Title: The Marvels of Modern Medicine
Featuring: Troy Douglas
Date: UltraViolence 2008
Location: Chicago, IL

May 9, 2008
Pritzker School of Medicine, University of Chicago
Chicago, Illinois

Troy Douglas hated waiting rooms.

Hated them.

He hated the flat, impersonal light. He hated the smell, that stale, sterile, overly oxygenated scent that was an oh-so-enticing combination of talcum powder, wax paper, cold metal and industrial air fresheners all being circulated by an overcharged, whirring air conditioning system. He hated the issues of Time and Sports Illustrated so old that Sanjaya Malakar’s trials and tribulations on American Idol still merited front page consideration.

Mostly, he hated the idea of waiting. Especially when his ability to stand up under his own power for the rest of his life might just be on the other side of that waiting room door.

The time ticked by, Troy popping in one peppermint-flavored Tic-Tac at a time. It was a nervous habit he’d developed since he was a kid, and he’d probably gone through enough packages of the tiny breath mints over the years to stack the plastic containers end-to-end from Greensboro to the Windy City.

Anyway, he really hated waiting rooms. And he was very quickly learning to hate the receptionist, a conservatively dressed 40-ish woman with frizzy light brown hair pulled back and a pair of glasses hanging so far on the edge of her nose that they threatened at any moment to fall off the face of the Earth that the plaque on her desk identified as being Pamela Landingham.

"Mr. Douglas?"

Finally.

"Yes?"

"Drs. Kim and Allsted will see you now. Fourth door on the right."

About fucking time.

"Thanks."

He pushed his way through the door and headed down a fluorescent-lit hallway until he quickly came on the door labeled "Dr. H. Kim, Advanced Physiology". Still not sure he wanted to go through with this, Troy hesitated to knock.

C’mon, chicken. Sue checked out the research and said it was safe. Besides, you can always back out before they decide to put the big robotic claw on your leg.

Stupid sarcastic and perfectly logical brain. Fine.

Without even thinking about it, he tapped on the door three times. A moment later, a smallish Asian man opened the door to a room far larger than the hallway had indicated. It seemed to be unofficially split into three separate areas; a cluttered desk with a pair of computer monitors and a disorderly bookcase, a metal table and some rather intimidating-looking medical equipment thrown together as a makeshift exam room, and the rest of the room, a state-of-the-art laboratory surrounded by whiteboard-covered walls scrawled with illegible notes.

"Troy?"

He nodded, still unsure of what he was getting himself into.

"I’m Dr. Henry Kim. Thanks for being a part of the study. Come on in."

Troy stepped in and saw a brunette with glasses in a lab coat that resembled his late fiancé so much that it had to be a joke.

"This is my research partner, Dr. Meredith Allsted," Kim said. "Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Douglas, and we’ll explain a little bit about what we’re doing here."

Troy pulled a stack of books off the only remaining wooden chair and plopped himself down, feeling eerily like a fifth-grader who just got sent to the principal’s office. These two doctors could have the rest of his career in their hands, and for a man who prided himself on independence, that was a more than sobering thought.

"So, the basic procedure we’ve devised involves grafting human tissue onto a superstrong biosynthetic polymer that we’ve spent the last six years engineering," Kim said.

Troy wasn’t understanding a word of this, and it didn’t help that he was constantly losing his concentration when looking into a pair of eyes he thought he’d never see again. They were exactly the same as he always remembered. That warm kind of chocolate brown that went on into eternity, with a light that could flash on at any second and illuminate an entire room.

Of course, considering that the pair of eyes he remembered were attached to a woman who had been dead for more than five years, this was greatly disturbing.

"…and we’ll take the engineered ligament and fuse it directly around the damaged one â€""

"Ummm, Doctor?

"Henry, please."

"Okay. Henry? Pretend for a second that I don’t have several advanced degrees in biology and anatomy."

"Was I getting a bit technical?"

After being silent for her partner’s soliloquy, Meredith finally interjected herself.

"A bit? I helped design the procedure and I’m not sure I could understand what you’re talking about."

"I wasn’t going to go quite that far, but yeah, I’m having a bit of trouble picking up where this is going."

"In the end, this is all pretty simple, Troy. We put you under, make an incision, we insert the graft and use a precision laser to secure it. If all goes well, it’ll be over in a half-hour."

"What about recovery time? I, uh, kind of have a pretty big thing in a few weeks, and my knee might be important for that."

"While we’re not advising any risk, the graft won’t be in any danger. The new ligament needs 48 hours to integrate fully into your system, we’ll keep you another 24 after that for insurance, and after that you just need 10 to 14 days to let the incision heal completely. After that, you’ll be good to go."

"That’s what I was looking for. When can we do this?"

"We’ve got your information from Dr. Olson already, so we can do the procedure tomorrow and have you back on your feet."

"Thank you, Henry. I’ll see you tomorrow."

"You’re welcome. Now, don’t go losing that leg before tomorrow. That we can’t help."

Troy pulled himself up and walked out of the room, confident in the doctors’ ability to fix his knee, but still confused at the woman he’d been in the room with for the last 35 minutes. For all intents and purposes, he’d just seen a ghost.

But, he wasn’t scared. Troy wasn’t sure what he was.

He’d find out tomorrow.

**********************************************************

From the Files of Troy Douglas:

This won't be long, folks.

As you all know after the events of ReVolution in Milwaukee, the upcoming UltraViolence show is a pretty big one for me.

Dusk decided that he could push the buttons of the new guy who isn't having the easiest time making his way here in PRIME. He decided that I wasn't showing enough fire, that I wasn't putting enough on the line.

And, while anyone who's seen me over the last eight years will tell you that's far from the truth, that's not the point here.

Dusk wanted to push some buttons. In Chicago, with the Intense Title on the line, I get my chance to push back.

At least, I hope so.

As I'm sure a lot of you already know, my right knee's been in bad shape for a long time. What most of you don't know, is that one more serious injury to my knee ligaments, especially the ACL, would in all likelihood end my career, and at the very least it would put me on the shelf for a longer time than I'd like to think about.

Which is why I'm here in Chicago nearly three weeks in advance of UV.

I'm taking a shot on a couple of doctors at U of Chicago and a technique they've developed involving all sorts of medical mumbo-jumbo that it'll take a smarter man than me to describe.

But, tomorrow, I go under the knife.

With all luck, the surgery will be a success and I'll be able to be one hundred percent before I get my shot at Dusk.

Wish me luck, folks.

Thanks for listening, and I sure hope this isn't the end of the road.

Hopefully, I'll see you all soon and be better than ever.

Hopefully.

***********************************************************

The next day...

It was odd, to find oneself in such a prone position.

With the monitors and instruments ticking and beeping around him, with the intense bright overhead lights and the sterile metal interior, he felt every bit like the wide-eyed corn farmer beamed up to the mothership for a friendly probing.

There also weren't many hospital gowns contoured for someone who's 6'5" and 260 pounds, so that was a little annoying.

But, if doing this could mean he'd be able to keep going into the ring on a week-to-week basis, Troy wasn't going to complain about the little things.

Finally, a gaggle of nurses stepped in through the door, carting surgical equipment like they were performing some kind of elaborately choreographed Broadway dance number.

At the tail end came Drs. Kim and Allsted, both completely obscured by their hospital-issue scrubs. Both stepped over to a small sink in the corner of the room, sterilized themselves like only expert surgeons truly can, and each slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

Last chance to back out, said one portion of his brain.

Quiet you. Troy's subconscious could be very, very snarky sometimes.

He could vaguely hear Henry speaking into a small voice recorder, then from the corner of his eye he saw Meredith prepping the anesthesia.

"You ready, Troy?"

"No, but I'm going to let you do this anyway. Beam me up, docs."

"And people say their doctors have no good bedside humor. We're going to start now, funny man."

"If you say so."

Dr. Kim picked up an unnamed and highly medieval-looking surgical tool, then gestured to his left.

"Okay, Troy. Meredith's going to put you under now. Take a deep breath and starting counting down from one hundred."

A moment later, the gas mask was over Troy's mouth, and that funny, floating sensation was slowly drifting upwards inside his head.

"Start counting," Meredith said.

"100."

"99."

"98."

"97."

"Ninety..."

The last thing he saw before he was knocked out were those eyes dancing in the bright light of the operating room.

...

...

...

...

...

The first thing he saw when he woke up were those same two eyes. Except this time, they weren't hanging over him.

They were right next to him. Right in front of his face.

Feeling around for a moment, he realized that while he was still in bed, he wasn't in a hospital bed any more. He was in a very familiar bed.

His bed.

His home.

At least, his bed and his home five years ago, before he sold the place.

Which meant that those eyes didn't belong to Dr. Meredith Allsted. They belonged to...

"Wake up, Troy, you've got an early flight to catch. I swear, you sleep like you've been dosed with knockout gas."

Darling, you don't even know.

Lauren was wearing one of Troy's oversized Syracuse football t-shirts, a pair of flannel pajamas, slippers and her reading glasses, as she hadn't yet put in her contacts yet.

In fact, she was wearing the exact same thing she wore on the...

Which meant the flight he had to catch was...

Shit.

"You're dad is going to come over on Tuesday night, we've got some wedding plans to go over. It's a six-hour time difference to where you'll be, and I think you've got a show that night, so I'll call you in the morning. That okay, Troy?"

Troy was silent. Why did he have to come back to THIS day? Why did he have to relive the last time he ever saw the woman he loved?

Knockout drugs apparently have a very cruel sense of humor, is all he could surmise.

"Troy? Earth to Troy, anybody home?"

Screw it. If I'm going to be here, I'm going to make the best of it.

And as she leaned in closer to him, he grabbed her and kissed her.

Everything about her was exactly like he'd remembered. The feel of her skin, the smell of her hair, all the sappy bullshit stuff you read about in crappy romance novels.

Mostly, he was relishing the chance to hold her again, memories flooding in just from the few moments he'd spent next to her.

That's when he knew what he was going to do.

After holding on to the kiss as long as he could, they finally broke at he came right out with it.

"You know what? Fuck the tour."

"What?"

"I haven't had more than two days straight at home since I started. I miss you, and I need to be with you now. I don't need to go to fucking Europe for three weeks and look at ruined castles as I take the train from Manchester to Liverpool on my way from show to show. I'll call the office and tell them that my back's acting up again, and you and I can actually spend some time together for once."

"Why now?"

"Because ... because ... since I started wrestling, I felt we've been losing the time we should have had. If I hadn't done this, we'd for sure be married by now, and who knows what the hell else. Because it hurts me every time I know I can't be near you. Because of a million reasons you only ever hear in cheesy chick flicks from the 70s and 80s.

"Because ..."

"You can't stop it, Troy."

"What?"

"You can't stop it. No matter how much you try, it was still going to happen."

And with that, the brief thoughts Troy had of a second chance were brought back down to earth with the sobering realization that he was in the middle of an anesthesia-induced hallucination and that this was not, in fact, reality.

"I still shouldn't have gone. If I'd stayed, things would have been different. I could have ..."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't your fault, Troy. If you'd stayed here, the only difference is that you would've been shot, too."

"Sometimes, I really wish that did happen. At least that way, I wouldn't have to live every day knowing that you're gone."

"Don't talk like that."

"Why?"

"Because you sound like your in some Baroque novel. It's a little sad, to be honest."

"Hey, this is my hallucination and I'll talk how I want to, Miss Bossy Lady."

"Oh, talking big to the imaginary dead woman in your head. Real impressive there, fella."

It struck Troy at this point how remarkably real this dream was. Every bit of her personality was exactly as he remembered, down to each minute quirk.

Plus, she was right. Even though he lived with the guilt every day, he always knew that he wasn't going to be able to change what happened.

Didn't mean he had to like it.

"I still miss you.," he said. "Every day."

"I know."

"So, how's the afterlife? All clouds and puppies and meeting everyone who ever loved you and all that?"

"Eh. Heaven's fine, but apparently all the really good parties are in Hell."

"Well, of course, what with the looser morals and all the fire."

"Yeah, but traffic's a bitch."

Even in this environment, they found each other laughing. She cracked that open smile that had drawn Troy to her when they were friends in high school and had kept him by her side ever since.

This wasn't an easy woman to get over.

Hours, days, months seemingly went by with the two of them sitting on that bed. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn't. They laughed a little, cried a little, said a great number of things that certainly do not need to be repeated in public.

Mostly, Troy just smiled and made up for lost time.

Of course, you're not just allowed to keep dreaming and never wake up. At the end of the day, you have to make your way back to reality.

"Time's up, Troy."

"But ..."

"You need to go live your life. You got that fancy new knee ligament, go out and use it! Go beat the pants off Duke or Dust or Dank or whatever he's called."

"It's Dusk, by the way."

"Whoever. You can't live every minute wondering what might have happened. You learn a little about that when you realize that you have an ETERNITY to think about things. Focusing on the good tends to help a little."

"You really do have a frightening proclivity for being right, you know that."

"Hey, I'm all in your head."

Before he left, there was one thing he still had to say.

"I love you. I always will."

"And don't you forget it, mister. Now go forth and be merry and all such manner of things."

"I'll see you soon."

"No. You won't. Now wake up. And stop making google-eyes at my doppelganger. It's a little freaky."

...

...

...

...

"...six"

The first thing he saw when he looked up were those eyes.

Then, a voice.

"Procedure's over, Troy. It went perfectly."

"Thanks, docs."

"Thank you, Troy," Henry Kim said. "With any luck, this procedure's going to revolutionize sports medicine. All we need is that knee of yours to hold up."

"Well, I'll put it to the test, you can count on that."

"Just, stay off it for now. You'll be out of here in three days. Give some time for those stitches to heal, and don't lift anything heavy before your match."

"Got it. No attempts at those powerlifting records."

"Something like that."

"By the way, how long was I out?"

"Just under 35 minutes. Why, did it seem shorter?"

"Something like that."

"Get some rest. A nurse'll be in pretty soon with some food. I hear they've got green Jell-O today."

"Always room for Jell-O, right? Oh, and Doc?"

"Yeah?"

"You think you could get one of them to bring in my laptop? There's something I've got to do."

***********************************************************

From the Files of Troy Douglas:

Well, they didn't take my leg off.

As far as I can tell, I'll be good to go come UltraViolence. I haven't been looking forward to a match this much in a long time, folks.

And Dusk, I'll be plenty ready to push some buttons of my own.

Well, I've got a rather threatening nurse bearing down on me who looks like she's ready to shove an enema down a very painful orifice if I don't get off the Internet, so I better wrap this one up.

Besides, it's BUTTERSCOTCH PUDDING NIGHT~!

See you at the end of the road.
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