Published:
November 9, 2023
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Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
— Charles Bukowski, “Dinosauria, We”
I ran into the DocElectronics medical kiosk next to the Starbucks. I had cut my hand bad, and was bleeding all over the place.
I placed my other hand on the screen, and it pulled up my medical history.
“Customer 2900,” the machine said, “You have exceeded your hospital visits for this year. Any additional care will require payment. If this is an emergency, and you have a credit chip, may I advise you to scan it promptly. If you do not scan it within the next thirty seconds, DocElectronics cannot be held responsible.”
“Yeah. I bet they can’t,” I said to myself.
The blood was slowly soaking my shirt all the way up to the elbow. On my lap, a small pool had formed. I started getting dizzy. The machine was flashing red. It had scanned my body, and was quite aware of the specifics of my injury. Had given me a free X-Ray.
“I advise you to comply promptly and scan your credit-chip,” it repeated. “We accept American Express, Visa, MasterCard, and Discover. If you are unsure whether we accept your particular chip, please scan it to find out.”
Reeling, and ready to pass out, I put my wrist over the scanner, praying I had enough credit.
“I’m sorry,” it said. “I was unable to read your chip; please try again.”
“Mother—” I said, my vision getting blurry, I licked the blood off and scanned it again.
The thing processed it. “Accepted,” it finally said. “Please place your arm in the treatment-aperture.”
A small tunnel opened up to my left.
“Please insert your arm into the arm bracket,” it said.
I did. Its cushions squeezed gently until the arm was secure and unable to move during the procedure, which I could watch. Inside were small, robotic appendages, each about the size of a finger. They moved in and out with precision, cleaning the wound, preparing the area, and applying anesthetics.
When the hand was ready to be stitched, two large sockets opened up from underneath, and two chrome skeleton hands rose up on either side. Their steady and nimble fingers were the result of years of research, which had begun with the control algorithms, sensors, and AI-enhanced robotic gait of the robot dog.
The appendages assisted throughout cleaning and disinfecting while the simulated doctor continued to stitch. About twenty minutes later, I could feel the anesthetic wearing off. Suddenly, the hands stopped in mid-stitch.
“Continued anesthetics will require an additional charge of $9.99,” the machine said.
“Really!” I yelled. "You stop for a lousy $9.99!” I accepted the charges with gritted teeth.
“Thank you for your patronage,” the machine said. “The procedure will now continue.”
More choice words began to issue forth. The vitals indicator picked up a rise in blood pressure. “What do you expect!” I said.
“Please calm down and breathe normally,” the machine advised.
“Please kiss my ass!” I replied — for which it had no answer.
As the procedure wore on, my attention drifted to a small, silver plaque; “First do no harm”, it was engraved; the first line of the Hippocratic Oath. Someone had scratched it out with something. This was now a flat out lie. If I did not have the credit, harm would be done.
I watched the hands sew, and could not figure out why even though DocElectronics had cut down on medical staff, I was still paying the same amount. Whatever they saved from modern technologies they kept, without a thought to passing it down to us. In the annals of their private parties, they jokingly called it “Pay or die money”.
The procedure went on, as I was stitched and wrapped. The bracket loosened its grip. The appendages returned to where they had come from, and the two skeletal hands sunk back into their dark sockets. I was not angry with these hands, but those who had programmed them with such brilliance, only to use them nefariously. What works of art they were? Even in my resentment, they were hypnotic to watch. I wondered; if they had programmed themselves, would they charge? No, I thought. Their algorithms were programmed to complete the task. Our algorithms were programmed to charge. Such a waste of possibilities, I thought.
“You may now remove your hand from the treatment aperture,” the machine said.
I removed my hand, and the cave spiraled shut.
“We prescribe Amoxicillin,” it said, “Please hold while I see if this medication is covered by your insurance…” Phil Collins, “I Don’t Care Anymore”, played.
I was ready to cut off my hand and save myself the trouble.
Then there was a green flash. “This prescription is covered by your insurance,” the thing said. “It has been electronically sent to your desired pharmacy.”
“Well thank God for small favors!!”
“Thank you for choosing DocElectronics,” it replied. “We hope your journey with us has been a pleasant one.” A girl with a guitar sang emotionally… Daah-Ak-Elll-ec-tronn-icks, Yoou’re in Good Haaands With Uuus…
I hauled off and punched the screen with my other hand, and cut that one as well.

Copyright 2023 - SFS Publishing LLC
Customer 2900
There are no more patients
Hala Dika

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