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before being firmly pressed out in exhale. That felt great. That alone was rewarding. Especially as John closed his eyes and focused only on expanding his chest and relaxing it. It was marvelous. Something you can’t get from a dream no matter how in control you may be or how real it may seem.
The temperature in the room was just right. Seventy-three degrees. His skin was happy to absorb the moisture in the air, exposed follicle hairs rising in a morning stretch. The wax paper was thinning, too. Now it was possible to make out the few colors that were in the room, and certainly significant details in the objects that gave the room character. Some simple seating furniture, non-plush to discourage extended stay; a holographic digital clock presented high on the wall like an Exit sign; a corner sink with hanging hand towels; the usual cast of medical equipment—IV tower, device monitors, hookups; and a few strategically placed eight-by-eleven-and-a-half frames displaying abstract artwork, each panel dissolving into alternating prints, all digital; and each frame emitting a musical sequence unique to itself but complimentary of the sequences produced by the others. The volume is low and soothing. The instruments are mostly stringed. All things considered, John’s new setting provided the most comfortable experience imaginable to counter his itchy, achy, confused mood. If only the hospital would replace their pillows and foam board beds—has no one ever complained?
As John’s eyes relearned how to focus, he came to find a small, curious lens on the upper panel of a flat screen monitor, about the size of a dime. Within it, a mechanical iris adjusted to reflect and refract light. John squinted into it. The monitor popped on—startling him! An image of a forty-year old male nurse smiled at him.
“Welcome to Madison County Hospital. Hi, John. I am Roger, one of your nurses. I hope your rest was plentiful.” The picture was pristine, like he was in the room. A medium close-up frame kept Roger at a likable distance, close enough to make out familiar human details (age, attractiveness) while being far enough away to be unimposing.
“Uh, hi. Roger. Uh, where did you say—I’m in a hospital? What happened?”
“You are at Madison County Hospital. We are treating you for cuts, bruises and fractured bones due to a car accident.” Roger spoke warmly, but with stern authority. His tone indicated concern and trustworthiness.
“Oh my god,” John rattled, lifting his hand to his forehead expecting to be overcome by a headache. His palm was cooler than his head, so he took pleasure in patting himself and rubbing his eyes and facial skin. Here he noticed the small bandages on his face. Looking back to Roger, he asked earnestly, “What happened?”
“John, I would be happy to continue this exchange with you, but I can only offer limited information as I am an automated human replica. It may suit you best to speak with a human being. Shall I call a doctor for you?”
“Please.”
No sooner than completing this utterance of confirmation did the doctor enter. Dr. Iman Guye was a cheerful presence as he bounced in with a small platter of diced fruit on mixed greens. His speaking manner was assertive in a respectful way, his Indian heritage wrestling with his learned American dialect.
“Good day, young man. Good to see you’re shining back at the sun today. How was your sleep?” Dr. Iman pressed the platter under John’s nose, virtually insisting he help himself. John plucked from the plate a few of the more colorful selections.
“I—I guess…well.” All the recent movement took John back, that of the doctor hurriedly entering, the platter business, etc. He didn’t even notice that the music had changed, still classically influenced but composed entirely of new sequences.
“Eat up, don’t be shy. You’ll finish this platter before I leave this room.” Dr. Iman sets the platter on John’s stomach and fetches a device the shape and near size of a thimble, which he proceeds to place on John’s right middle finger. It fits snug. Next, from a corner hidden by machinery, the doctor pulls up a padded stool and takes seat by John’s bed. A goofy smile never leaves his face. Does the doc love his job too much or has he bad news to deliver?
“I love this moment,” Dr. Iman said, as he looked dead into John’s eyes, eerily if you asked John, his confusion morphing into bewilderment, all out fear creeping in. “Getting to know a patient for the first time. A doctor is introduced to a person’s body first, of course, and all the things wrong with that body. We look at your numbers and levels and study a linear map of all your biological systems. But a doctor cannot really get to know their patient until after the emergency is over. Once the soul is relaxed, we can finally meet the real person, and that’s what makes this strenuous job worth the trouble. It’s not just about helping people, but helping people you have a connection with.”