It's All Just Chemistry

Sage observations from the detached on the meaning of life.

"It's all just chemistry", she murmered as I looked with a mixture of fear and horror at the post-operative patient in the bed. He rested, but not comfortably, connected to a maze of tubes and wires, every quadrant of his body having been assaulted medically in one way or another, too many bags to count dripping who knows what, and a machine keeping watch on all functions.

They opened everything that was closed, and closed everything that was open, as somebody once said. Veins harvested from legs, arms and neck fitted with IV spigots, chest cracked open, heart remodeled and fitted with a spiffy new plastic valve, aneurysm patched up, and a couple of detours grafted on for good measure.

They said he wouldn't remember, but he seemed to know I was there at the time, and it seemed to matter. I knew I was there, and I would remember. So I stayed as long as I could.

All day on the table. Half way through the next before the wake up call and tube removal, breathing on his own. Five days before return of cognizance. A lot of ugly in between. Worries about "pump head" , 1 to 2 out 100 die withing two months. Post-op infection. What else have you got?

Just chemistry? There might be a little more to it.