Handle With Care

Speaking into the overhead microphone, I announce that this is case No. 42-21-43/172: a forty-eight-year-old male Caucasian; 178 cms tall and weighing 84 kgs. The victim was in generally poor health with a distended abdomen and jaundiced appearance. Mr Smith, I said, when I’d readied your liver for removal was obviously a habitual drinker suffering from acute cirrhosis.

Death had been imminent.

I waited for what seemed a long time - seven minutes - before you finally awoke. Staring down at your face, I noted (but didn’t record) the extreme surprise registering in your wide-open eyes. The local anaesthetic hadn’t worn off, but I assured you that it was only a matter of time. About the time when I started to separate your ribs, so I could remove your heart.

Checking your clothing, I removed your wallet from your jacket and picked through the papers. Damn, I exclaimed, because you didn’t have a donor card. Not to worry, I’d have your kidneys and corneas couriered over to Prince Alfred when I’d finished removing them. Then I showed you the specially marked carry-boxes, I had put to one side. Your eyes were as big as golf balls. I patted you on the shoulder and said you shouldn’t worry . . . I would be finished soon.

Still smiling, I picked up your favourite scalpel, cut around the exposed liver, and watched your sharp intake of breath, and the beads of perspiration running down your face. The drugs were beginning to wear off. Tenderly, I dabbed your face with a cold compress.

Do you know it’s an awful shame? I said. I’d really expected you to come to my sister’s funeral last week.

I had to hand it to you though because you really look bewildered.

I leaned forward, kissed your forehead, and could taste your sweat. Pearls of honey. Yes, I whispered, Maria was the accident victim you autopsied the other week. Not one of your better efforts, you must admit. Still, you’re quite right, a real waste of a good screw.

And I do believe that the last sound you heard was the screaming decibels of the Stryker saw; the one you’d had specially shipped in from the States after reading ‘From Potter’s Field’, once too often.

I often visit Mr Smith’s grave because I’ve had him buried only a few yards away from Maria. Yes, I hope they enjoy each other’s company. Who knows? He was an intelligent fellow and I was nearly always proud of his handiwork. Still, I loved my sister a great deal more. She was a fine young woman. Sometimes I regret not telling him that Maria had been an organ donor. That she had carelessly left her donor card at home. Maria was forever forgetting little things like that. Still, she had such a good heart.

*

Now we have a new doctor. Very young, very unattractive. I don’t care much because she has the most caring hands in all the world and I think I will enjoy working for her. On her very first day, I brought her flowers and told her about the three patients at Prince Alfred who had received organ donations. I tell her that it was my sister’s last good deed, but never mention Mr Smith’s contribution.

She smiles and says that my sister must have been a very fine person. I cannot disagree.