“Imprisoned within flesh, yet free in spirit – an inspiring journey of resilience through the blink of an eye.”
Watch the original version of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Prologue
In the world we live, communication forms the basis of our very livelihoods; through words and gestures, we express our selves and our lives. But imagine a world where all these means are stripped away, and you are left with but a single conduit: the blink of an eye.
Such was the world of Jean-Dominique Bauby. The man who once held court over Paris’s fashion scene, who lived in its vibrancy and commanded its attention, was now held captive within his own body. Reduced to silence, captive in a shell; a blink his only voice.
In the face of sheer adversity, Bauby chose defiance over despair. With a determination that humbled even the able-bodied, he embarked on a journey of living, blinking, and telling his story. His was a world not of physical freedom, but rather the liberty of the mind. And so, begins the tale of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.
Chapter 1: Trapped in Ice
Ah, Paris! The land of fashion, wine, and joie de vivre, joy of life. Bauby was a man who reveled in it all, at the helm of Elle France, shaping the very sentences that colored the Parisian fashion canvas. Thriving in the ephemeral world of glitz and glamour, Bauby was invincible, or so he thought.
Like an insidious shadow, the stroke crept upon him in the winter of 1995. A medical Chernobyl, some called it; a catastrophe that ravaged him from within, tearing through the cerulean corridors of his veins, leaving a wake of destruction. As swiftly as it had descended upon him, it left him, leaving Bauby in a state of shock, his body a 43-year-old prison of flesh and bone.
The aftermath was surreal. Bauby floated in a hushed limbo, detached from the world. His world lost its color and vibrancy, replaced by sterile white walls and hushed whispers. Monitors beeped rhythmically, their green waves rising and falling like an unending techno symphony. The once eloquent and commanding editor was now completely immobile, save for a tiny, fluttering window to the world: his left eye.
The doctors termed it ‘Locked-In Syndrome.’ His entire body was paralyzed, save for the single fluttering veil of his left eye. Like a prisoner confined to solitary confinement, Bauby’s world was now limited to the tangible reality of his hospital room and the boundless walls of his mind.
As the days blurred into an endless cycle of feeding tubes and silent tears, Bauby realized his predicament. He was trapped. Not in a crystal-encased box, nor a tight cocoon, but within a body that refused to participate in life, whilst his mind raced ahead with fervor. He was encased in an icy dive suit, submerged under the ocean, unable to break free.
Yet, within this chilling desolation, hope sprung like a resilient bloom. His left eye, a lone sentinel, held the key. And so began his remarkable journey of survival, locked within, with a blink as his only beacon. His life, once filled with the clamor of Parisian streets, fashion shows, and endless chatter, was now reduced to silence. It was the silence of his new reality.
Bauby’s story is a testament to the indomitable human spirit. The slow and laborious blinking may have confined him physically, but mentally, it set him on a path to freedom. The blink became his Morse code, his lifeline, and eventually, his voice. The silent world of Jean-Dominique Bauby was about to echo with the powerful tale of The Diving Bell & The Butterfly.
Chapter 2: Silent Screams
In the dense, oppressive silence of the hospital room, Jean-Dominique Bauby lay confined, a prisoner within his own body. The surrounding world faded into soft hues and blurred lines, his senses dulled under the force of his condition. The vibrancy of life he once knew replaced starkly with a paralyzing reality.
Reality. That bitter pill that carried the taste of disbelief, anxiety and despair. For Bauby, an imperious editor of Elle France, life was once a sublime cocktail of scintillating soirees, intellectual tête-à-têtes, and artistic expression. But now, the harsh sting of an existence reduced to the single blink of an eye sat heavily within him. He was a man drowning in a sea of stillness, his silent screams swallowed by the depth of his physical entrapment.
Bauby’s world contracted to the tiny hospital room, filled with the sterile scent of disinfectant and the monotony of routine. Every morning, the nurses would enter, their white uniforms a sharp contrast to the dull beige of the hospital walls. They would check his vitals, speaking to him in hushed tones, their pitying glances betraying their professional masks. All the while, Bauby lay there, feeling every ounce of his helplessness, his silent screams echoing inside the hollow shell of his own consciousness.
Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. As the world outside moved on, Bauby’s reality remained frozen in cruel perpetuity. His only companion was his mind, a vast and turbulent ocean of thoughts, memories, fears and regrets. His thoughts became his solace and his torment. He pondered on the fragments of his past life, the aroma of his favorite coffee, the rhythm of his typewriter keys, the soft silkiness of a woman’s touch. The memories flashed before his eyes, each one a sharp reminder of the life he once lived and lost.
The sense of isolation gnawed at him. He was trapped in the profound silence that was his new existence, a noiseless symphony of torment playing on repeat. His words, once his most powerful tool, were now prisoners within his mind. He yearned to express, to scream, to tell the world of his predicament.
But then, in the midst of his desolation, a flicker of light appeared. His left eye, the only muscle that defied his paralysis, moved. A blink. His heart pounded in his chest as hope ignited within him. Could he communicate? Could he break through the impenetrable silence that shrouded him?
With newfound determination, Bauby and his speech therapist, Sandrine, developed a unique coding system. Each blink was assigned to a letter, painstakingly arranged in order of frequency. The process was laborious, requiring immense concentration and patience. But Bauby had time, plenty of it, and a burning need to express.
Slowly, like a child learning to write, he started communicating. The feeling of forming words, of constructing sentences was exhilarating. It was as if he was reinventing language, creating a symphony of blinks. He realized that even the most devastating strokes could not rob him of his voice completely.
Each passing day brought a new level of proficiency. His silent screams now had a conduit, a series of blinks that spelled out his thoughts. His world, once muted by his condition, was now filled with blinks, each a word, each word a breath of life.
It was through this tragic yet transformative journey that Bauby realized his strength. He was defeated, but not destroyed. His body was paralyzed, but his spirit was free. His life had altered irreversibly, but his mind was undeterred, resilient, unbroken.
In the deep, unsettling silence of his existence, a new sound emerged. The sound of hope. The sound of perseverance. The sound of silent screams breaking through the confines of his physical entrapment. The sound of Bauby’s enduring spirit – a testament to the indomitable human will.
This was the beginning of a new chapter, a blink in the darkness. Jean-Dominique Bauby, the man trapped within his own body, had found his voice again. His silent screams were silent no more.
Chapter 3: Blinking Letters
The days blended into one another, a ceaseless monotony of sterile hospital sheets and hushed whispers in the corridors. But among this drone of indistinguishable days, a notable one was on the horizon. A day that promised to shatter the uniformity and welcome a new dawn.
Sandrine, the speech therapist, was already a familiar figure to Bauby. Her cheerful demeanor and infectious optimism were a tender glimmer in his world of stillness. She had introduced herself with a sun-like smile, her eyes twinkling with barely-concealed excitement. Bauby didn’t need to blink to let Sandrine know that he appreciated her presence; her cheerful nature was a light seeping through the chinks of his icy confinement.
One day, Sandrine entered Bauby’s room carrying a chart. It was a simple piece of paper with alphabets arranged not in the traditional order, but starting with the most frequently used ones in the French language.
She explained the purpose of the chart. Using this, Bauby was to blink for every letter of the word he wanted to form. A blink at ‘E’ would mean the first letter was E, and then Sandrine would start from the beginning again for the next letter.
An understanding settled upon him. His singular method of communication was not going to be through speech or signs, but blinks. The left eye would be his voice, its blinks his language. It felt like a daunting task. Blinking out words letter by letter? Yet, it was an offer of a bridge to the outside world.
Sandrine left him with the chart overnight, allowing him to familiarize himself with the layout, the sequences of the letters. It was an enormous task, way beyond blinking at random. Like re-learning language itself but within the confinements of his blink-bound world.
The next day Sandrine returned, hopeful, carrying a notepad and a pen. She settled beside him, her eyes fixed on his single blinking eye with an intensity that surprised Bauby.
“I’m ready when you are, Jean-Dominique,” she uttered softly, her grip firm around the pen.
His heart pounded in his chest, a wild hummingbird trapped in a cage. He blinked, after what seemed like an eternity, at ‘E’. Sandrine scribbled down the first letter, her eyes lighting up. They continued, Bauby blinking, Sandrine writing, their rhythm slow but unbroken.
His first sentence, though simple, felt monumental. ‘Hello, world.’ The three hours it took to blink out these two ordinary words sowed the seeds of an extraordinary journey.
Days turned into weeks. Every day, Bauby and Sandrine worked painstakingly, letter by letter, word by word. It was a laborious process, sometimes infuriating, sometimes exhausting. But the joy, the sheer exhilaration Bauby felt every time a word formed was unmatched.
This was no mere collection of letters. This was his voice. His silent, blink-bound voice echoing around the room, breathed to life via Sandrine’s hands. His thoughts, his feelings, his fears, his dreams, etched on the paper, transcending his locked-in body into the world outside.
Chapter 3 ends here, leaving behind a beacon of hope in Bauby’s life, a door to the outside world. It is a testament to human innovation and adaptability in the face of adversity. The blinking letters, by no means a perfect language, were a step forward, a semblance of control in Bauby’s otherwise uncontrollable world. They became the life force driving the future chapters of his memoir, illuminating the world about a rare condition, a narrative of a resilient spirit fighting against the odds.
Though he was physically immobile, his thoughts were not. Through blinking letters, Bauby managed to break through his icy shell, one blink at a time, revealing the universe that dwelt within him.
Chapter 4: Diving Deep
I was a diver, marooned on the shores of my own being. I plunged, deep into the recesses of my subconscious, searching for an escape, seeking solace. I dived for pearls of wisdom and sunken treasures, sinking further into the abyss of my mind. The last vestige of voluntary movement, my left eye, was my solitary lifeline back to the surface world. And I dived, deeper and deeper, into the depths of my psyche.
A phantom pain echoed through the vacuum of my immobilized body. It was not physical, not really. It was a pain of existences lived and lost, a pain punctuated by the ticking clock of fleeting moments. It was the agony of silence, of unspoken words, of thoughts that held no echo. My thoughts, like restless waves, crashed against the shores of my conscious mind, retreating, returning, repeating, their tumultuous roar muted by the solitude of my condition. I was the sole inhabitant of this desolate land.
Regrets, like specters, slipped into the silent chamber of my mind, whispering tales of missed opportunities and abandoned dreams. The regret of not seeing my children grow, of not growing old with someone I loved, of missing the feeling of a summer breeze against my skin, or the simple pleasure of a perfectly cooked meal. These were the echoes of a life I had taken for granted, the aftershocks of a quake that had rendered me immobile.
Suddenly, I found myself facing a mirror, a reflection of myself looking back at me. I blinked my left eye, my solitary means to assert my existence. My reflection blinked back, a silent acknowledgment of shared solitude. Within this echo chamber of my mind, I realized that I had become a silent observer of my own life, an audience to the internal drama of my existence.
Yet, in this abyss, there was a beacon – my imagination. It was a torch that lit the darkest corners of my psyche, casting long shadows that played across the silent theatre of my mind. It was here that I found my courage. The courage to explore my inner world, to give voice to my thoughts through the solitude of a blink.
This courage was born of determination, fueled by the desire to prove that I was more than a vessel trapped in permanence; that my worth was not measured by physical prowess but by the strength of my spirit. My spirit, like a phoenix, rose from the ashes of my despair, spreading its wings wide, revealing that my world, though silent and immobile, was far from empty.
Each blink became a defiant act of rebellion, a testament to my will to survive. I was not merely existing; I was living in the most profound sense. I was synthesizing the raw material of thoughts into the tangible outcome of words. I was a creator, forging narratives from the molten core of my imagination, breathing life into letters, giving wings to phrases, and setting them free into the vast expanse of the silent universe that was my mind.
I found myself navigating through the labyrinth of my consciousness, adrift in a sea of thoughts and memories. I recalled the feeling of wind against my skin, the warmth of the sun, the taste of fine wine, the thrill of a passionate kiss. These remembrances became a balm, soothing the raw wound of my severed connection to the physical world.
I lingered over the memories of my children, their laughter resonating through the hollow chambers of my mind, filling it with a warmth that was as poignant as it was painful. I bathed in the luminosity of their innocence, their pure, untainted joy, and it became a salve for my weary soul.
As I delved deeper into my psyche, I realized that my mind had become an expansive universe, its vastness limited only by the boundaries of my imagination. I was a wanderer, traversing through the galaxies of my thoughts, my solitary eye blinking like a distant star in the darkness of my silent existence.
In this silence, I found my voice. A voice that resonated through the veil of my condition, reaching out to the world that lay beyond the confines of my paralyzed body. Each blink was a word, a sentence, a story that sprang forth from this silent universe, echoing through the vast emptiness, reaching for connection.
I realized that even in my immobilized state, I was a diver, plunging into the depths of my psyche, exploring the realms of my imagination, rising back to the surface with tales of distant lands and phantom sensations. My body was my diving bell, my mind, the infinite sea.
I was the diving bell and the butterfly. The diving bell that was my body, immobile and silent. The butterfly that was my spirit, fluttering against the confines of my physical form, seeking to break free, to soar high, to embrace the vast expanse of life that lay within me.
And as I dived deeper into the abyss of my psyche, I discovered that I was not merely a silent observer of my own life but an active participant in the grand theatre of existence. I was a silent poet, a mute storyteller, a deaf composer, creating symphonies of thoughts, weaving tapestries of memories, painting canvases of dreams.
As I finally rose from the depths of my psyche, I brought with me the pearls of wisdom and sunken treasures that I had discovered. I realized that even in the silence of my existence, my life resonated with an echo that was as profound as it was powerful.
I was the diving bell, encasing my physical form. I was the butterfly, my spirit unfettered by the constraints of my body. And though I was trapped in the icy shell of my existence, I was free in the boundless expanse of my mind. For deep within the abyss of my silence, I had discovered a universe, as infinite as it was beautiful.
And in its depths, I had discovered…me.
Chapter 5: Of Dreams and Memories
The chapters of the past seemed as intangible as dreams to Jean-Dominique Bauby. Once vibrant memories were now painted over with a hazy mist, yet sometimes, they fluttered back to life. These memories had become his lifeline, his escape from the icy prison of his body.
One such memory took him to the cobblestone streets of Paris. He could see himself, briskly walking down the avenue, his coat flapping behind him in the icy wind. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee wafting from the numerous cafes lining the streets. He heard the soft chatter of life, punctuated by the occasional laughter, a distant accordion playing a nostalgic tune. Once, he was a part of this milieu, an active audience to life’s grand theater. Now he was a bystander, lost in the fragments of the past.
As the memory of Paris slowly dissipated, Bauby found himself in another landscape – the azure waters of the Mediterranean. His younger self was stretched gloriously on a yacht, the radiant sun sprinkling his body with warmth, the gentle lapping of the waves creating a soothing symphony. He was surrounded by friends, their laughter echoing over the water, glasses clinking, celebrating life in its full bloom. The memory moved Bauby with an overwhelming sense of loss as he longed for a life that was a world away.
A harsh clinical environment tore him abruptly from the sunny Mediterranean. Now the blinking resumed, painstakingly articulating each letter of his mental voyage to Sandrine, his speech therapist. She became his lifeline to the world, the dedicated scribe to his blinked memoir.
Bauby’s memoir was not only about the past, but it also celebrated imagination, an intrepid journey into the vast landscape of his mind. He winked out tales of lands he had never set foot on, the depths he had never reached, and the peaks he had never climbed. There was the mystical land of Zirconia, where the rivers flowed with molten gold and trees bore fruits of precious gems. He was a traveler, an adventurer, crossing deserts, swimming the widest of rivers, and scaling the tallest of mountains, all within the confines of his mind.
For Bauby, these imaginary landscapes were as real as the sterile hospital room or his splendid memories. His imagination took him on flights of fancy – a knight battling dragons in medieval lands, an explorer finding forgotten cities, a poet inspiring revolutions with words. He lived a million lives, all blink by blink, each tale a testament to his indomitable spirit.
He shared his dreams and nightmares, the imagined romance with women from the distant lands, the dread of being forever trapped in his body. There was an uncanny honesty in his blinked narratives, the words often raw, sometimes portraying hauntingly beautiful imagery.
He recounted meeting Napoleon in a mythical land, engaged in a profound philosophical debate that ended with a shared laugh. Then the blinkings would take a dark turn as he confessed his fears, the specter of death lurking on the horizon, the uncertainty gnawing at his sanity. Yet, for every nightmarish account, there would be an affirming tale, a testament to his resilience and the unbroken spirit of a man refusing to surrender to his fate.
Chapter 5 was a voyage. A voyage not only through Bauby’s past but also his imagined travels that crossed realms and realities. He was a prisoner to his body but a free bird in his mind, each blink a battle against his physical confines, every tale a victory of the spirit. He left his readers breathless, transported them to lands unseen, proved that human spirit is unconquerable.
This chapter was a symphony, an ode to the human spirit’s triumphant march, the crescendo being his message – ‘As long as I can dream, I am free.’ His memoir was not just an account of his life and dreams. It was a testament, a beacon, a message in a bottle for those adrift in life’s stormy seas. He had suffered unimaginably, yet here he was, blinking out a tale. It spoke of resilience, of love, and of the strength that lies within us all. After all, he was Jean-Dominique Bauby, the man who lived inside a diving bell, his words giving wings to butterfly dreams.
Chapter 6: The Butterfly Effect
In the garden of existence, Jean-Dominique Bauby likens himself to a butterfly – delicate, effervescent, perpetually on the brink of being swayed by the slightest gust of wind. His life, reduced to the flutter of a solitary eyelid, is a paradox – both fragile and robust, encapsulating an universe of thoughts, dreams, and memories.
His life before the stroke was akin to the caterpillar’s stage, constantly munching away at the leaf of success, oblivious to the approaching metamorphosis. Then came the stroke, his cocoon stage, trapping him into an unfathomable silence, a world where speech was robbed and replaced by the blink of an eye.
From this cocoon, he emerged, not with vibrant physical wings but with vibrant mental ones. His immobility became his mobility, as he fluttered about in the landscapes of his mind, creating stories out of the ether of his thoughts. Through the lens of his single functioning eye, the world transformed from a canvas of still life into a dynamic whirlwind of colors, emotions, and memories.
As a butterfly navigates through its environment with an innate sense of direction, Bauby navigates through his new reality with intense introspection. He flutters from one thought to another, from a memory of smiling faces to a dream of distant lands. Each flutter, each blink, is a stroke on the canvas of his mind, painting pictures of a life lived, a life remembered, and a life imagined.
His life, mirrored in the butterfly’s fragility, signifies an ephemeral existence. Just like the butterfly, Bauby’s life now hangs in a precarious balance. Yet, he finds beauty and meaning in this ephemeral existence. For within each blink, within each flutter, he leaves behind an indelible mark, a powerful echo resonating through the silence.
Even in his immobile state, he affects those around him, causing ripples in the smooth surface of their lives. His therapist, Sandrine, is deeply moved by his resilience. His perseverance subtly shifts her perspective, making her appreciate the seemingly ordinary magic of communication, of being able to articulate thoughts and emotions. Bauby, in essence, has planted a seed of transformation, a butterfly effect expanding beyond the confines of his room.
He also touches the lives of his readers. His memoir, pieced together with painstaking slowness, becomes a beacon of hope, strength, and resilience. Readers, lost in their labyrinth of struggles, find solace and inspiration in his words, leading them towards paths unknown, altering the course of their lives. His blink, his flutter, has far-reaching consequences, unknown and unseen, just like the butterfly effect.
As the chapter draws to a close, Bauby ponders on the concept of legacy and realizes that even in his seemingly insignificant existence, he creates a considerable ripple in the vast ocean of life. His life, like that of the butterfly’s, may be transient yet impactful. He may not flutter in the physical realm, yet his spirit soars in the vast, boundless skies, leaving behind a trail of strength, hope, and an undying will.
And even as he dreads the inevitable, he clings onto the knowledge that his spirit, his ideas, his memoir, will continue to flutter, continue to inspire – a testament to the human spirit’s resilience. Just like the butterfly, he may be here for a moment, yet his touch, his effect, profoundly alters the landscape of lives and hearts, causing an everlasting flutter in the tranquility of time. And in this wisdom and acceptance, Jean-Dominique Bauby truly becomes the butterfly – beautiful, delicate, yet leaving an indelible mark in the annals of existence.
Chapter 7: The Last Blink
The curtains to his soulful existence gently drew in; the final notes of his symphony began its haunting, poignant dance. This chapter chronicles the last days of Jean-Dominique Bauby, a soul trapped within the walls of his body, yet free to soar within the limitless skies of his thoughts, leaving behind a memoir of immeasurable value.
His languishing figure lay on the bed, the sterile hospital room invaded by the faint, warm glow of a dying sun. He blinked himself into a new realm, his gaze wandering through unseen landscapes, vivid figments of his imagination fueled by his dreams, longings, and a tenacity that defied his physical immobility.
His paralysed body did not define him. He was a voyager and his left eye, the passport to his journey. Each blink, a page flipped, a new continent discovered, his memoirs, a universe within themselves. His conversations now were with his intimate companion – himself, his blink, his story.
Amid the slumbering silence of the night, his dreams teemed with life – seas that roared with vitality, mountains untoppled by time, and skies sequined with twinkling gems. He was a part of it all. An observer. A storyteller. And with each tick of the clock, his body might have been confined but his spirit fluttered, ceaseless and tireless.
He crafted stories with the alphabet of blinks, each narration more colourful and spirited than the last. The tales of the world outside, the echoes of the world within, intertwined, forming a complex tapestry of life as he once knew, and the life he now lived. His blink was ever poised at the precipice of his next escapade, as he explored the many realms of reality and fantasy – an explorer, a philosopher, a poet.
In his silent musings, he became the butterfly. Ethereal in his thoughts, fragile in his existence, yet dazzling in his indomitable spirit. He whispered through the winds, danced upon the petals of roses, and skimmed the crests of cool, crystalline waves. He was the butterfly effect, his thoughts, his stories, the fluttering wings causing ripples in countless hearts.
The realm of his imagination was his solace, his companions, figments of the lush, vibrant narratives he spun. His companions were a motley crew of characters – the swashbuckling pirate, the damsel in distress, an innocent child, a wizened old man – each a reflection of a facet of his own persona. His left eye became his lens, and his blinking, the film roll of his epic saga.
In the gloam of his impending end, his spirit shone brighter. His existence was but a blink in the cosmos, yet in that blink, he encapsulated a universe of emotions, thoughts and dreams. His life, akin to a brief flutter of a butterfly’s wings, stirred the calm surface of existential reality, creating ripples that reached far and wide.
As Bauby navigated through the labyrinth of his thoughts, he noted each slice of emotion – joy, despair, love, regret, courage and fear. He blinked out his fears, his dreams, his heartaches, and his hopes, painting a portrait of raw human emotion, a testament of the human will’s incredible resilience. Each blink, a heartbeat in the silence, echoing his existence.
And when the final chapter of his life beckoned him, he faced it with grace, etching his legacy one blink at a time. His last words blinked out, a memoir of his journey – a tale spun from the threads of his dreams, his fears, his triumphs, and his surrender.
The last blink came, tender, poignant, a silent sigh against the backdrop of his battles and victories. His voice, his vision, an echo reverberating in the hearts of those he left behind. His story, his blink, his butterfly, a testament of a life lived in its truest sense, stirring the calm surface of human consciousness, stirring souls across the universe.
Jean-Dominique Bauby was more than a man trapped within his body. He was a voice resonating within the silence, a beacon guiding the lost, an embodiment of spirit and resilience. His story didn’t end with his last blink. It lived on. It lives on, a testament to human will and spirit, a legacy etched in the annals of human resilience and triumph. And therein lies Jean-Dominique Bauby’s victory, in his butterfly effect, in the poetry of his last blink.
Some scenes from the movie The Diving Bell and the Butterfly written by A.I.
Scene 1
FADE IN:
INT. ELLE FRANCE – EDITOR’S OFFICE – DAY
JEAN-DOMINIQUE BAUBY (late 40’s, charismatic, lively) sits behind his desk, engrossed in his work.
INT. ELLE FRANCE – EDITOR’S OFFICE – LATER
Bauby is laughing, sharing a bottle of wine and a lively conversation with colleagues. He’s in his element, the centre of attention.
CUT TO:
INT. BAUBY’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
Bauby is with his CHILDREN, they’re laughing, playing, living a happy life. His life is full – a successful career, a loving family.
INT. BAUBY’S APARTMENT – LATER
Suddenly, Bauby falls down, the world spins around him. His eyesight blurs, the room darkens, and a low BUZZING SOUND fills his ears.
CUT TO BLACK:
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – DAY
Bauby awakens, paralyzed, a doctor by his side. He tries to speak, move, but he can’t. It’s as if he’s trapped inside an icy casing.
DOCTOR
(softly)
You’ve had a stroke, Jean-Dominique. You’re experiencing something we call ‘locked-in syndrome.’
Bauby’s eyes widen in fear as the weight of the diagnosis sinks in. But he’s alone; trapped in a body that no longer obeys him.
FADE OUT.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Scene 2
INT. HOSPITAL – DAY
The room is sterile, white. JEAN-DOMINIQUE BAUBY, 43 – once a vibrant, charismatic editor – now lays motionless. His eyes are the only thing alive. The right eye is covered; the left, open.
SANDRINE, late 20s, a compassionate yet professional speech therapist, sits beside him. She holds a laminated card with the alphabet, ranked by frequency of use in French.
SANDRINE
(reading slowly, pointing to each letter)
“E… S… A… R… I…”
Jean-Dominique blinks at “I”. Sandrine notes it down, repeats the process.
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – DAY
Jean-Dominique, alone, stares at the ceiling. He thinks, we can hear his INNER VOICE:
JEAN-DOMINIQUE (V.O.)
(whispers)
“A burden of silence, a scream without sound.”
INT. HOSPITAL – DAY
Sandrine enters, starts the letter routine. Jean-Dominique blinks out his first word, painstakingly slow. Sandrine writes, shares the word aloud.
SANDRINE
(cheerfully)
“Talk… Yes Jean-Dominique. We’ll talk like this.”
JEAN-DOMINIQUE(V.O.)
(screams)
“I’m not talking! I’m blinking! I’m trapped!”
FADE OUT.
Scene 3
INT. REHABILITATION CENTER – DAY
Sandrine, a compassionate speech therapist in her early thirties, enters the room with an alphabet chart, her face is filled with determination. Jean-Dominique Bauby, some weeks after his stroke, lies immobile on the hospital bed, with his only functioning left eye staring into space.
SANDRINE
(softly)
Jean-Dominique, we’re going to try something new today.
She pulls a chair closer to the bed, sits down, and holds up an alphabet chart.
SANDRINE
I will run my finger across this chart. Once I reach the letter you want, blink your left eye.
Jean-Dominique stares at the chart, his eye blinking rapidly.
SANDRINE
(slightly confused)
Do you understand, Jean-Dominique?
A single, slow blink from Jean-Dominique’s left eye. Sandrine smiles.
SANDRINE
(excited)
Let’s get started then.
The room is silent, except for the soft rustling of the alphabet chart. Sandrine moves her finger down the chart, Jean-Dominique blinks when she gets to the letter ‘E’.
Sandrine looks at him, hopeful.
SANDRINE
(writing down)
E…
This continues, slowly, laboriously. Finally, after some struggle, Jean-Dominique manages to blink out his first word – ENOUGH.
SANDRINE
(tearful)
Enough… You did it, Jean-Dominique!
Jean-Dominique blinks once. A slow, deliberate blink. This blink was different – it was the blink of hope.
FADE OUT.
Scene 4
FADE IN:
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – DAY
The room is silent except for the MONOTONE BEEP of the heart monitor. JEAN-DOMINIQUE BAUBY (JDB), mid-40s, lies motionless on the bed, staring blankly ahead. His nurse, SANDRINE, mid-30s, compassionate eyes, sits on a chair near his bed.
SANDRINE
(reading alphabet chart)
“A… B… C…”
Sandrine closely watches JDB’s left eye. It BLINKS twice.
SANDRINE
“D.”
She continues saying letters, recording each blink.
FADE TO:
INT. JDB’S MIND – DAY
We transition into JDB’s mind, where he is in his former office at Elle France. He’s a GHOSTLY FIGURE observing his past self, successful, lively JDB, hustling amidst his staff.
JDB VOICE OVER
“I dive deep into the memories, into the life I once lived.”
He watches as PAST JDB flirts with a stunning CO-WORKER, and later enjoys an extravagant party with friends.
JDB VOICE OVER
“I remember laughter, love, the taste of wine. I miss it all.”
Back to the bed again.
JDB VOICE OVER
“But despair is a luxury I cannot afford.”
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – DAY
Sandrine is still reciting letters. She has a small smile on her face, showing signs of hope.
SANDRINE
(laughs lightly)
“Who knew blinking could be so exhausting?”
She continues her work not realizing the profound impact she has on JDB.
FADE OUT:
TO BE CONTINUED…
Scene 5
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – DAY
We see JEAN-DOMINIQUE BAUBY, or JEAN-DO as he prefers, lying on the bed, his left eye darting around the room. His speech therapist, SANDRINE, sits by his side.
FADE IN:
Jean-Do reminiscences his past, imagining himself in a bustling Paris cafè. The sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and charming French melodies play softly.
FADE TO:
INT. PARIS CAFE – DAY (FLASHBACK)
YOUNG JEAN-DO, early 40s, charming and full of life, is in a vibrant discussion with his friends. He’s laughing, dominating the conversation, the center of attention.
FADE BACK TO:
INT. HOSPITAL ROOM – DAY
Jean-Do’s eye shows a hint of sadness. Sandrine, noticing, leans in.
SANDRINE
(softly)
Where did you go just now, Jean-Do?
She holds up the letter board, pointing to letters one by one. Jean-Do BLINKS when she reaches the correct one. Slowly, they spell out ‘Paris.’
SANDRINE
(smiling)
Ahh, Paris. Beautiful city.
She holds up the board again, and they start spelling out: C-A-F-E
SANDRINE
Ah, a café. I can almost smell the coffee.
The room fills with a sweet sense of nostalgia. Sandrine, though smiling, hides a sadness in her eyes.
FADE IN:
They continue their sessions, with Jean-Do teleporting from the sterile hospital room to the beaches of Southern France, the hustle-bustle of New York, and even into fictional realms from his favorite novels.
FADE OUT:
In this quiet hospital room, Jean-Do, with his single, blinking eye, keeps travelling across continents and through time; his only means to escape the cruel confines of his paralyzed body.
FADE TO BLACK.
