Lucky IvorA Story by WoodyNothing dramatic. Just a medical errorThe droning was becoming irritating. But why was it intermittent? Could the plane be having
engine trouble? “S**t, I hope we won’t
crash,” thought Ivor. The pitch changed into..
into some sort of buzzing! That couldn’t be a good sign, could it? Planes
weren’t supposed to buzz, were they? Silence. Then the droning then silence
again. The plane was going into
free fall! The passengers were terrified, screaming. Suddenly, the luggage racks opened and bags and boxes rained down on the horrified men, women and
children. Oxygen masks dangled and danced about like inverted cobras out of
their wicker baskets. Goodness, where’s the upside down fakir? Ivor Longwon tried to scream but couldn’t. The old lady who’d been sitting next to him, sipping her Martini, was now smothering him, clinging for dear life, screeching at him to save her. Only Ivor couldn’t. His head was stuck between her breasts and he desperately needed to surface for air. Suddenly, his body jerked and he gulped in air greedily. His eyes snapped open. He stared at the blank wall facing him. Where was Marilyn Monroe’s poster? His heart was pounding wildly as if he’d run a five-mile marathon. Thank God, it was only a goddamn dream! “But why am I in bed? Where am I?” he thought. The droning resumed. But not the screams. “What the…” A fat
black-backed fly hovered inches away from his face. “You b*****d! It was you
that triggered that hellish nightmare!” If the bat flat-flacked bly had had eyebrows, it would’ve raised them uncomprehendingly at Ivor.
Instead, it delicately landed on his brow and started feasting on the moisture
that had gathered there. Ivor tried to swat it away but couldn’t. He stretched his lower lip out and upward and blew, trying vainly to dislodge it. The tickling
was becoming maddening but the fucked black-blocked fly (oh, sod it!) took off and landed on his
nose, dangerously close to his nostril then sauntered onto his upper lip. Ivor wished he had a moustache. He couldn’t lift his right arm to defend himself.
Hell, he couldn’t feel his arm. His left arm felt like it was strapped to the
bed. Terror flooded his mind. Could he be a prisoner of that sick criminal who
called himself Jig saw? He expected a gravelly voice to say “Let’s play a game!” Suddenly, an angel
materialized. Gorgeous, all in white. God, that smile! Excruciatingly
beautiful! “Are you…,” tried Ivor.
He wet his parched lips. “Are you with Saw?” “Sore?” said the angel,
puzzled. “Doctor Hedd'll be here in a minute. Everything’s going to be
fine.” “Doctor? Why… why am I
here?” “You’ve undergone a
surgery. The doctor will explain everything. Don’t worry.” The door opened
silently. “Ah, here’s Dr Hedd.” Doctor Richard Hedd, Dick to his friends, strode
towards the bed with a broad smile on his face. He didn’t look like Dr House at
all. He didn’t limp for one thing and his eyes weren’t blue. “Ah, I see you’re awake
Mr. Longwon. Welcome to the land of the living! 'ow’re you feeling?” “Like s**t.” “That’s understandable.
The anesthetics can sometimes 'ave that effect.” “What’s wrong with me,
Doctor.” “I see your mind is
still muddled. You’ve come 'ere to 'ave your arm amputated.” “Ampu WHAT?” yelled Ivor. “Tated. Gangrene. Don’t
you remember?” The memory came back
like a tsunami and nearly rocked the man out of the bed. Ivor closed his eyes and
moaned while Dr Hedd exchanged a here-we-go look with the nurse. “Where’s my Rolex?”
asked Ivor, alarmed. “Don’t worry. It’s on
the bedside table. It’s fake anyway. Now, I 'ave good news and bad news, I’m
afraid. Which do you want first?” “Let’s get the bad news
out of the way,” said Ivor, resignedly. “Right. Ehm… we….” “Come on, Doc! Out with
it” “Well.. We seem to 'ave
cut off the wrong arm. That is the right arm.” “Oh nonononon!” moaned
Ivor. “How in God’s name can you make such a stupid mistake?” “Now, Mr Longwon. It’s
not as dramatic as you’re making it out to be. It's just an 'armless error. We 'ave beautiful prostheses. Before
you know it, you’ll be as good as new. You can even choose the colour,” ended
the good doctor with a smug smile. “This can’t be true. I must
be still dreaming. What’s the good news? Cheer me up!” “Aah I’m glad you asked.
You’ll be glad to know that your gangrened arm’s getting better; we won’t 'ave
to cut it off. Unless you insist, that is.” © 2016 WoodyAuthor's Note
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Added on February 4, 2016Last Updated on February 22, 2016 Tags: surgery, amputation, error AuthorWoodyMateur, Bizerte, TunisiaAboutok, time for an update I think. my old friends have come to know me pretty well, I trust so this is for the new comers. I'm a Tunisian 60-year-old teacher-cum-translator, book worm who enjoys writing.. more..Writing
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