The neurosurgeon looks down at his patient. The beads of sweat trickling, inching down his nose like a tickle, did not bother him. He was not annoyed by the electric buzz of the heart rate monitor, nor the emanation of muffled screams from behind curtains down the hall in the amputation bay. No, this was the height of his career. The process of severing the Manula Dibraptor from the Cerebral Cortex without single phasing the bridge way of Myelin Sheath was patented three years prior, and to this day his greatest accomplishment. Thousands of hours were spent refining the scalpel maneuvers. Now, in the wee hours of the morning, after five cups of coffee on an empty stomach, the Mayor of Deeknackey, a short, skinny, and deliberately unkempt man, lay on the table with acute Schtrichnosis, of which the only cure is the neurosurgeon’s newly patented technique. Hundreds of thousands of dollars are on the line, as the technique has grown in popularity and success rate, and so has its’ value. A team of white coats surround the table. Pulsating fluorescent light seems to make time stand still. “Doctor?” the head nurse addresses a continuing lapse in movement or speech. The neurosurgeon merely stands, perched as if ready to proceed, but merely sweating and staring. “What’s wrong with him?” asks the lab assistant. “Silence! There shall be no more talking!” shrieks the anesthesiologist. A pause protrudes. “Seriously, something’s wrong…” the lab assistant pokes the neurosurgeon, who moves even less.
“Get me three hundred CC’s of sodium carbolexatrate, ASAP!” the anesthesiologist runs face first into the white brick wall and is heavily concussed. Fifty CC’s of sodium carbolexatrate are given to the neurosurgeon, two hundred and fifty are given to the anesthesiologist, who is laying on the floor stuttering the alphabet. “Blood pressure is 510 over 1050. Heart rate is poundy. His hands are clammy and his breath stinks, but his hair smells nice”, rattled the lab assistant who is checking various aspects of the neurosurgeon’s health. “We’ve got no vital signs”, sighs the head nurse. “He’s still alive, what do you mean?” retorted the lab assistant. “I mean signs showing us what’s wrong, like vital information.” “That’s not what vital signs means.” “I’m pretty sure I can use the English language however I want.” “Not in a medical setting where lives are on the line!” “Lives aren’t on the line, they’re on the table, which is much safer.” The anesthesiologist finally makes it to Z and confesses that he is a happy boy. He stands and then sits back down. The team concludes that the ten minute and fifty three second paralysis that seems to inhabit the neurosurgeon is uncommon and they have no idea how to assess the situation properly. There is only one solution. Call his doctor.
Within a matter of milliseconds of the lab assistant calling the toll free Doctors for Doctors hotline, Dr. Dutchess Caliber, a doctor’s doctor for eighteen years, appears out of thick air. “Ah, yes. My client, the neurosurgeon.” she says. “A peculiar case of an over exaggerated auto immune disorder in which the body will “go to sleep” much like a desktop computer. The only way to wake them up is to play Creedence Clearwater Revival and pull their ears.” The team diligently sings “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ down the river…” and takes turns pulling the ears of the neurosurgeon. Finally, after what feels like five hours, but is only eighty three seconds, the scalpel blade that was held rigidly in his hand glimmers once again with the vibrancy of a festive twirl before going face first into a specimen. “What happened? Oh! Hi, Dutchess”, the neurosurgeon seems surprised. “It’s happened again. Let’s be more careful. Remember to listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival every day, at least twice a day. Once in the morning and once before bed. No more midday jazz. And pull your ears more often. They’re too tight on your head, it’s disgusting”, Dr. Dutchess Caliber exits through the doorway. She turns to look at the team of ambitious health professionals. “And remember. Whenever a doctor goes down, give us a call and we’ll come around. It’s important to keep your doctor’s doctor on file, in case they experience a doctor specific medical condition. I trained for years on how to be a doctor to one specific type of patient. My specialty. Other doctors.” She disappears and everyone breaks into applause and cheering. Confetti is thrown, some of which lands on the Mayor of Deeknackey. The neurosurgeon operates but is ultimately unsuccessful, rendering the mayor unable to use chopsticks or double knot his shoes for the remainder of his life.