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1994-01-29
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61 lines
Still Among the Beeblers
Copyright (c) 1993, Robert McKay
All rights reserved
*Still Among the Beeblers*
by Robert McKay
Dedicated to Zach Klein and Bill Lich:
They invented the title
*** *** ***
Operations can be frightening things. Surgeons are not ordinary
doctors; they've not splint-and-pill men. They don't run family
medicine clinics and write prescriptions for Billy's cough. Surgeons
cut people. What surgeons do would be torture if performed on
prisoners of war; when done to a seriously ill patient, it's medicine,
and we're glad to have it. But it's not a pleasant thought to know
that tomorrow a surgeon will cut open your skin, slice down through
muscle tissue, and generally wade through your innards.
Harry was not thrilled. Tomorrow was his day. He was due, he
supposed - he'd been waiting all this time for the chance to get the
problem taken care of, but now that it was here the fear had risen with
devastating force. He didn't care to be cut open and then pasted - or
stapled or sewn - back together. Cut and paste was what one did to
text, not people.
But a bad heart was something that couldn't be gotten around. And
if the chance came to correct the problem, it was foolish to turn it
down. For all the fears and worries, it was better to be cut on and
have the improvements made than to go through life wondering when the
ticker would quit.
For now, Harry sat in his darkened room, pecking away. Georgia
lay in the bedroom, sleeping. In order to cut down on the phone bills,
Harry called late, and then, because the pull was so strong, sat up
till even later answering the mail. Computers, modems, offline mail
readers - these were wondrous tools that had opened up a whole new
world. If he didn't make it out of the operating room, he'd miss this
more than anything.
* * *
Harry stretched, careful to avoid pulling on the sutures that
still held skin together. The operation had been a success. The
surgeon had done his gruesome work with great skill and, Harry
suspected, a touch of sadistic pleasure. The new valve functioned
superbly; Harry hadn't felt this well in years. Georgia had noticed
the difference, too - and had assigned him a list of "honey-do" jobs
that increased in difficulty as his recovery proceeded. Harry had
complained, and complied. At least he *could* do them, now.
He turned his attention back to the monitor. He looked again
at the words glowing on the screen: "So, Harry, how'd it go? Still
with us, or did you decided to migrate? :)" A brief message, but
warming. People he'd never seen cared as much about the heart and the
operation and the outcome of it all as much as did people he'd been
seeing every day for 20 years. Tears didn't come easy, but come they
did.
Harry angrily wiped his arm across his eyes and reached for a
Kleenex. Men didn't react this way; maybe it was just the pollen or
something. He pulled the keyboard closer, and pecked out his reply:
"Yep, I'm still among the beeblers."