The Last Breath the medical paradime shift!

 

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In the quiet hour before dawn, when the wind still holds the scent of night and the earth waits between one heartbeat and the next, the old monk sat by the river. His breath rose and fell like the tide — slow, deliberate, knowing.

A boy came to him, eyes bright with questions too large for his small frame.
“Master,” he said, “why do people die?”

The old monk smiled, gazing at the mist curling above the water. “Because they must return their breath.”

The boy frowned. “Return it? To whom?”

“To where it came from,” said the monk. “Everything that breathes borrows the same wind. The deer in the forest, the fish beneath the river, the king in his palace, the beggar by the gate — all draw from the same invisible sea.”

He scooped a handful of water, then let it slip through his fingers. “When your time comes, you give it back. That is all death is — the moment your breath returns home.”

The boy thought about this as the years unfurled like a long road. He grew, loved, fought, built, and aged. Each breath carried laughter and sorrow alike, each exhale a whisper to the universe. He watched others take their last breaths — a dying bird, a fading friend, his mother — and he began to notice something: the air never grew thinner.

It was as if every breath ever taken still lingered — mingled, shared, alive.

When his own final hour came, he remembered the monk’s words. The air around him shimmered with the faint warmth of every creature that had ever lived. He smiled.

He exhaled once more, and this time, he didn’t draw another in. His last breath drifted away, unseen, to join the great current — the same one that would fill a newborn’s lungs, stir the wings of a sparrow, and ripple the surface of the sleeping river.

And so it went, as it always had.
All living things die of the same thing — their last breath — yet in dying, they return it to life itself.

MR POTATO

 The Lament of Mr. Potato 🥔

I’m Mr. Potato, with feelings quite deep,
My roots run in sorrow, not soil so steep.
My kin were once tubers, so plump and so round,
Now they’re salted and crisped — nowhere to be found.

They called themselves kind, those humans who chew,
Saying, “No meat for me — I’m vegetarian too!”
But mercy, it seems, stops short of my skin,
For they peel, slice, and fry every one of my kin.

Uncles in packets, cousins in fries,
Auntie in mash form — oh how she cries!
My brother was roasted, my sister puréed,
My family reunion was served on a tray.

So next time you munch on a chip in delight,
Remember our faces, our earthy plight.
For though we are spuds, with humble appeal,
We too have hearts — just not ones you can peel.

“I’m Not Crazy — Just Telling How It Is”

You ever notice how when you tell the truth, people start giving you that look? The one doctors use when they think your brain’s leaking out your ears. I swear, I could tell them the sky’s blue and they’d still check my pupils with a torch.

It started simple. A bit of stomach pain. Then burps that could strip paint off a wall — sulphur, pure volcano. I told the doc, “Mate, something’s brewing in there. Could be the end of days.” He says constipation. CONSTIPATION. After three days of diarrhoea that could fuel a hydro plant. That’s when I knew something was off — not just in my gut, but in the whole system.

Then came the finger. You know the one. The prostate check. I tried to be brave, but when he went in, I swear I saw stars and heard the national anthem. Blood after that. He said, “Oh, that’s normal.” I said, “Not in my book, mate!”

A week later, I get told it’s prostate and bowel cancer. Just like that. No warning, no soft music, no “take a seat.” Just facts — flat and cold as the table I was sitting on. My red blood cells were low, my energy lower, and still they said, “You’re looking well.” I thought, I must have missed the part where I joined the circus.

Then there was the mental health guy — my “case manager.” I thought he was a mate at first. He’d drop by, have a yarn, nod a lot. I thought, Finally, someone who listens! Then one day, he says, “You’re not mentally ill.” I said, “I could’ve told you that for free.” But guess what? Never saw him again. Maybe I passed the test. Maybe I failed it too well.

And the worst part? The doctors keep talking around you. Like you’re a wall with ears.
“He’s presenting well.”
“He’s coherent.”
“He’s resistant to intervention.”

Resistant? I’m not a car part! I just asked why they can’t decide whether I’m dying or dehydrated.

But here’s the thing: I’m not crazy. I’m just telling it how it is. If that makes people uncomfortable, maybe that’s their problem. Maybe the truth sounds mad when everyone’s busy pretending things make sense.

I still go about my day. Sit in my chair, have a cuppa, think about the puppet I left on that club table that night — no legs, bloodshot eyes, angry as hell. A symbol, maybe, for everything that’s been done to me. Forgotten, poked, prodded, left behind while strangers ask, “Is he all right?” And me, just nodding, saying, “Yeah, she’s fine,” because what else can you say when no one really listens?

But here’s my truth:
I’ve seen the inside of hospitals, the inside of my own body, and the inside of my mind. And I’m still standing. Maybe bent a bit, maybe stitched up funny, but standing all the same.

So no, I’m not crazy. I’m alive. And in this world, that’s the biggest miracle of all.

My dance puppet is a full size puppet

 I left her on the table at the club again—my dance partner, the puppet. No legs, naturally, but one hell of a personality—or at least, one hell of a stare. Her eyes were bloodshot, her stitched eyebrows furrowed in what could only be described as “permanent pissed-off chic.” She’s the kind of woman who never speaks, never argues—honestly, she’s one good woman. Really, she’s all backbone… figuratively speaking. Well, minus the legs, obviously.

A bloke came over and asked, “Is she all right?”

I smiled and said, “Yeah, she’s fine. Just a bit string-tangled.”

He raised an eyebrow. “String…tangled?”

“Oh, you know,” I said, “she just gets wound up sometimes.”

He nodded slowly, clearly buying it. “Right… Uh… does she, like… get drunk?”

I shrugged. “Nope, she’s always sober… but she does hang around my neck a lot.”

He laughed nervously. “So, she’s your…?”

“She’s my type,” I said. “Always supportive, never talks back, and literally keeps her head on straight. I mean, look at her—head perfectly attached. No loose screws here.”

I set her back upright, and she glared at me. Bloodshot eyes never lie, but she’s fair—no arguments. Some say she’s high-maintenance. I say she’s high-satisfaction. She’s the only woman I know who can sit on a table all night and still be the life of the party… by not saying a single word.

“Does she… dance?” the bloke asked.

“Only when I pull her strings,” I said. “She’s a real mover… even if she can’t move her own legs.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like you’re quite attached.”

I nodded. “I am. She never nags, never complains, and honestly? She always puts her best foot forward… well, if she had feet.”

The bloke laughed awkwardly and walked away. My puppet? She just stared, eyes blazing. She didn’t need words. She had presence, charisma, and the uncanny ability to make me look like a smooth operator while sitting silently on a table.

I leaned in and whispered, “You’re one good woman, you know that?”

She didn’t respond. She never does. But I know she heard me. After all, she’s got ears… somewhere under that yarn hair.

And that’s the thing about her: no legs, no voice, no complaints… but somehow, she’s the only woman who really knows how to stand her ground. Yes I put a bag over her head to keep the dust out of her blood shot eyes.

Hopefully this is the final in the series maybe not!

 

Letter from the Case Manager

To: Mr. [Your Name]
From: The Office of Ongoing Confusion, Department of Patient Management
Re: Your Situation (whatever it currently is)

Dear Mr. [Your Name],

I trust this letter finds you in stable-ish condition.
First, allow me to apologise for vanishing abruptly after our enlightening chat.
You see, the moment I told you that you weren’t mentally ill, I was reassigned — apparently, making sense is outside my job description.

I want to reassure you that your case is still very much “in progress,” though no one can confirm what progress means in this context.
The official file now lists you as:

“Patient: Functional, funny, possibly metaphysical.”

Since our last meeting, your case has been reviewed by twelve professionals and one intern who thought “bowel” was spelled with an “a.”
Collectively, they’ve determined that your primary issue is being too self-aware of the system itself, which is not currently billable but is considered contagious.

The blood tests, scans, and mystery procedures continue under our new initiative, Operation Let’s Just See What Happens.
If you experience any new symptoms, please report them immediately to your nearest reception desk, where a lovely person will hand you a clipboard and vanish for forty minutes.

As your case manager (in spirit, if not in location), I want to commend you for your resilience.
Most patients break down after Test #37.
You, however, have developed humour — an unapproved but highly effective coping mechanism.
We’re considering prescribing it to others, pending funding approval.

In closing, please remember:

• You’re not mentally ill.

• You might be the only sane one here.

• And no, I still don’t know what half your diagnoses mean, but I’m confident someone, somewhere, is writing a report about it.

Warm regards (and mild confusion),
Gavin McChart, Case Manager (Emeritus)
Currently on indefinite reassignment to “Special Circumstances.”

“The Case Manager Who Wasn’t a Friend”

 

“The Case Manager Who Wasn’t a Friend”

By this point I’d survived every test known to medical science.
The only organ they hadn’t scanned was my patience.

Then one day a new man appeared — cheerful, clipboard in hand, the kind of smile that says, “I’ve taken a course on empathy.”
He asked about my childhood, my hobbies, my favourite kind of weather.
Lovely fellow. I thought maybe he was doing a Netflix documentary about me.

Half an hour in, he said, “I’m your case manager.”
“Case of what?” I asked.
He laughed politely, like I’d told a joke at my own intervention.
Then he leaned in and whispered, “You’re not mentally ill.”

I blinked.
“Well, that’s great news,” I said, “but I didn’t realise I was being tested for that!”

He nodded, scribbled something heroic on his clipboard, and vanished like a magician who’d finished the trick.
Never saw him again.
Not even a follow-up call to confirm I was still delightfully sane.

Later, I found out the hospital had quietly sent him to make sure my frustration with the doctors wasn’t turning into “a behavioural issue.”
Apparently, being fed up is now a psychiatric condition.

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“The Meeting”

Weeks later, rumour spread that all my doctors, nurses, and one mysterious intern gathered for a “case review.”
I like to imagine it went something like this:

Doctor #1: “He’s got bowel inflammation.”
Doctor #2: “No, that’s emotional inflammation.”
Doctor #3: “Maybe we should X-ray his optimism.”
Case Manager: “He’s not mentally ill, just understandably annoyed.”
Doctor #1: “We’ll test for that too.”

By the end of the meeting, they’d added three new forms, one new diagnosis, and an order for another blood test “for closure.”

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These days I handle it differently.
Whenever a new specialist walks in, I greet them with:

“Welcome to the team. Please take a number and a guess.”

Because at this point, the only thing more mysterious than my body
is how the healthcare system hasn’t yet prescribed a sense of humour.

“Doctor, You’re Wrong — and My Toothbrush Proves It”

 

“Doctor, You’re Wrong — and My Toothbrush Proves It”

(A comedic, philosophical monologue)

(Lights up. A patient sits on the edge of an examination table. The doctor stands just out of frame, silent. The patient gestures wildly, mid-rant.)

PATIENT:
No, no, no, Doctor — you’re wrong.
You’re telling me people die because their hearts stop? Because their lungs forget how to cooperate? That’s adorable.
You think death’s a medical problem.

Let me enlighten you, Doc — death is motivational burnout.

It starts with the toothbrush.
Oh yes. You miss one morning — “eh, I’ll brush tomorrow.”
That’s not laziness, Doctor. That’s the first sign of cosmic surrender.
Next thing you know, you’re eating pudding for dinner and calling your goldfish “Mate.”

Then comes the roof rack.
You ever notice how people with roof racks are alive?
They’re spontaneous. They camp, they surf, they disappear into the mountains to “find themselves.”
The day that rack comes off — poof — they’re just… driving to the pharmacy.
Adventure’s over. Roof’s naked. Soul’s in neutral.

And then — then — the last breath.
You lean in with your stethoscope, all serious, like you’re listening for jazz.
But you’ve missed the beat, Doc.
It’s not the breath that kills you.
It’s the moment you’ve got nothing left to say before you take it.

The toothbrush, the roof rack, the breath — they’re not random, they’re the holy trinity of existence.
Cleanliness. Movement. Purpose.
Lose one, and the universe starts repossessing your atoms.

So don’t talk to me about blood pressure.
Don’t prescribe me “rest.”
I don’t need rest, Doctor — I need a reason.

You want to cure death?
Find me a new roof rack.
Find me a toothbrush that believes in me.
Find me a reason to take one more ridiculous, glorious breath.

(Pause. Grins.)
Because until then, Doc — I’m not dying.
I’m just... slightly overdue for an adventure.

(Lights fade. End.)