I awoke in the hospital. Thank God. I wondered if they'd taken my award out of my leg, which was heavily bandaged. I wanted to put it on the floor where my mantle had been before the firemen took it. An IV drip loomed over my head and ran from a tube into the upper part of my wrist -- which wrist I could never be sure. The IV bag was full of donuts. Classy.
A nurse walked in. She was beautiful in a human sort of way. Very erect-walking (no hoofs) and hardly ever chuffed. She said she was a big fan of my poetry, that she felt bad for me, that I had a very attractive pulmonary system and then told me the doctor who operated on me would be in in a minute. I asked her what name was, but I guess I should have said it out loud.
The doctor came in a few minutes later. He was wheeled in wearing a fashionable iron lung -- though a bit bulky, still sharp. "Good morning, Mr. Lappmilk, I'm Dr. Steinchug," he said. "Forgive me for not shaking hands, as you can see I'm barely holding onto my own life here."
"Pleasure to meet you, Doc," I said. "Do you mind if I ask how you were able to operate? That iron lung doesn't even have a scalpel attached to it," I smartly noticed.
"It was simple, Kelly operated on you while I told her what to do, stupid," he said. He had me there. His ventilator depressed and sucked in. He continued, "I get that question all the time, though, usually from widows. They're typically a lot more upset than you. But just as stupid."
"How did my surgery go?" I asked.
"Very well," he said reassuringly. His ventilator depressed and then sucked in. "Kelly's really getting knack for this stuff. Doesn't twitch nearly as badly as she used to. The benefits of experience and a nasty tranq' habit, I guess."
I checked her work. I was in excruciating pain and my wounds were bleeding through the bandaging, but I was a lot warmer than I'd been in The Wearhaus before I found myself spooning on a couch with ol' Mr. Gumjaw. Overall, I was satisfied.
"So when can I get out of here?" I asked.
"Well there's good news and bad news," he said. His ventilator depressed and sucked in. "The good news is that you're still alive, the bad news is that you're going to die."
"Figures," I said.
"You see," he continued, "while Kelly was rooting around your brain (I was teaching her some things about neurosurgery), we discovered that you have one helluva brain tumor and you can't have more than a week to live."
"If I had a nickel..." I started.
"So you're free to leave whenever you want, you doomed bastard. I guess you can take solace in the fact that I'll see you soon," he said. His ventilator depressed and sucked in.
One week left to live. Boy that sucks. But that's life for you. One minute you're bleeding to death, the next minute you're dying.
"Say, doc..." I turned to him as I was leaving. "Can I get Kelly's number?"
