SATIRE! Please do not get offended of anything I say in here, my AP English teacher asked us to write a piece similar to The Modest Proposal (a famous satire) So, yeah, please don’t take this seriously, it’s supposed to be making fun of the quote “No, no, it’s okay, it’s a doctors job to kill” from a short story we read in class.
Survival for the Dead
I believe it’s the distinctive walk, the strut that speaks “I have done this before” almost mocking those who have never come face to face with this all knowing march, unprepared for what this stride will bring. It could very well be their slight cough before they say the sentence that is so commonly linked with their career. Why not just come right out and say it, rather than pretend to feel any of the emotions there flooding families with, rather sucker punching these horrifying fears that become reality like it was an apple pie at a carnival. We all know the smell, a hint of floor cleaner, hand sanitizer, cold metal stethoscopes, and the ever so subtle stench of death. When one gathers all of these scents and brings them into one building, it materializes into a hospital. Sure, there are a few drugs here, dying there, tears falling in the waiting area, what a funny title for the room, we live in the living room, we dine in the dining room and we wait in the waiting room. That’s it, wait, we linger around hoping for the best, simultaneously thinking the worst, hoping that you’re a mile and a half farther from far off. For what, some lab coat with a stitched in name from an ivy school to say the same strategically formed line that shows enough grief, a good amount of professionalism, and just a slim amount of regret for their failure. Then what, they wish us good luck and send us on our way because they surly can’t give us a lollipop, what gives them the right?
This entire group of species most likely have framed degrees hanging up somewhere, along with a few photos if they have an office, the hospital, any medical area for that matter has a ranking, and if it’s deemed good enough to send a life that requires saving, it will have it engraved somewhere in the building. Oh, don’t believe me, go ahead and check, I know for a fact that the Brigham and Women’s Hospital has some impressive statement right on the side of their entrance. Hospitals teach residence to become “great” doctors, they inform the grieving of options for immediate action if needed, and they guide the few that do survive these horrible death sentences made out of brick and cement how to live a healthy life, but they seem to never learn the meaning of subtle. Oh well, to each it’s own, but let me just say, with all the problems that hospitals take on and attempt to form solutions, they are a solution of their own; they just haven’t seen it yet.
These high and mighty beings, known as Doctors, and Nurses to, I wouldn’t imagine excluding them, all assemble in the hallowed halls of Hospitals, creating their plan for survival of what will most likely become the dead. They take on trauma cases, typically knowing the chance of survival, and always add more hope, while optimism is a great trait to portray in life; it’s not necessarily the best thing to add to the medical information when dealing with one’s heartbeat becoming stable. So the surgery take’s a bad turn, and sometimes, other time’s not, they send a scrub nurse to come out and inform the family and loved ones of the new information, that conveniently tells us nothing. “Doctor [insert whatever name your heart desires here] wanted me to inform you that a slight complication has occurred, but he’s handling it, and that the surgery might be longer than we expected. When we have more information we will let you know.” Then, as quick as their neon colored scrubs appeared, they disappear through two double doors, and it seems as if they will be gone forever. Two, three, four hours pass by, and the lab coat appears. The family stands, and most hold their breath. I wasn’t lucky enough to have enough time to fear and hope all at once; I just had blueberry pie in my eyes before I knew it was even in the room. Then the white lab coat forms a mouth, and speaks the designed statement that some may even hear the gridlines in his sentence structure. “We did everything we could, but I’m sorry to inform you that he/she didn’t make it through the surgery, there was an unexpected complication and the [insignificant body part or parts placed here] failed. Please know are thoughts are with you, and someone will be out shortly with some paperwork that needs to be filed.” Then, just like the neon scrubs, the lab coat is gone, and this scene happens over and over again.
So now what? Where do those left behind find a starting line for their life again, because that’s what most need: a start button to push, a lever to pull, a race line to begin at, or anything else to get them moving again. It’s a frozen state when one loses someone they can’t live without, but are now forced to, and if you’ve never lost one who you need not daily but more than once a minute, you can’t begin to understand what that pie tastes like. The family, friends, and other loved one’s are left to pick up whatever pieces of their everything that are distinguishable to use and cope, there’s no moving on, there’s rarely a sense of acceptance, there’s just death, with a scent of sugar free whipped cream. The doctor moves forward to another surgery, another case, another three hour nap in the on call room before their next forty-eight hour shift, and they didn’t even need a start button.
Many things in life are unexplainable and far from fair, death is in both these categories, and I’m not one for vengeance, but if there was a way to help millions of families move forward after a loss of a loved one, shouldn’t we give them the opportunity? Let’s say, organs could be donated to people who have been on the waiting list for years, hair could be given to make wigs and patch animals whose hair follicles have been damaged by a fire and are unable to re-grow, more living space could become available, and money could be saved, all we have to do is set a few guidelines. I put forward the idea of hope, true hope, not the hope doctors add to cases as if it were Splenda, which we all know doesn’t taste like sugar. I believe every family should be allowed to kill a doctor who has allowed more than one of said family’s members to die. Like I previously stated, their organs can be donated, their hair could be more than useful, and if they live alone, their apartment or house could be given to the family who got to partake in their murder. Now, this will need to be approved by the hospital, considering the amount of paperwork that runs through these buildings, but as long as the family meets the criteria of more than one blood related death by a doctor’s two hands, they have every right to proceed with their acts. Their choice of killing tactics is to be decided by said family, since the doctor chose to kill their relative through surgery, drugs, or anything else that may or may not occur in an operating room.
The one thing that is to be decided by the doctor’s or medical “professional’s” family is what to do with the no longer needed salary. The one condition is that they can’t keep it for themselves, seeing as the hospital would send them a check every month for what, having a son or daughter that kills using a scalpel? They must inform the hospital of what charity, fund, or cause for the better good; however you would like to state it, is to receive the monthly salary. After that, everyone win’s, for once. No one’s left feeling as if they have no lollipop after a shot, or feeling like they need to drive their head into a wall because their world just came crashing down. Now what about the family who has a member killed? Well, if love and war get to be fair, why not medicine?
