawn to the
rhythmic ticking of the
grandfather clock,
his eye fixated on the
second hand's journey.
Karen watched him. His
newfound need for
predictability was
overwhelmingly apparent.
"Let's sit down,"
she suggested,
guiding him to their
couch, which was
now occupied by
Spot.
Plankton's gaze
flitted around the
living room,
his eye alighting
on his beloved
amoeba puppy
Spot.
"Spot," he murmured,
his voice tentative,
as if unsure if
his words would
have the same
effect they once did.
The pup looked up
at him, its blob-like
form shifting
slightly with excitement.
But instead of the
weariness Plankton
has shown today, he
joyfully watched Spot's
movements. Karen felt a
moment of warmth—
his love for Spot hadn't
changed, nor their usual
interactions.
The doctor had
told her that routines
were vital for those
with his condition. So,
she decided to start
their day with a
familiar activity:
breakfast.
Plankton's eye
lit up at the
sight of the
familiar kitchen.
He took his usual
seat at the table,
his hands fidgeting
with the napkin. Karen
noticed his meticulous
arrangement of his
silverware, the way
he lined up his plate
and cup perfectly
parallel to the edges.
As she prepared
their meal, she
could feel his
gaze on her,
his eye darting
between her and
Spot, who was now
playfully chasing
his own tail in a
loop around the
living room.
He began to
hum a tune,
his voice off-key
and repetitive.
Karen's with love
despite the
pain she felt.
The clanging
of pans was
loud in the
silence, making
Plankton flinch—this
was going to be
so much harder
than she had
anticipated.
The doctor's
instructions echoed
in her mind:
stick to routine,
keep things simple.
Karen set the
breakfast plates
down carefully,
each item placed
exactly where
Plankton liked it.
His eye grew wide
as she slid his plate
closer. He stared at
the food for a
moment, then picked
up his spoon.
The clink of
metal on porcelain
was like a gunshot
to his heightened
sensitivity. He
dropped the spoon,
his hands shooting up
to cover his head in
distress.
"It's okay,
sweetheart," Karen
soothed, moving
quickly to
his side. She
retrieved the
spoon and set it
aside, her hand
trembling slightly.
"You don't
have to eat
right now," she
said softly, her voice
a gentle caress
against the tension
in the room.
Plankton
nodded slightly, his
breathing slowing as
his hands uncovered
his ears. He
fidgeted in his
chair, his eye
darting to the
ceiling as if
searching for something.
"Let's go read
a book," Karen suggested,
desperate to find
anything that might
calm his nerves.
Plankton nodded
slightly, his gaze
still unfocused. He
stood up carefully,
his body moving
with the precision
of a man who knew
his world had changed.
As they approached
the bookshelf,
his eye caught
a glint of metal
from the corner
of the room.
The invention
that had brought
them here lay in
a tangled heap,
its wires and gears
silent and
ominous, giving
him déjà vu.
Plankton stopped,
his body rigid,
his gaze locked
on the machine.
He stared unblinking,
his mind racing
back to the crash.
Karen notices his
suddenly unmoving
form and gets concerned.
"Plankton?" she calls
softly, but he doesn't
react.
His entire being
seemed to be
consumed by the
wreckage of his
former life.
The invention, a
testament to his
former brilliance,
now a grim
reminder of the
accident.
"Plankton, honey,"
Karen's voice was
barely a whisper
as she tried to
get him to talk.
He didn't move.
The invention, a
tangled web of
wires and gears,
seemed to hold
his gaze captive.
It was the very
machine that had
caused this
transformation.
Karen followed
his gaze, her heart
sinking as she
realized the source
of his distress.
"Let's go to
another room," she
suggested gently,
her hand resting
on his arm.
But he didn't move.
Karen felt the
weight of the
moment settle
heavily on her
shoulders. It was
time to face the
reality of their new
life together—a
life where Plankton's
once sharp wit and
innovative spirit
were now clouded by
a disorder she
was only beginning to
understand.
Her heart
swelled with
sorrow as she
observed his
interaction with
the inanimate objects
around him. The
love she had for
him remained
unshaken, but the
thought of what
they had lost—what
he had lost—was
almost too much to
bear.
"Come on," she
coaxed, her voice
gentle as a lullaby.
"Let's go to the
living room. I'll
read you a story?"
Yet Plankton remains
frozen. So Karen made a
decision. She
couldn't bear the
thought of that
accursed machine
looming over them,
a constant
reminder of the
tragic turn their lives
had taken.
With a fierce
determination she
hadn't felt in
ages, she strode
over to the invention
and began to dismantle
it, piece by painful
piece.
The metal
clanked and clattered
as she worked,
her movements
quick and sure,
each part coming
off with a
satisfying crunch.
Plankton's eye
followed her, his
expression unreadable.
When the last
piece was removed,
his gaze lifted
to meet hers,
his eye filled
with something
that looked akin
to gratitude.
"Thank you, Karen,"
Plankton murmured,
his voice a
quiet rumble in
the stillness of the
now bare room.
Karen paused in
her task, her eyes
meeting his with a
surprised expression.
This was the first
time since the
accident that he had
spoken to her with
anything other than
fear or confusion.
"You're welcome,"
she said, her voice
choked with emotion.