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Hey, big thanks to Chip and Eliot for their on-line contributions. The website is up and running.  This money will go a long way in saving the lives of some innocent and endangered bugs.  You guys are the best. 

 

I also appreciate the comments on my writing.  It really helps.  If anyone else out there has some other ideas (or money; I’m just saying), go ahead and send it my way.  I can always use some tips.

 

Also, I apologize if I gave anyone the impression that Archy and Mehitabel were my parents. She was a cat, for chrissake.  I may not be a scientist but I don’t think that works.  I was just reading in William’s Gynecology about ovarian teratomas.  Now that’s something interesting.  The things can grow hair and teeth.  Is that crazy, or what!  Anyway, the part on fertility pretty much convinced me that there is no cat in my lineage.  Plus she’s way too old.   And crazy.  There is no way she used to be Cleopatra.  I’m not stupid.

 

So I got a little off track last installment, antepenultimate, I mean. I want to pick up where I left off, you know, when I was in the Emergency Room, or the “Department,” as they now say.  But that gives it the initials: E.D.  And we all know what that means.

 

Anyway, after I finished off all the nitrous oxide my antenna was working fine.  It was amazing.  I was picking up all kinds of signals.  But the leg.  That was still a problem.  The guy in the hall was still rattling the gurney and staring at me, all bug-eyed.  I think I told you he was strapped in, but I could tell he wanted me dead.  The way he kept making the fist and pulling at the strap.  You know what I’m saying? When the nurse came over, he started shouting something about the place being infested, so she gave him another dose of haloperidol and he conked out again.  What a dufus.

 

I decided I needed some real attention, you know, like from a specialist.  So I headed to the back and down a long hallway past Labor and Delivery and the Imaging department.  There were some really nice paintings on the wall.  One was of a rooster, looking pretty full of himself, just like a real rooster.  Odd that it was in the hospital, though.  Eventually, I found what I was looking for: Surgery.  I knew I could get some help there.  There weren’t any signs on the doors.  Maybe I’m naïve, but it would have been nice to have a sign that said leg repair, or something like that.  So instead, I had to start checking out each room.

 

The first two rooms were empty but the lights were on.  So I turned them off, you know, trying to save the planet and all.  The third room had a bunch of doctors and nurses.  Everyone was wearing masks.  Three of them were leaning over a patient on the table but only one was talking.  Quietly.  To the Scrub Tech, saying a name, Metzenbaum, Hanson, Sims, and receiving in his open hand one shining instrument after another, never breaking his line of vision.  At the head of the table, the anesthesiologist sat busily marking numbers and x’s onto a complicated chart, studying the machine before him.  The respirator pumped quietly, rhythmically with small emissions of gas, occasionally with a beep, a sound of satisfaction, breath well done; along with the steady heart beat, changing pitch slightly with changing oximetry. 

 

But no leg.

 

The next room was louder.  Everyone talking and having fun, even the patient.  I’m serious.  They even had some music playing.  This time the anesthesiologist was just sitting there talking to the woman, something about her last vacation.  I could tell that he was still listening to his machine and occasionally looking into the vacuum container, currently at 400 ml, all fresh blood, but continuing the conversation like they were sitting in a bar.

 

Suddenly everyone got quiet and the surgeon pulled a baby out of the woman’s belly, just like that.  I mean it was like she was pulling a rabbit out of her hat.  The face was dried and a bulb syringe used to suction the mouth of a very startled looking baby who then let out a wail.  Everyone cheered. The cord was quickly clamped and cut and the baby lifted high.  The anesthesiologist lowered the sheet until mother could see this thing she had created.  

 

But not me.  I was sobbing.  I’m such a sap.

 

They passed the baby to the pediatrician who carefully dried and examined the wiggling animal, listening to heart and lungs, now filled with air, opened the hands and pressed the belly, widely torqued the hips, all done in a minute.  Then delivered the infant to mother’s arms, now also in her own tears, while the surgeon, quietly and contentedly, closed the wound.

 

I stumbled out of the room, still bawling, thinking my leg wasn’t so important.  And you know what, it really isn’t.  It works fine, even if it is a bit crooked.  Instead of a surgeon, I picked up a paperclip from the nurses station and in no time had a working splint.  It's like my sister always said: necessity is the mother of invention.  So all is good, although it clicks when it hits the floor; and that’s pretty annoying. 

 

So, anyway, here’s the point.  When I got back to the E.D. you’ll never guess who I saw.