The Prognosis of Doctor Pym

 Hello All:

The longest official word in any major language dictionary is pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. Spanning 45 letters, it refers to a lung disease caused by inhaling very fine ash and sand dust. While it takes only a few seconds to pronounce, medical nomenclature is full of absurdly complex taxonomy. In fact, full chemical names for certain proteins—like Titin—can take over three hours to read aloud, containing 189,819 letters!

But what if there were a disease that was so long to pronounce that the patient died before the doctor could say it? We explore this concept in today's short story.

The Prognosis of Doctor Pym

The monitoring equipment in Examination Room 4B didn't beep in a rhythmic, comforting cadence. It ticked like a anxious grandfather clock running low on spring tension.

Craig Holmes lay propped up on three crisp white pillows, his face pale, his skin sporting tiny, luminescent purple polka dots that pulsed in sequence with his fading heartbeat. Across from him stood Dr. Thaddeus Pym, adjusting a pair of heavy, bronze-rimmed reading glasses that slid continually down the bridge of his sweat-sheened nose.

"Is it... serious, Doc?" Craig rasped, clutching his thin hospital gown.

Dr. Pym sighed, unfurling a scroll of medical chart paper that hit the linoleum floor and unrolled three feet toward the door. "Mr. Holmes, I must strictly adhere to the Oath of Transparency enacted by the Interdimensional Medical Board of 1984. Before I can administer the antidote—a simple blue chewable tablet—I am legally required to inform you of your exact, fully synthesized diagnosis."

"Okay," Craig wheezed, his fingers trembling. "Just tell me."

Dr. Pym took a deep, theatrical breath, filling his chest like a operatic tenor preparing for an aria.

"You have contracted," Dr. Pym began, clearing his throat, "Pseudo-chrono-myo-cardio-proto-pachy-dermo-neuro-syncopated-osteo-chondro-pharyngo-laryngo-gastro-entero-hepatic-nephro-spleno-pulmono-cerebro-rhino-tracheo-vesico-vascular..."

Craig’s eyes widened. "Wait—"

"...micro-nano-quantum-syndromic-hyper-poly-dys-a-psuedo-sub-retro-infra-supra-trans-peri-endo-exo-ecto-meso-meta-ultra-omni-flatulent-"

"Doctor," Craig gasped, his chest tightening. The purple dots on his arms began to flash wildly, shifting from purple to a menacing, iridescent yellow. "I think... I'm losing feeling in my feet!"

"Do not interrupt the nomenclature!" Dr. Pym barked sharply, raising a finger without breaking cadence. "...osteo-porotic-calcified-dystrophic-metabolic-pathological-etiological-idiopathic-symptomatic-asymptomatic-neurodegenerative-"

"The tablet!" Craig choked out, pointing a pale, shaking finger at the small blue pill sitting on the stainless-steel tray merely four inches from Dr. Pym's elbow. "Just give me the pill!"

"I cannot dispense treatment without full diagnostic disclosure!" Dr. Pym insisted, his cheeks flushing pink as he plowed forward, speeding up his delivery to a manic, auctioneer-like tempo. "...myelodysplastic-thrombocytopenic-erythrocytic-leukocytic-lymphocytic-histiocytic-granulocytic-agranulocytic-eosinophilic-basophilic-neutrophilic-phagocytic-!"

The flatline monitor gave a long, warning pre-beep. Craig’s head lolloped to the left, his eyes rolling back toward the drop-ceiling tiles.

"...hypo-glycemic-hyper-calcemic-hyponatremic-hyperkalemic-acidotic-alkalotic-ischemic-necrotic-apoptotic-oncotic-fibrotic-sclerotic-atrophic-hypertrophic-dystrophic-dysplastic-metaplastic-anaplastic-neoplastic-carcinomatous-sarcomatous-blastomatous-phakomatous-hamartomatous-choristomatous-condition!"

Dr. Pym slammed his hand onto the medical chart, gasping for air, sweat dripping off his chin onto his stethoscope. "And... scene. Mr. Holmes, we must immediately—"

Dr. Pym paused.

The machine beside the bed emitted a single, unbroken, flatline tone: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Dr. Pym looked at Craig, whose head was now resting completely limp against the pillow, the purple and yellow dots slowly fading into a uniform, dull gray.

The doctor lowered his glasses, pulled out a small pocket watch, and clicked it open. He glanced at the wall clock, then at his watch, and let out a long, disappointed sigh.

"Time of death: 9:24 AM," Dr. Pym muttered to the empty room. He picked up the tiny blue chewable tablet from the tray, tossed it into his own mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. "Blueberry flavor. A shame. If only the Latin nomenclature committee hadn't added those extra seventeen prefixes last autumn."

He picked up his pen, scratched out the word Treatment on the clipboard, and wrote Autopsy in neat, flowing cursive.