Ian stood by the window in the hallway, trying to assess the morning’s traumatic events.
Let me get this straight. I’m on the 89th floor of a hospital where the doctors and nurses dress in black. My dad’s here because he had a stroke. The doctor taking care of him went to medical school for 50 years, yet he himself is 45 years old.
Then it gets weirder. The nurses take my dad apart like a robot and the doctor takes the head and cracks it open like an egg. Out comes the brain, being the tangled mess it is. Then he unravels the brain so it’s one long slimy strand and right away he sees the cause of the stroke, a single rubber band clamped tightly to cut off circulation. He cuts off the rubber band, throws all the body parts into a box and attaches the box to a machine that will shake it vigorously. Then, with a loud P-TOO sound, out flies my dad in one piece and he lands on the bed, fast asleep. And all that’s left to do is wait for him to wake up before he can go home?
“Ian?” his mother called from down the hall. “Let’s go. Your father’s awake now.”
WHAT IS GOING ON???
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