3652

By Yashna Jalan

"You can verify by holding my wrist, you know." 

The doctor looks at me as if I'm a silly, moth-eaten teddy bear; something one likes to embrace but requires to be stored. 

"To take the pulse," I swirl my papery wrist, squeezing my thumb against the circulating blood, tapping an almost undetectable stream. 

"Of course," she says. He nods, as if recalling something he was once told, perhaps as a joke, on his first day at med school.

“Well no need for that now. I've got all your vital statistics right here, thanks to the graft." He motions with his hand towards my right bicep. The Smart Patch, which they installed nearly a month ago, is invisible; it acts as a secret and silent doctor, tracking me 24 hours a day, seven days a week. He gives a broad smile that is presumably meant to be reassuring.

“No, I wouldn't want to interfere with your privacy; your physical space. We try to avoid direct physical contact as much as possible these days. This is better for healthcare professionals and, of course, patients as well."

I recall the doctor at the nursing home gently closing your eyes, the practiced hand brushing the lids closed for their lengthy final sleep, and blinking the memory away. 

“Do you have any questions about the procedure? It’s really nothing to be worried about. The Smart Surgeons will make sure everything works, as the saying goes, with those old timepieces."

“Like clockwork.” 

“Yes, exactly! "But didn't those old watches always run out of battery?" He lets out a burst of laughter that echoes throughout the vacant ward, which has been stripped of everything except him, me, and the one the monitor. 

“Well no worries about that today!The procedure will be overseen by HOD of surgery Ai 3652.” the physician informed him.

”3652 you said?” there was a slight surprise on Rick's face followed by a resigned smile.

“Yes, he is the most qualified to perform such procedures.” he says with a broad smile.

 “When it is finished, the Smart Patch will truly activate, beginning operations formally completed by the redundant." he appears to be at a loss for words for a moment, moving from one foot to the other, "um, the redundant part." He eventually succeeds. 

"Now, Rick, take it easy, and as soon as your Smart Patch and Ai 3652 are prepared to go, your Hear-Speak will notify you." He points to the insert in my left ear. 

The screen, previously dark, flashes to colour. Lines of writing appear: Cortisol levels elevated; blood glucose spike follows. If the levels do not stabilise, a tranquiliser and insulin should be administered within 3 minutes. 

“Doctor, no!” I blurt out, grasping the side rails of my bed. "I can handle it; I've learned stress-relieving breathing exercises. I don’t need a tranquiliser!” 

“Of course,” he soothes, making for the door.  "The nanobots will only administer drugs if an emergency medical need exists. Now do try to relax. If you like, I can check in on you one more time.” And he closes the door quietly behind him. 

I only realise I overlooked asking questions after he's gone. But I can't allow that to bother me right now. I have just under two minutes to try to reduce my stress levels before the nanobots deliver the drug and I only know darkness when it slips around me, dragging me under. I tell myself to take long, lengthy breaths, Rick. In: one, two, three, four, and five; out: one, two, three, four, and five. One, two, three, four, five; one, two, three, four, five; and one, two, three, four, five. Again. And it helps to have my breath, that old familiar rhythm that has swayed me all my life. Here, in this alien place, it is the familiarity of the known here, in this strange place, still performing the regular miracle of converting air into breath, breath into life, deep in my lungs.

I’ve managed it. The monitor closes its beady eye; the lines of text fade into comforting nothingness, and I quietly thank those relaxation classes I got into at the care home years ago. They didn't seem to provide much relief at the time, unless you qualify staring blankly at my feet as other people did the breathing exercises as relief, but maybe they've finally paid off now. Yes, my hand’s not shaking. I look at it, swiping over the inconspicuous Smart Patch. It's supposed to be smooth, and I don't see a single crease or crease of skin, let alone a scar. But I can almost feel it pulsing with my data, so I know it's there. 

Soundless blips are instantly zipped to the screen, where its invisible eye is focused on me; to my smart fridge, where the door has now been locked, preventing me from accessing all my lovely rich and creamy oily, artery-clogging favourites. And, of course, my medical insurance has been automatically revised with my vital statistics: my premiums will rise once more. And my Smart Car has a plan for the following day: pick up at 8 a.m. Then I'll be ready to check out, this one last procedure is completed, finally crossing the finish line; my final destination: brand new me. 

I remember other finishing lines. A water-logged playing field. A school sports day in March.The other boys waited for the whistle, fingers on scabby knees. And from the sidelines, a blast ripped across the grass, sending us running which we did. Arms out like mug handles, mud-splattered sneakers. Each stride was exhilarating pain. I forgot to take deep breaths, I forgot to pace myself; all I knew was that I was nearest to the finish line, that I was on the finish line, that I was over the finish line- I'd won! I'd swallowed down air experiencing, for the first time, with every cell of my modest being, the rush of a win, but also the delight of being alive, my heart thumping, blood in my ears, and every part of me trembling with effort.

I'd settled down afterwards, head between my thighs, like a little sponge, absorbing the rain-soaked earth. I was dizzy, not sure whether from elation or exertion--probably both--but I knew I needed to rest.  Clear signals: body to mind. Blood was a swift messenger, delivering its message: sit!- to my perplexed brain. 

That was back then, and this is now. Which signals will I receive from Smart Patch or Ai 3652? Will they bother at all? Perhaps the nanobots will just release the anesthetic when they’re ready to go. There's no need for a countdown, just an old-fashioned: 3-2-1. It doesn't seem like I didn't agree to it; my insurance required it, and my electronic fingerprint is on all the paperwork. If they want darkness to descend in the swirl of a Smart magician’s cloak, well they’re the conjurors now, not me. 

It didn’t use to be like this. It used to be me with magic at my fingertips, because if I touched you, you'd quiver like a string being stroked by a bow. And oh what music we made. Those nights, beneath the celestial bodies; me, a poor boy, hoping for the diamond pendants strung across the night's throat; wishing I could reach up and pluck one down, clasp it around your beautiful neck, and watch how you surpassed the stars of heaven. We didn't need jewels; we didn't even need stars. Even if the earth had shook and we two had tumbled into an abyss, I would have found you and drank your breath.

That first kiss: my heart pounding like it wanted to slam every door I'd ever closed; blood roaring like an orchestra in my ears. The sounds of love: hammering, roaring, music on full blast. I look about the ward and can only wonder, at the clear digital silence. It is like someone has come with a big bag, opened it up and put all the sounds inside, snapped it shut and left. There’s no hum of machines, no shuffle of shoes; if Ai 3652 is here, she is as silent as the grave.

No, I'm lying; there's a sound: the snap of the door opening; the physician has returned, just as he had promised He begins to recite a spiel; perhaps this is his role, though he appears pretty redundant, given the HOD of surgery Ai 3652 will be managing the show with her staff: Smart Patch and the nanobots. Perhaps he’s part of the package, paid for by my monthly premiums: a salute to the bygone days, offering a comforting pattern, even if he won’t take my pulse or listen to my chest. I struggle to focus on what he is saying, trying to keep the rhythm of my breathing while I glance at the screen behind him. 

“So there’s no need to feel anxious at all, Rick. This is the last procedure: the final great overhaul.”

I nod, his words leaving me adrift rather than drawing me in.

"The Smart Patch and nanobots will then be capable of fully getting around this old ship of a body." He nods, as if assessing my paper-thin skin and silver hairs and determining an old steamer, long past due for a port call.

He appears to be preparing for an elaborate oration, and I'm wondering if he's just voicing the Hear-Speak in his ear. I seem to recall hearing this speech in the Insurance blurb I had to thumb through and sign a few weeks ago. When the representative explained that because I no longer had someone to care for me and because I had reached an age where I would place more demands on my insurance than supply was likely to meet, I would have to, please, tap my fingerprint to the screen, accepting the procedures listed: a Hear-Speak implant; a Smart Patch graft; and a nanobot infusion…the list went on. I closed my eyes and pressed. 

Here, in this ward, the doctor’s still droning on. I grip the rails, feeling the bedrock beneath me.

“"This great storm of life is over: age, illness.; it is over. Ours will be smarter sailing, on the high-wire wave of the future.”

I remember other waves. 

Our last vacation was spent pushing your wheelchair, or rather pulling it through the sand. We were stuck in every ripple of sand despite your light weight. Right down to the shore where the little waves lapped over the wheels and a half thought we should just keep going. It was simpler here, with the sand compressed by the rising tide and the chair picking up speed on its own. I had the thought: I could keep going, letting the waves conceal me and you.  Yes, we could have stepped into the tide, and accepted that there was no wave, no medical miracle, which would break in time for you. Better to let the surf pound and render us back to the particles we came from; to mingle with the sand. 

Instead we stopped, watching the boats far out on the horizon, specks which seemed stationary and devoid of purpose compared to us: holding hands, watching, feeling the rhythm of your pulse, your life force, shaking but insistent.

 Two weeks later, I received your Death Certificate, and you are no longer a part of the world. We are steeped in surveillance, but your presence goes unnoticed by all but me. What can identify an undetectable shadow cast by no light and no form? But I sense you; you’re the daylight moon, an improbable miracle, but one right there to see, if we only just glance up. For 3652 days now I still feel you as I did that day.

As I do now, staring at the parroting doctor as if for the initial moments after months of stumbling around in the pitch black. And the inquiries keep coming: what am I doing here? Yes, I've signed up for the Three R's programme: renew, regenerate, and revive, but what exactly do I want to revitalize? There is nothing dormant, slumbering or passed-on.  I remember how I felt when I first held you in my loving embrace under that jewel-studded sky all those years ago. It's not necessary to resurrect something that never died.

Yes, I signed the paper. It was stated that it was just another organ like every other one: blood, tissue, and muscle. It's a medical procedure, similar to having a bypass, a pacemaker implanted, or an organ transplant. Except it’s not. 

I've been repeatedly telling myself for months that I'm not a doctor or an anatomist. What do I know about this pounding in my chest? Enough to recognise it for what it is: the drum of my life, which I would never, ever let a person silence in favour of a silent, staring patch.

One hand clutching my chest,I begin to get up from the hospital bed, one hand clinging to my chest. I clutch at my heart, my one and only treasure chest, which contains every ounce of gold I've ever owned: an abundance of pleasure and pain. I lock my gaze on the physician and this thief with his gang of AI robbers. I can’t give it up and I won’t. I open my mouth to tell him, only to be rebuffed by the words he has unleashed.

"Ah, I'm receiving a message that Ai 3652 is finally ready. Don't worry, Rick; you'll never miss your heart. It's time for the Smart Patch to be applied now.

My chest becomes tighter, as if a boulder is squeezing the air from me. The invisible patch burns like a brand under my skin, and I can feel the nanobots speeding through my blood vessels like gloomy lightning, scorching my senses.

“I-”

"Yes, I know, we're extremely fortunate to be living on the pulse of tomorrow," he says with a broad smile. 

I smile back feeling the place my heart used to be. “All you’ll really miss are your heartbeats” with the same broad smile.“I haven't missed those for 3652 days now” he says as his mind gets enveloped in darkness.

By Yashna Jalan