DOUG DONNANExecutive
Editor/OMNI-GENRE+MAGAZINE!donnan.doug@@yahoo.com
by
Doug Donnan
“Understand that Mr. Cross is now a
paraplegic. From the neck down to
both his ankles there
is extensive nerve damage. Without getting too technical
his current set of
circumstances…that is, his overall condition, makes any
sort of operation by us here
at Surgeons General Hospital an exercise in futility.
Nothing short of a miracle
will return him to the way he was before the tragic auto
accident,” Doctor Carmichael
proclaimed as he guided his hand up to his sagging
bank of fat, rolling chins.
He gazed up into the lecture hall skylight as if he were
contemplating all the
wonders of the universe. “Your thoughts…perhaps some
of you might have questions?”
he asked as though he expected nothing from the
medical fledglings seated
out in the dim light of the steep lecture auditorium.
All was quiet until a gangly young resident
dressed in obligatory white cotton
smock erected himself and
boldly asked:
“Excuse me Doctor Carmichael,” he almost
chirped with several deep gulps.
When he did this his
protruding Adam’s apple (or as he would most likely refer
to it the…laryngeal
prominence) appeared as might a child’s yo-yo caught in
some flexible plastic tube
or pipe. “Did you say…‘down to his ankles’…taluses?”
“Yes, yes,” Carmichael replied with more
than just a hint of aggravation.
“The patient has excellent responsiveness,
dexterity if you must know, in both his
meta-tarsals, talus
and lower case phalanges.”
“So his feet are, in fact, perfectly
okay?” the pale, young intern pressed on.
“I think I might be able to
help the man. Perhaps give him a reason to,” he paused
a moment, “to go on.”
“What is your name son…if I may now
ask?” Carmichael responded with a not
so veiled measure of
disdain. He took a few steps closer to his lightly snickering
and whispering audience. He
removed his thin framed reading glasses and
crossed his arms as might
some ancient threatening king or high-hat Egyptian
pharaoh.
“Travis Brine…sir,” the young man replied
as he puffed out his birdcage chest.
His hollow cheeks had
colored only slightly. He was a bit nervous standing there,
but not the least bit
intimidated by the effrontery of the great chief neurologist
and surgeon Doctor Conrad J.
Carmichael.
“Well, Doctor Travis Brinesir,”
Carmichael announced with an embarrassingly
playful rejoinder. “You say
you have the miracle our focal patient needs to…
go on in life? We do beg
your astute insight and critical analysis.”
Carmichael slowly and dramatically
unlocked his folded arms. He made a
flippant little sweep of his
hammy hand and offered that the young intern join
him down at the dais. In
short notice the resolute young man did in fact make his
way down the descending
auditorium aisle to the side of the waiting Carmichael
on the stage. Carmichael
offered him a stub of chalk as a cheeky gift for his
forthcoming assessment.
Young Brine raised his hand in refusal and then did
turn about to face the now
completely intrigued room full of interns.
“Well, it is perhaps true that we
can’t medically help this patient, but maybe
through modern technology we
can enhance or even restore his spirituality…
his faith!”
Doctor Carmichael noticeably straightened
at this unexpected suggestion.
There was now a hush in the
audience.
“I see,” Carmichael said with an
uncharacteristic lack of self-assurance.
“Pray what do you propose
Dr. Brine?”
Brine looked over his shoulder at the
clock at the rear of the auditorium.
Then a return look back at
the now patiently waiting Carmichael.
“It’s almost time for us to break for lunch,” Brine said. “Could I have
your
permission to visit the
patient Mr. Cross in his ICU room? Since we will have
him here with us up on the
classroom video screen for the second half of our
symposium, I am reasonably
certain that I can accomplish my objective and, if,
assuming that he has no
objections, complications or other issues, present the
class and yourself with some
rather positive results.”
Dr. Carmichael was almost speechless at
all this, but soon managed another
trite jab at condescending
humor.
“You want to entertain us on TV then is
that it?”
“I guess you might put it that
way,” Brine replied.
“Very well then,” Carmichael gave in as he
spun back to his podium and
jotted down something on a
little yellow Post-It note. He presented it to Brine as
if it might be a highly
prized reserve ticket of some sort.
Here is his room
number up in ICU. Just tell the on duty nurse,” he looked at his
glistening Rolex,
“Miss Chu, that I gave you full access to the patient. Will that
be sufficient for
your…demonstration?”
Brine accepted the yellow sticky and
folded it into the top pocket of his starched
white smock. “Thank you
sir,” he replied with a slight respectful head bow. “I
should have everything in
order by the time you re-convene class post-lunch.”
“That’s after lunch correct?”
Carmichael asked as a flippant, droll joke.
“Uh, yes sir that’s right,” Brine said.
“I’ll set it all up from ICU. I should have
it all on screen for you down here at right
about one o’clock.”
“Very well,” Carmichael finished as he
tossed up his hands in frustration.
“You may proceed!”
* *
*
AFTER
LUNCH/SESSION RESUMES
All were
settled back in their seats in the dimly lit auditorium. Doctor
Carmichael
was now pacing about and around down on the lecture floor. Every
now
and then he yanked up a look at his wristwatch. Several times he almost
reached
for a wall phone to try and locate the dubious miracle worker Travis
Brine
up in the ICU environs. And just then the giant screen behind him lit up.
There
was the smiling Brine at the headboard of the focal patient Mr. Cross.
Cross lay there and was silently moving
his lips with a kind of joyous excite-
ment.
The vibrating electronic words warbled from the small tracheal voice box
secured
to his throat as he read aloud the magnified text scrolled out on the
iPad down between his grasping feet and dancing dexterous VDT friendly
toes:
“In
the…be…gin…ning... God cre…ated…the Hea…vens and…the Earth”
The auditorium was stone silent as they hung their heads in
thought and,
perhaps,
prayer. Doctor Conrad J. Carmichael was dumbfounded. His mouth
formed
a puckering hole, like the entrance to some vacant backyard birdhouse.
_____
The End _____
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