“Get me the fuck out of here,” shouted the silver haired, white man shouted lying in bed number five in the surgical recovery ward at NY Presbyterian Hospital. “You’ve already taken your pound of flesh today.”
“What’s this matter, Mr. Britt?” The nurse practitioner asked.
“I’m ready to go home”
“You can go as soon as we take your vitals and make sure you’re hydrated.”
“Are you sure that’s all?” Mr. Britt questioned. “Every time I come to this hospital someone cuts into me like one of those damn medical cadavers. I’m sick of it.”
“I doubt that happens,” the nurse practitioner snapped. “I promise. I will get you out of here as soon as I can.”
Mr. Britt lifted his gown, exposing himself to all of the nursing staff and patients.
“You sounds like you don’t believe me,” exclaimed Mr. Britt. “You’re talking loud, trying to make people think I am just one of those difficult old men. I’m not. Look at these scars. How do you think I got them? I’ll tell you. Doctors here keep hacking into me, making me feel worse instead of better.”
“Please put your gown down,” the nurse practitioner demanded. “I’m sorry you’ve been through so much but I’m sure the doctors were trying to help you.”
“I’m not,” shouted Mr. Britt, “that’s why I want to go. I’ve been experimented on enough. Now I want peace so bring me my discharge papers so I can go. You can have what’s left of me when I die. I’ll willingly be your medical cadaver then.”