Living With A Chronic Illness [FICTOID]

“How long does the patient have?” asked the new medical assistant.

“Not long, not long at all,” said the primary health care provider.  “Sixty, seventy years.  Eighty, tops.”

The patient ran barefoot through a daffodil patch along a mossy creek bank, displaying no concerns over impending mortality.

“What is the problem?” asked the medical assistant.

“The patient has an incurable condition,” said the primary health care provider.  “The patient is human.”

“Ahhh,” the medical assistant said.  “There’s a lot of that going around.”  It continued to unpack itself from its shipping crate.  “How old is the patient?”

“Six years, five months, four weeks, three days, two hours, one minute.”  Neither the medical assistant nor the primary health care provider commented on the odd numerical sequence; they weren’t built for that sort of observation.

“Weight?  Height?  Fever?  Blood?”

“Normal.  Normal. Normal.  And even more normal,” said the primary health care provider.

“No sharp dips?  No spikes, no falls, no roller coasters?”

“No, no, and no.”

“This will be a difficult case,” the medical assistant said as it finished unpacking and assembling itself.  “Fortunately, I brought something new from the Northern Bio Labs.”

Using one of its thin mental tendrils, the medical assistant slit open the second crate.

Inside the crate lay a big, bulky, dark red machine -- so dark a red it could be mistaken for black.  Green sensors glowed on what passed for its face.  Bright silver saws and clamps and drills and hooks covered its multitude of arms.

“What is that?” asked the primary health care provider, an uncharacteristic edge of emotion creeping into its voice.

“Our patient’s new surgeon,” said the medical assistant.

The surgeon sat up.  Blades began whirring.

© Buzz Dixon