A Fictional Reflection About Special Surgeries

Spring started blooming, voting cold bitterness off Skyscraper Island and inside a healing building reserved for special surgeries a young adolescent boy matured rapidly as his body prepared for scalpel invasion.

“Did the Yankees win?” The young pre-adolescent patient’s drowsy state inquired.

“They were off tonight, we got the Athletics later, now count back from ten” the trusting voice put the mask on his face, before sealing her lips.

It was only twenty-four hours ago, A.Y. spent his last day engaging a scholastic middle school environment, tending to state-law attendance requirements needing accomplishment, taking time to leave his academic routine and grow up, taking care of orthopedic obligations forced upon him due to circumstances that he never fully understood.

During the next few hours, like a frog being examined in science class, taught by the football coach, A.Y. slept like an unconscious baby as the medical team moved things around. When everything seemed complete, strangers who he interacted with a few seconds, wheeled the planned slasher victim from each floor until finally finding security blanket rest in his room. Dropped off like an auto shop car following repair, reality would only detect the results.

Despite the intoxicated state, A.Y. could hear the nurses commentate, “he lost a lot of blood,” one remarked.

“And his strong heart just kept pumping more.”

Months passed and A.Y. sat peacefully, watching credits rolling, billing a repeated broadcast about cover-model angels doing assignment missions, pleasing a boss they never saw.

“All this so they can observe me walk ‘straighter’,” A.Y. fought off angry thoughts, as the day’s important information appeared, top story headlines flashed, ‘well known famous individual contracting, a fatal disease’.

“He had it all,” A.Y. confusingly judged, “and now he is dying.”

Over the next few weeks, A.Y. confronted his physical therapy prescribed advice, taking the duties seriously, accomplishing the simplistic challenges with a stiff upper lip, expecting soon his body would return to normal education priorities.

Wooden crutches changed to metal ones improving A.Y.’s image, and his eighth-grade schedule did not miss a beat. Extracurricular activity participation combined with studying commitments, created a setting where the traumatic child survivor could not dwell about newly placed scars, defacing his body.

Due to a rare break in his busy agenda, A.Y. relaxed couch potatoe style while an entertainment publication who reported the celebrity death caused by AIDS, blocked his mother’s glamour women’s magazine.

Right next to him A.Y.’s new aides rested, and the late afternoon movie called “The Early Frost” unspooled on television. Premiered as a prime-time network special which competed against the same audience level as the energetic poster girl private detectives, the dramatic story preceded the six o’clock journalism reports.

A.Y. watched with an intent eye, emotionally moved, during a scene when the parents called paramedics to help her sick son. When the emergency workers were told honestly of the irreversible contagious condition they refused treatment.

This staged artistic message hit the youth hard, inflicting guilt feelings, since many health care workers attended to his pediatric needs, creating a comfortable environment.

Marching, no longer course interruptions, decade styles transitioned, and the century ventured into its next chapter, allowing A.Y. to fully experience adulthood, providing him canes as senior proof.

Peacefully, sitting in a coffee shop near the hospital that performed special surgeries, A.Y. enjoyed a Latte, lap top open.

Hearing a bell ring, A.Y. noticed two student nurses enter wearing their official operating room attire, promoting the university they represented, “you know when I went to school,” A.Y. paused, “my fellow classmates wore uniforms.”

“You are a nurse?” One asked for confirmation.

“No,” A.Y. replied, “Communication Arts graduate.”

“So, you work in the visual media,” her friend continued.

“No,” A.Y. repeated, “I am an author.”

“We know you,” the pair connected the dots, “you created the cuddly creature that helps nurses.”

Smiling, A.Y. enjoyed the fact someone appreciated his work, “you do know why we wear these scrubs,” the health care workers defense mechanism clicked, “blood.”

“I know something about that,” A.Y. grinned monitoring their break trip concluded, summoning them back to the office.

Returning to his private power station A.Y. typed at the keyboard, “I ask myself every day, “did the Yankees win? And every time I answer that question, “its ‘blowin in the wind’, down at the disco, screaming, ‘we are just stayin alive’.