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"It's just Harry now, sir," the fellow says, letting go of you and jumping to his feet.
"Nonsense," Plumridge snaps. "And you," he says softly, leaning over the bed, scrutinizing your ruined face.  "Try to smile."
You do and he says, "Are you trying?"
"I think so."
"Right, then," he says, "you can stop." He plucks a tissue from your bedside and dabs at some spit on your chin.
"Thank you," you say.
"You're welcome." He adds, "Please know that your suffering is not in vain. This hospital compiles a list of accidental deaths, less than stellar surgeries, misdiagnoses, etcetera, which we then gather to discuss in hopes of avoiding such disasters in future. We consider every person on this list to be one of Britain's heroes."
You start to cry a little, both for the honor and the unfairness, perhaps even in that order.
"Yes, I understand," Plumridge says quietly, gripping your wrist as if he were about to check your pulse, though he counts nothing and doesn't refer to his watch.
"I should never have gone to medical college,"  Harry laments from the corner, where he's banished himself behind the chair.
"Dr. Harry," Plumridge says, without turning around, "you will take comfort in me and others later. Let us now shift our full attention to the young lady."
Harry nods at Plumridge, then looks at you and says, "You should sue."
"It's certainly an option," Plumridge says. "Only bear in mind that under the National Health system you're actually suing the government, and tort law is notoriously tricky."
"I don't want to sue," you tell him.
Plumridge nods approvingly. He then says, "In my view, it is insufficient for us to apologize to you due to the gravity of our error. That said, it is equally insufficient not to. Therefore, we apologize."
"I'd like to apologize again," Harry adds.
"That's fine," Plumridge tells him.
"I'm leaving now," Harry says.
"Don't be a coward, sir."
"Good-bye," Harry says.
Moments later, as Plumridge yanks the plastic tube from inside your neck, you feel a deep, lasting burn, yes, but there's also an astonishing internal gurgle, as if you were the office water cooler and someone had just taken a drink. It's really true, that you're ninety-eight percent fluid, and once again you feel bound by your assessment of yourself as inconsequential.
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©2000
Alicia Erian and Nerve.com
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