On The Beach

By Kenneth Kapp

There were some who claimed that climate change was only a ripple, a small pebble
dropped in the ocean. In retrospect, people now agree it was more of a tsunami. By then it was
too late; millions were dying from disease and unidentified symptoms, overwhelming hospitals
and medical workers. An editorial appeared in the NNEJM* under the headline: Wicked Times,
suggesting that alternative care was needed. The proposal came from AI. On New Year’s Eve a
message was posted on all sites: Passage Homes – instructions to follow.
The hospital finger-gauge measuring vitals were replaced with a device that was square-
shaped, connecting the patient directly to the Central Computer (CC). In addition to vitals it was
capable of measuring emotions and analyzing dreams.
Volunteers with implanted chips were trained as assistants with a new title: Doctor of
Dreams (DoD)s who provided human contact for patient intake and handholding for their final
passage. Wealth and money in the bank had become meaningless and the mansions and homes of
the rich were requisitioned and quickly renovated. Comfortable rooms looked out over pleasant
landscapes.
People became habituated to these homes. Indeed with the first sign of even a minor cold,
they rushed to sign up for admission. While there were other options for passing, most patients
chose to spend their final hours on the beach lying on a towel or sitting up to watch as the sun set
with the waves gently rolling over rocks and sand. Overhead, cawing gulls would swoop for a
small bait fish while along the surf line sandpipers scurried with their high-pitched calls
announcing their claim to tiny crabs washed up in the seaweed.
Time was relative, perceptions were managed by the CC. Hospice care, thanks to the high
tech gauges connecting patients to the CC, shortened their stay from weeks to hours.
The DoDs brought real beach sand and suntan lotion from utility closets in the hall.
They’d pretend to brush the sand off patient’s feet, chiding them that they had done a poor job of
washing before they came to bed. Next they’d anoint their foreheads and cheeks with drops of
oil, pretending to wipe the lotion off their faces, since at night sunscreen was not necessary.
They’d chuckle, “You know the sun screen now may be oilless but it still has the same smell of
almonds and olives it had when I was a kid.”
They would adjust the flannel pillows under their heads and cross to the windows,
pretending to open them. “I hear you had a wonderful day at the beach. If we’re quiet we can
hear the waves and the gulls. And the salt air is just what we need for a sound sleep.”

Then a final kiss was blown by the DoDs as they dimmed the lights, exiting the room.

And the patients would fall asleep, dreaming that they had spent the whole day on the
beach.
*NNEJM: Northern New England Journal of Medicine.