Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

1987

Henry threw open Shawn’s door to see a small lump beneath the bed covers.  “Get up, Shawn!  I want you ready for school and downstairs in ten minutes.”

When the lump didn’t move, Henry walked into his son’s room and ripped off the covers.  Henry had to stop himself from laughing as he was presented with Shawn’s butt sticking up in the air – he never understood how the kid slept that way, but it was something he had always done.  Henry suppressed the desire to laugh in favor of the need for parenting.  “I said now, Shawn.”

Shawn groaned and mumbled into the mattress, “I don’t feel good.” 

“What is it this week, Shawn?”

“My throat hurts and I think I have a temperature.”

“Let’s hope it isn’t 140 degrees like it was last week when you said you didn’t feel well.  Here’s a quick tip, kid: never use a light bulb that’s been on for hours to heat up a thermometer.  Try using a light bulb that’s only been on for one or two minutes tops – that will put your ‘temperature’ at a balmy 100 degrees.  But don’t worry; I’ll still know you’re not telling the truth.”

“I’m not lying.”  Shawn tucked his legs beneath him to shield himself from the cold air attacking him after Henry viciously stole all of his warm blankets.  Henry leaned over and gently rested his hand on the back of his son’s neck before sliding it beneath the collar of his A-Team pajamas and down his back.  No doubt about it, the kid felt hot.

He walked to the doorway and yelled down the hallway, “Maddie, come here for a minute.”

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

By dinnertime, Shawn was curled up on the sofa, all of his blankets safely returned to him.  As he watched a repeat of Punky Brewster and downed his third bowl of ice cream, he could hear his parents talking as they prepared dinner in the kitchen.  He would have basked in the glory of being allowed to eat ice cream for dinner, but contrary to his father’s initial belief, he wasn’t lying when he said he wasn’t feeling well.

“What did Dr. Michelson say?” Henry asked.

Madeleine set plates, glasses, and silverware on the table.  “It’s his tonsils again.  This is the third time this year.  Dr. Michelson doesn’t think they’ll have to be removed, but they want to monitor him.  Poor Goose.”

1994

Shawn did not appreciate being hauled to Dr. Michelson’s office for a sore throat.  He had had so many sore throats in his life that he was used to them, even though they still totally sucked.

A slightly older Dr. Michelson sat on his stool in front of the examining table.  “Shawn, your tonsils are inflamed again.  We normally discuss removing them if episodes of tonsillitis occur more frequently than what you’ve experienced, but you’ve been hovering dangerously close to the clinical guidelines for the last few years.”

Shawn fervently shook his head.  “I’m fine.  I can’t believe my dad dragged me here,” he added quietly.

“No, Shawn, you’re not fine.  We really need to discuss the possibility of surgery.  Let me get your father and we’ll talk about making an appointment with an otolaryngologist.  You’ll like her,” Dr. Michelson added, hoping to appeal to the teenage hormones raging through his young patient.

“No way.  No surgery.”  Shawn jumped off the examining table and stormed out of the room, past the reception desk, and past his shocked and very angry father.

Dr. Michelson stopped next to Henry as Shawn disappeared around the corner.  Shawn was seventeen; not yet an adult, but Dr. Michelson always attempted to treat his teenage patients as adults nonetheless.  However, there were some conversations that required a parent.  Dr. Michelson took a moment to discuss everything with Henry – perhaps he could get through to his son.

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

Shawn was leaning against the side of Henry’s truck when Henry emerged from the medical building.  Shawn felt like crap and simply didn’t have the energy to escape on foot, so he settled for the inevitable lecture as they drove home with the knowledge that his bed was waiting for him.

The lecture was glorious; one of Henry’s best, really.

“Shawn, this isn’t a joking matter,” Henry yelled as he climbed out of the truck and followed Shawn up the porch stairs.

Shawn whirled around to face his father.  “If it happens again, we’ll talk.  Happy?”

Shawn just wanted to collapse on his bed and Henry didn’t have it in him to argue with his son.  “Fine.”

Shawn nodded curtly before heading inside and taking the stairs two at a time to the second floor.  From the living room, Henry listened to the six footsteps required for Shawn to reach his room.  Henry then waited the two seconds it took for Shawn to slam his bedroom door and the six seconds it took for the stereo to blast music only a teenager could love.

1995, 1996, 1997...

Shawn had already left Santa Barbara the next time his tonsils inflamed.  He suffered through the repeated assaults as best he could.  He wouldn’t get them taken out in Santa Barbara and he certainly wasn’t going to get them taken out in – where was he?  It didn’t matter.  He and his tonsils would remain as one.  End of story.

Present Day

Unfortunately, it wasn’t end of story.  His sore throats continued to make annual appearances.  For most of his life, he had stayed just beneath the “guidelines” his doctor had repeatedly outlined to him.  However, Shawn couldn’t deny that his sore throats were coming with greater frequency and greater ferocity.  Nothing was worse than a sore throat – he continually tried to swallow the pain, literally and figuratively, but each swallow only made it worse.  Not to mention the lovely fever that accompanied each sore throat was just the cherry on top.  He never did anything mean to his tonsils – except for years of abuse by eating the spiciest, most acidic foods he could lay his hands on – but that wasn’t deserving of this level of retaliatory assault by his tonsils.  Was it?  He thought not.

Unfortunately, Shawn was deeply familiar with his throat’s strategy to attack him.  It would start as a slight tickle and within a few hours would turn into an incessant dryness that no amount of water or pineapple smoothie would moisten.  Within twenty-four hours, the dryness would become a fierce burning, making the joy of pineapple smoothies vanish and making the act of swallowing analogous to sword swallowing without ever having taken a lesson.

The sore throats would never turn into full-fledged head colds or the flu, which was probably a good thing.  However, the sore throats would sometimes last for days.  With every sore throat, he would recall years of doctor visits in which the inevitable conversation about sucking his tonsils out would occur.  He was actually impressed that he had somehow managed to retain possession of said tonsils, even if those sick little bastards continued to fight him.  On so many occasions, the words “tonsillectomy”, or “tonsil-suckoutofme” as Shawn had fondly renamed the procedure, and “otolaryn-something or other” were uttered by his doctor or his parents.  Shawn would argue with them for hours as to why such a procedure would be a very bad idea.  Once he wore his audience down, they would agree to do “further monitoring”.  Once he was old enough to be responsible for making his own doctor’s appointments, he simply wouldn’t make an appointment when his sore throat would inevitably return.  Real men did not go to the doctor for something as trivial as a sore throat, unless it was actually caused by a sword being swallowed incorrectly.  

His present sore throat was no different.  During the previous night, he had quickly progressed past the tickle and dry stages and was now solidly in the pain stage.  Even though he was in his thirties, it was times like this that he wanted his mother, his A-Team pajamas, and a bowl of chicken noodle soup (double the noodles, of course).  Alas, none of those things were available to him.  He could have hauled his ass to the supermarket for the soup, but that would require energy he didn’t possess.  He would have to settle for whatever sympathy and care he could wrestle out of Gus.

He looked at the alarm clock on his nightstand: 9:07 AM.  He could sleep, or try to sleep, a bit longer.

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

“Hey, Shawn,” Gus said without looking up from his computer as Shawn stumbled into the Psych office at 9:58 AM.

Shawn groaned.  Sleep had not happened.

Gus glanced up.  “Wow, you look like crap.”  Gus looked at Shawn’s disheveled clothes and dark circles under his eyes.  The telling sign was his limp hair – if Shawn’s hair wasn’t coiffed just so then there was a serious problem.  And Shawn’s hair was currently flatter than a pancake.

“Thanks, buddy.  I feel like crap, so I guess it’s good my looks are consistent.”  Shawn stumbled over to his desk and threw his helmet on top.  He then stumbled over to one of the leather chairs and collapsed with another long, drawn-out groan.

Gus continued to stare at his friend.  “What’s wrong?”

“My throat hurts.”

“Again?  Shawn, how many does that make this year?  Five?  I’ve said it to you before – that puts you solidly in the American Academy of Otolaryngology – Head and Neck Surgery guidelines for being a candidate for a tonsillectomy, or a ‘tonsil-suckoutofme’ as you refer to it.  It’s a standard procedure.  You’re not scared, are you?”

Shawn scoffed at Gus’ remark.  He was most certainly not scared, but he also didn’t have the energy to once again explain his attachment to his tonsils – or his tonsils’ attachment to him.  Ignoring Gus, he groaned again.  “I feel like there’s a gang of Fraggles drilling in my throat.”

“Don’t you mean Doozers?”

Shawn contemplated Gus’ correction and grimaced as he attempted to swallow.  “Huh, you’re right.  I can’t believe I mixed up Fraggles and Doozers.  What’s next?  Buddy, come look at my throat and tell me how many Doozers are in there doing construction.  They’re torturing me.”

“I am not going to look at your throat.”

“Yes, you are.  Grab one of your tongue depressor thingies and get over here.”

“I don’t have any tongue depressors.  You gave them all to Byrd in exchange for Tancana, remember?”

“Dude, that was over two years ago and we got them back along with the attaché.”  Shawn looked at Gus.  “You know, I’m still not completely wed to that term.  Satchel really worked better.  Either way, get over here.”  Shawn stopped talking – it was beginning to hurt too much.

“No way.”

Shawn groaned as he heaved himself out of the chair and staggered over to Gus’ desk, where he stood with drooping shoulders and flat hair.  “Come on, buddy!”

Gus looked at his friend standing in front him and felt sorry for him – Shawn was clearly not at the top of his game.  Even though he was revolted by the thought of looking down Shawn’s throat, he acquiesced knowing that tonsillitis was not contagious and knowing that Shawn would persist until he got his way.  “Fine,” Gus said as he angrily ripped open his bottom desk drawer to reveal a huge stash of tongue depressors.

Shawn peeked over the top of the desk and into the drawer.  “Really?”

Gus grabbed a depressor and stood up.  “Shut up.  Now, open up and say ahh,” Gus said as he peeled the paper wrapper from one of the depressors and flicked on a small flashlight.  Gus smiled to himself – he loved sounding like a doctor.

“You just told me to shut up.”

“Shawn!  Stick your tongue out.”

“Okay, okay,” Shawn said and stuck his tongue out as far as it would go.

Gus’ face scrunched up.  “Shawn, that’s disgusting.  You’re not Gene Simmons – put your tongue back in your mouth.”

“Wolph youph make uph yourph mind,” Shawn said as he put his tongue back in his mouth.  “First you say shut up and then open up.  Now you say stick my tongue out and then don’t stick my tongue out—“

“Shawn!”

“Stop confusing me!  Fine,” Shawn said again and opened his mouth.

Making sure to keep significant distance regardless of the fact that Shawn likely wasn’t contagious, Gus leaned over and put the tongue depressor on Shawn’s tongue as he aimed the flashlight into Shawn’s mouth.  He looked at the back of his friend’s throat as best he could from the distance he was standing.  “Say ahh.”

“Aaaahhh.”

“Damn,” Gus muttered, “that’s nasty.”  Gus took the tongue depressor out of Shawn’s mouth, quickly threw it in the trashcan, and immediately went to wash his hands lest any of Shawn’s non-contagious germs remain on them for any longer.

“Am I going to die?  Have the Doozers finally run out of space to erect their scaffolding?”

“No on both counts, but your throat is covered in nasty white spots.  Call your doctor.”

Shawn cringed thinking about the destruction those evil little Doozers were doing to him.  He collapsed once again in the leather chair.  “No, I’m fine.”

“Shawn, you just made me risk my life with your germs.  Call your doctor.”

“Gus, I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, you can, but you won’t, which means I have to make sure you do.  Call your doctor.”

Shawn heaved himself upright in the chair with a moan definitely not befitting of the simple movement.  Once he retrieved his phone from his back pocket, he settled back in the chair with another horrendous moan and scrolled through his contact list.  When the number was selected, he held the phone to his ear and glared at Gus.

Gus stared at him.  “You think I’m stupid, Shawn?  You either just dialed the daily horoscope line or the NOAA weather service.”

“I most certainly did not!” Shawn winced as he swallowed.  He could hear his voice already picking up the telltale rasp.  It would only be a matter of hours before it would disappear completely.

“Prove it.  Put it on speaker phone.”

“No!”

Before Shawn could react, Gus dove around his desk and snatched the phone from Shawn’s grasp.  He immediately pressed the speaker phone button and stared knowingly at Shawn.

Shawn innocently looked away from Gus as they listened to the voice on the other end of the call: The current temperature is 84 degrees with sunny skies.  Tonight’s low will be 63…

“Unbelievable, Shawn.”

“I know.  Talk about a perfect beach day – let’s go!”

“Not until you call your doctor, Shawn,” Gus threatened.  Gus scrolled through Shawn’s contact list until he found his doctor’s name.  He pressed the send button and tossed the phone back to Shawn.

Shawn was right the first time – it was Fraggles ripping his throat apart.  Doozers, assiduous as they were, simply couldn’t cause that much pain.  As he stood at the reception desk in Dr. Michelson’s office, Shawn was alarmed at how fast his throat was deteriorating and how fast his temperature was rising.  He thought his last sore throat was the worst, but he was wrong – this easily topped them all. 

As Shawn unwrapped another cherry flavored throat lozenge, he had second thoughts about being there.  Yes, his throat was currently a belt sander equipped with the coarsest sandpaper commercially available, but it was still just a sore throat.  He was an old pro at fighting back against his tonsils.  Well, in reality, he sat by defenselessly until his tonsils got tired of their attack, retreated, and lain in wait until the next blitz.

“You’re lucky that Dr. Michelson had a cancellation,” the receptionist commented warmly.

Shawn struggled with another swallow.  “How right you are.  Gus’ splinter is infected.” Shawn grabbed Gus’ hand, sans splinter, and showed it to the receptionist.

“Shawn, I don’t have a splinter!”  With his other hand, Gus twisted Shawn’s pinky finger until Shawn yelped hoarsely and let go.

The receptionist looked between them as they whispered angrily at each other.  “I thought you were here for a sore throat, Mr. Spencer.”

Gus rubbed his hand where Shawn had grabbed it.  “Excuse my friend, ma’am, you’re absolutely correct.  I don’t have a splinter and he does have a sore throat.”

“I beg to differ,” Shawn rasped.  “You do have a splinter and I think your hand will have to be cut off.  It will probably take the entire appointment, so I’ll just come back later for my sore throat,” Shawn said as he grabbed Gus’ arm and slammed his hand against the edge of the reception desk, attempting to lodge any small, stray slivers of wood beneath his skin.

“Shawn!  Let go of me!”

The receptionist held her hands up to silence them.  They had already drawn the attention of everyone in the waiting room and she hoped to avoid disturbing the entire building.  “Mr. Spencer, it sounds as if the splinters are in your throat.  Please sit down and the doctor will be with you shortly.”

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

Most patients sat quietly in the examining room while waiting for their doctor, but this was Shawn.  Rather than sitting or being quiet, he opted to poke through every cabinet and drawer in the room.  Having discovered a stash of extra long cotton swabs, he was in the process of sticking two of them up his nose when the door burst open. 

“Shawn, how are… you?”  Dr. Michelson looked at one swab in Shawn’s right hand and another one sticking out of his left nostril and added casually, “Glad to see you’re practicing good nostril hygiene, Shawn.  Not many people take the time.”  He smiled warmly as he patted the examining table and sat on his stool, the one most patients recognized as off limits. 

Blushing slightly, Shawn quickly took the cotton swab out of his nose and climbed onto the table, causing the white paper cover to rustle loudly beneath him.  He cleared his throat without thinking, which he immediately regretted as his tonsils lashed out in response. 

Dr. Michelson stared at Shawn as he pushed the lever to raise his stool back to his desired height – the height at which it had been before Shawn was left alone in the room.  Shawn smiled innocently in return. 

The last time Dr. Michelson had seen Shawn was shortly after he had been shot.  The time before that was when he had been cold-cocked and pistol-whipped – Shawn had refused to go to the emergency room, but had promised to see his doctor to appease his father and Gus.  Fortunately, the shot was clean and his skull was hard, so there was no lasting damage from either incident.   

Dr. Michelson had just begun his medical career when he first saw Shawn as a young boy, so they had an extensive history together.  In addition to seeing his doctor for annual exams and his recurring sore throats, Shawn was a frequent flyer, literally and figuratively.  Flying off his bike, flying off the roof of the house, or flying out of a tree all led to regular visits with Dr. Michelson.  They had always been extremely fond of each other – Dr. Michelson liked Shawn’s tenacity, and Shawn liked that Dr. Michelson’s lectures were subtle rather than the in your face tirades doled out by his father.  Shawn never fully listened to Dr. Michelson’s lectures, because honestly, when did he listen to any lecture, but he also hadn’t blocked them out entirely.  He’d simply fly off of or out of something different instead.

Now that he was a psychic detective, Shawn’s frequent flyer miles were increasing once again.  Shawn liked that Dr. Michelson retained his subtly when he’d casually comment for Shawn to stay out of the path of a bullet or duck when a punch was coming at him the next time.

Dr. Michelson slowly rolled over to the table as he scanned Shawn’s chart.  “We have to stop meeting like this.  I don’t see you for over a decade and now this is the third time I’ve seen you in four years.  How’s your shoulder?”  Dr. Michelson tossed the chart on the table next to Shawn before reaching over and gently feeling around the recently healed wound.  “No residual pain?”

“I’m good, Doc.”

“Good, good.  Shawn, I don’t need to read your chart to figure out why you’re here,” Dr. Michelson said as he waved his fingers in front of Shawn’s throat indicating his raspy voice said it all.  Dr. Michelson knew Shawn still had his tonsils and also knew that he hadn’t seen another doctor for them in the time he had left and returned to Santa Barbara.  How the kid, now a man, had made it through so many years with those tonsils was startling.  “The sore throat must be bad to bring you in,” he added as he shoved a thermometer into Shawn’s mouth.

Shawn reached up to grab it so that he could talk, but Dr. Michelson immediately put his hand out to stop him.

“Really, Doc, I’m fine,” Shawn said the second Dr. Michelson removed the thermometer.  “I think it’s a nasty cold coming on, so I’ll just go home, drink plenty of fluids, and watch plenty of cartoons.  Cartoon Network is playing a Jem marathon this afternoon.  Sorry to waste your time.  I’ll be sure to come back if I get pistol-whipped or shot again though.  Good seeing you.”  Shawn hopped off the table and walked toward the door. 

Shawn had clammed up again.  Until that day, Shawn had kept his word and never made a doctor’s appointment when he had a sore throat.  Until that day, he had whined to Gus about his sore throats and Gus had demanded that he call his doctor, but it never went any further.  However, on that day, Shawn didn’t hang up the phone.  The reason for the massive shift in the universe was simple: the level of pain was more intense than anything he previously experienced and it worried him.  It felt as if a flamethrower was aimed down his throat every time he swallowed.  Unfortunately, he had to swallow – trying to avoid swallowing only made him want to swallow more, and the longer he went between swallows, the worse it was.  Although, frequently swallowing was even worse, so it was a lose-lose situation.  The added bonus this time was the pain in his ears, so every time he swallowed he felt as if Ceti eels from Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan were beginning their trek to his cerebral cortex.

Dr. Michelson cleared his throat and Shawn knew he was prepping his lecture voice.  Considering Dr. Michelson hadn’t been able to give Shawn this particular lecture in over a decade, Shawn figured he was brimming with excitement.  He clearly got his kicks from trying to convince Shawn to relinquish ownership of his tonsils.  Shawn’s hand was on the door knob when Dr. Michelson spoke.

“Shawn, are your sore throats increasing in frequency?”

Shawn paused.  Where was the lecture?  Lectures didn’t start with questions; they started with “Shawn, sit down”.  Shawn sighed and looked at the ceiling, his hand still gripping the door knob.  His “yes” was barely audible, and not just because of his rapidly intensifying laryngitis.  He hated to admit Dr. Michelson was right – he had been right about everything else since Shawn was a kid, so why wouldn’t he be right about this?

“Is the pain worse each time?” 

Now that Shawn was an adult, he expected a sterner, subtlety-free version of Dr. Michelson’s previous lecture format.  He wasn’t expecting this, whatever this was. 

Shawn turned around slowly and nodded.  Dr. Michelson felt a pang of sympathy when he saw Shawn’s face – Shawn looked just like the boy he had seen so many years ago.  The boy had only showed his fear on a handful of occasions, instead opting for arguing or storming out of the office.  Now the man allowed a clear, albeit fleeting, view of his fear before it evaporated into a fake grin.  How the man could be a private detective, an inherently dangerous job, yet be so wary of a straightforward procedure was hard for Dr. Michelson to comprehend.  He figured it was due to twenty years of Shawn fighting against it and building it up in his mind to be the most horrible thing in the world.

Shawn did his own prepping, minus any attempt at throat clearing (he wouldn’t make that mistake again), for his retaliatory argument as to why separating him from his tonsils would be a bad idea.  He opened his mouth to begin his counterargument, although he still wasn’t sure what he was countering, but nothing came out.  The truth of the matter was that Shawn didn’t have a rebuttal this time.  His tonsils were a problem and it wasn't going to go away on its own.

Dr. Michelson reached behind him and pulled open a drawer at the same time he patted the examination table again. 

“Seriously, I’m fine,” Shawn said as he walked back over and jumped onto the table.  His words and actions were as far apart as two things could possibly be.

“Shawn, please be quiet.  Now, open up and say ahh.”

“Should I be quiet or should I say ahh?  I really wish all of you would make up your minds.  I’m not feeling well and you’re confusing me with your mixed messages.”

Dr. Michelson had years of experience in handling Shawn.  “Stop talking except for the word ‘ahh’.”

Shawn nodded grumpily and opened his mouth.  As directed, a scratchy ahh was the only sound Shawn made.

“Hmm…” Dr. Michelson mumbled as peered into Shawn’s throat.  “Hmm...” 

“Give it to me straight, Doc.  It’s the Fraggles, isn’t it?”

Dr. Michelson didn’t miss a beat and suddenly became quite serious.  “No, it’s the Gorgs.”  He looked up and laughed at Shawn’s surprise that an old man such as himself could make a Fraggle Rock reference.  “Just kidding, it’s tonsillitis.  A sore throat from a cold doesn’t produce white spots.  A cold also wouldn’t give you the lovely 102 degree temperature you’re currently running.  We’ll have to take a culture to confirm, but you appear to have another, and might I add severe, case of tonsillitis.  Hang tight, I’ll be right back.”

While Dr. Michelson was gone, Shawn sat quietly on the examining table, well, with the exception of the paper cover crunching loudly beneath him at his slightest movement.  He was no longer in the mood for practicing good nostril hygiene.  He swallowed, hoping his sore throat would magically disappear.  When he again felt the flamethrower and the Ceti eels, he slumped down further.

Dr. Michelson returned five anxiety-filled minutes later and sat down, pleased that the height of his stool hadn’t been touched in his absence.  “Shawn, I just spoke with Dr. Flynn, an otolaryngologist.  You’re in luck – first I had a cancellation and now Sam has a cancellation and can see you in twenty minutes.  I told the good doctor all about you and said that if you’re not seen now, you probably never will be.”  Dr. Michelson smiled widely, beaming with pride over his accomplishment to finally get Shawn to see an otolaryngologist.

Dr. Michelson didn’t have to explain to Shawn what an otolaryngologist did or why he was being sent to one.  The danger of a “tonsil-suckoutofme” was clear and present.  “I did eat my Lucky Charms this morning…”

Dr. Michelson smiled.  “Shawn, I can say this because I know you’ll take it the right way.  One of my goals before retirement was to make sure you were separated from your tonsils, so thank you, I can retire happy.”

“Not just yet, Doc,” Shawn quipped.

Shawn emerged through the inner office door with Dr. Michelson just as Gus was passing one of his business cards, most likely with his cell phone number written in his perfect penmanship on the back, to the receptionist.  Shawn rolled his eyes – while he was learning of his painful demise, his callous best friend was picking up a woman.  It had probably started out as Gus doing damage control for their earlier outburst, but had evidently gone beyond that in the fifteen minutes Shawn had left them to their own devices.

As Gus approached them, Dr. Michelson smiled and held out his hand.  “Gus, how are you?”  They had met each other numerous times following Shawn’s various flights off of things, and more recently, following Shawn’s various run-ins with criminals.  “Gus, perhaps you could help me with something.  I’ve arranged an appointment for Shawn with an otolaryngologist on the eighth floor in twenty minutes.  Would you be so kind as to make sure he gets there?”

Gus and Dr. Michelson laughed and shook hands to seal the deal as Shawn looked at them in shock.  He had just been viciously betrayed by two of the people he trusted the most. 

Shawn glared at Gus before turning to Dr. Michelson.  “Isn’t telling him about my appointment against doctor-patient privilege?”

Dr. Michelson clapped Shawn on the back and smiled widely.  “No.  Good seeing you, Shawn.  I hope you feel better.  Tell your father I say hello.” 

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

Nineteen minutes later, Gus walked into the office of one Dr. Sam Flynn, otolaryngologist.  He stopped, nodded politely to the receptionist, turned around, and immediately left the office. 

Nineteen minutes and thirteen seconds later, Gus again walked into the office of one Dr. Sam Flynn, a vice grip on Shawn’s arm as he roughly yanked his best friend through the door and pulled him over to the reception desk.

“Get your business card with your perfect penmanship ready, buddy.  Another receptionist in sight…”  Shawn rasped sarcastically as he pulled his arm out of Gus’ grasp.

Gus ignored Shawn and waited quietly for him to check in.  Shawn’s hesitation earned him an elbow to the ribs.  After a second elbow to the ribs, Shawn caved in and finally gave his name to the receptionist.

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

Shawn paced anxiously in the examining room waiting for the doctor.  He didn’t care about poking through cabinets and drawers or finding extra long cotton swabs.  Shawn’s only thought was on the growing conspiracy amongst his friends and healthcare providers to separate him from his tonsils.  He was sure his parents were already involved – they were probably anonymously leading the charge. 

He paced and paced some more until the door opened. 

Shawn whirled around and instantly smiled, almost forgetting the reason he was there.  Much to his delight, Dr. Sam Flynn was a Samantha, not a Samuel.  Even though a 102 degree temperature was raging through his body and 2002 degree molten lava was now flowing down his throat, Shawn perked up as he saw just how beautiful she was.  Her red hair was tossed casually into a bun, freckles were sprinkled liberally on her fair skin, and green eyes shone brightly behind wire framed glasses.  She appeared to be his age, and a quick glance confirmed there no wedding band.  Shawn remembered that Dr. Michelson had tried to con him into seeing an otolaryngologist when he was a teenager by saying the doctor was female.  This was, of course, a different doctor, but he was quite pleased there was an ongoing trend in female otolaryngologists. 

It was love at first sight.  Or love at first puppy.  Or puppy love.  Shawn didn’t know – his 102 degree temperature had just ratcheted up to 103 degrees and his ability to think clearly was going up in flames.  He just knew he was in love.  It crossed his mind that it probably wasn’t love per se, but instead a much needed escape from the recent turmoil surrounding Abigail and Juliet.

As Shawn looked at Dr. Flynn, he immediately wished he had taken the time to do up his updo.  At least he had taken a shower and put on a clean shirt and boxers.  Not that a throat doctor would have cause to see his boxers, but he could only hope.

Oh crap, Shawn thought suddenly, he didn’t want her to see his nasty looking throat.  That would definitely be a turn off.  Wait, she was an otolaryn-whatever, so maybe the worse his throat looked the more appealing he would be?  He imagined his throat was out-and-out revolting at the moment, so she would take one look at his infected tonsils and melt.

Thank God for tonsillitis.

“Hello, Mr. Spencer—“

“Call me Shawn,” he rasped.  For once, the accompanying laryngitis with his tonsil infection was a positive thing as it made his voice sound Barry White sexy.

She smiled.  “Hello, Shawn, I’m Dr. Flynn.  I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Shawn tried to turn on the charm as he smiled back, but the pilot light on his flirting furnace was out.  The irony was not lost on him that feeling like crap completely ruined his chances of picking up a hot doctor.  Hot doctors didn’t exactly hang out at Tom Blair’s Pub, nor were they involved in many police investigations, so he had very little opportunity to meet a hot doctor except for when he was sick.  But when he was sick, he had zero game. 

“What do you do for work, Shawn?”

“I’m a psychic detective,” Shawn croaked casually, still desperately trying to light the pilot light.  He had always found the simple statement had more of an impact than elaborating on his occupation.

“Did you say psychic?”

Even being on death’s door, he could see her doubt.  His tonsils had zapped his observation skills, so he needed to dig deep.  He saw the faint outline of a recent coffee spill that had dried.  He saw her glance at her wrist repeatedly.  He saw her thick hair was still damp in places, and considering how put together her outfit was (minus the coffee stain), her hair was comparatively messy.  He assumed his signature stance with his hands to his temples, only temporarily taken aback at the heat radiating off his head.  He took a deep breath and focused before looking at her.  “Having a case of the Mondays are we?  Spilled coffee, not able to wear your watch because of a dead battery, a broken hairdryer…  Everything comes in threes and I sense your luck will improve for the rest of the day.  It has already improved by meeting me.”

She stared, a curious expression on her face as her green eyes twinkled at him.  “I’ll give you that one, Shawn,” she said quietly and quickly picked up his chart.

He smiled again – he could tell she still doubted him, but he had definitely thrown her off.  He was the lucky one – he guessed on the watch battery, assuming a doctor wouldn’t have time to get it replaced right away.  At least he proved he had some game when he was sick. 

“Shawn, let’s check that throat of yours.  Lie down please.”

Shawn was about to open up and say ahh as that was everyone else’s first request, when he heard her ask him to lie down.  Did she say lie down?  Oh, this examination was starting off nicely…

He awkwardly stretched out on the table – making a note to contact the supplier of those damn paper covers as they made gracefully lying down in front of hot doctors virtually impossible while trying to avoid ripping said paper or falling off the table because said paper was ridiculously slippery.

Dr. Flynn turned on a blinding overhead task light and adjusted it above him.  She rested her hand briefly on his arm as she said, “Open up for me, please.”

Goose bumps erupted on every inch of Shawn’s skin as she touched him.  He was instantly thrown back to the second grade when Melanie McIntyre, the most beautiful girl in all of Santa Barbara, well, all of the Kenneth J. Dusman Elementary School at least, brushed against him in the hallway.  Shawn quickly pulled himself back to the present and obliged.

She leaned over him and Shawn’s heartbeat skyrocketed.  Was that lavender he smelled?  He didn’t need Gus’ super smeller for confirmation.  It quickly blocked the cherry smell of the throat lozenges he had been popping for the past two hours and it was incredible.

After an examination that was far too quick in Shawn’s opinion, she rested her hand once again on his arm.  “You have very attractive tonsils, Shawn.  You can sit up now.”

Ha!  He knew it – his insides were just as attractive as his outside.  Did he have to sit up?  She could join him on the slippery paper covered table if she wanted to…

She jotted down a few notes in his chart as he struggled to return to a sitting position, only ripping the paper cover in three spots in the process.  She looked up and crossed her arms, immediately becoming serious.  Shawn sensed the shift and gave up trying to restart the pilot light.  “Shawn, with what Dr. Michelson has told me about your history of tonsillitis and with what I’m seeing now, I’m scheduling you for an immediate tonsillectomy.” 

Shawn was blown away by the suddenness of the recommendation and was viciously yanked out of the harlequin novel in which he was Fabio and Dr. Flynn was his heroine.  What did she just say?  Immediate tonsillectomy?  She had another thing coming if she thought she could say something so absurd without a comeback. 

Shawn readied himself for his argument on separating him from his tonsils.  “But I’m attached to my tonsils,” he attempted feebly and immediately groaned internally.  That was his argument?  He swallowed and was reminded that the relationship with his tonsils was long overdue for a divorce.

“That may be, Shawn, but they are not staying attached to you for much longer.  There is no other option.”

Shawn looked down and thought about what she said.  No other option.  There was always another option, wasn’t there?  He was an adult now, somewhat, and had to face facts – there really wasn’t another option this time.  “Not that I’m agreeing,” he began, making sure he retained an out even if there wasn’t one, “but theoretically speaking, how would they be removed?” 

“Glad you asked,” she said and pulled a stack of photographs from a nearby drawer. 

Shawn tried to hide his repulsion as he was shown picture after picture of tonsils and throats in various states.  He’d gladly look at the most grisly of crime scene photos any day over these photos.  He was shown one particularly horrific picture of infected tonsils and wondered if that was how his tonsils currently looked.

Dr. Flynn wasted no time before she explained, in gruesome detail, exactly what was involved in a tonsillectomy.  After ten minutes of way too much detail over how tonsils were connected to adenoids which were connected to hip bones (okay, with a few body parts and internal organs shoved in between), Shawn was thunderstruck.  He tried to concentrate on the beauty of her voice rather than the ugliness of her words, but her words were horrendous and overpowered everything else.  He tried to look at her beautiful hair, freckles, and eyes, but images of man-eating tonsils kept overtaking his mind. 

He had missed half, if not most, of what she said.  However, Shawn got the gist: his tonsils would be hacked out, sorry, extracted, and the resulting holes would be burned, sorry, cauterized, to stop any geysers of blood from erupting.

“Do you have any questions?”

“You said you use a scalpel?  That’s pointy, right?”

Dr. Flynn wasn’t aware of Shawn’s “distaste” for pointy things and that voluntarily agreeing to go under the knife for any reason was not an option for him.  She just assumed his odd question was caused by his temperature or by a last ditch attempt to keep a twenty year battle over his tonsils alive.  “You’ll be fine, Shawn.  You’ll be under general anesthesia and won’t feel a thing.”

“Until I wake up…” he challenged.

She smiled.  “Yes, you won’t feel a thing until you wake up.  Barring any complications, you’ll go home the same day, but plan to miss a week of work.  Unfortunately, tonsillectomies are a bit more uncomfortable for adults.  It will be a rough few days, I won’t lie to you, but the long term benefits far outweigh a few days of distress.  It will take a while for your insurance company to approve the procedure, but once that is done, we’ll arrange a pre-op visit and schedule the surgery.  Do you have any other questions?” 

Shawn shook his head slowly, not fully comprehending what had just happened.  Had he just agreed to a tonsil-suckoutofme?  How the hell did that happen?  That was why there were so many female otolaryngologists – distract the patient with their intellect and beauty and they’ll say yes without even knowing it. 

Dr. Flynn pulled a massive pile of paper from another drawer and handed it to Shawn.  “Here’s some literature on tonsillectomies.  Read as little or as much as you want and I’ll answer any questions at the pre-op.  In the meantime, I want you to drink plenty of fluids to get that inflammation down.  Eat what’s comfortable to you, but please avoid spicy and acidic foods as they’ll aggravate your throat.”

“Are pineapple smoothies okay?”

“They’re a bit acidic, but they’re fine.”

Shawn smiled, but even a doctor’s order to drink pineapple smoothies wasn’t enough to counter what he had just seemingly agreed to.  He could almost hear Dr. Michelson screaming in delight five floors below as he planned his retirement party.

Dr. Flynn escorted Shawn out of the office and into the reception area.  Gus was genuinely concerned when he saw his shell-shocked friend, but the concern vanished when his shell-shocked friend’s doctor came into view.  Shawn’s sudden and intense glare indicated she would not be the next recipient of Gus’ business card with his cell phone number written in his perfect penmanship on the back.

“So?” Gus asked gently as Shawn checked out at the reception desk.

“I’ve been ordered to drink pineapple smoothies,” Shawn croaked.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

Dr. Flynn rested her hand on Shawn’s arm.  Despite the fact his fate had just been sealed, goose bumps formed on his skin and his heartbeat increased at her touch.  “Nice meeting you, Shawn.  We’ll be in touch about scheduling a pre-op visit shortly.  See you again soon.”

As she walked back toward her office, Shawn smiled as she looked at her watchless wrist. 

Gus looked down at the tonsillectomy literature under Shawn’s hand.  “That’s it, huh?” 

Why did his insurance company have to be so efficient in approving his tonsil-suckoutofme?  It had only taken twenty-four hours for confirmation that a tonsil divorce was hunky dory.  It had then only taken twenty-four minutes for Dr. Flynn to call and schedule the surgery for three days later.  That meant Shawn had to see Dr. Flynn as soon as possible for blood work and a full pre-op screening.

Gus and Henry were shocked that Shawn didn’t pitch a fit over going to his pre-op appointment.  They figured it was because Shawn was seeing Dr. Flynn again – he had croaked about her nonstop since his first appointment.  In reality, his tonsils, sensing their party would end soon, were determined to go out with a bang and were making the simple acts of talking and breathing, let alone escaping the clutches of his father and best friend, extremely difficult.  Regardless of his lack of fight, they took Henry’s truck and forced Shawn to sit between them with no means of egress – just in case. 

The last two days had been miserable for Henry and Gus.  They assumed Shawn’s exceptionally annoying behavior was nervous energy over his upcoming surgery.  They appreciated he wasn’t feeling well and was facing something he had spent his entire life fighting, but they didn’t understand how a grown man could be such a baby.  They couldn’t blame him, but that also didn’t stop them from wanting to strangle him.  Perhaps if they strangled him, Shawn’s tonsils would just pop out of him and things could go back to normal.  Their increased annoyance at Shawn was likely due to their own nervous energy – even though a tonsillectomy was standard surgery, it was still surgery.

At the beginning of his appointment, Shawn enjoyed intense flirting with Dr. Flynn.  His voice had moved beyond Barry White and into a weird hybrid of Rod Stewart and Joan Rivers, but he hoped his game made up for it.  Unfortunately, he developed the yips and his game fell apart as they progressed through the visit.  As Dr. Flynn once again tortured him with pictures and gruesome details of the surgery itself, she introduced grisly step by step details of his recovery. 

He smiled as she described the pain medications that would send him to a happy place (his words, not hers), but cringed as she described the process of the scabs falling off after a few days and the likelihood of additional bleeding.  Really, who came up with the disgusting word ‘scab’?  It was similar to the word ‘pus’ – also involved in his recovery as Shawn found out.  She lectured him ad naseum about drinking fluids and keeping his throat lubricated following his surgery to speed recovery.  By the end of the hour, her hand on his arm produced no goose bumps whatsoever.  His heart rate didn’t increase at her touch as it was already running a marathon over the misery set to begin in forty-six hours and fifty-three minutes. 

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

Even though he tried to sleep, Shawn was wide awake at 7:15 AM on the morning before his surgery.  He had tossed and turned the entire night, just as he had the two previous nights, with both his throat and his nerves refusing to let him get some much needed Z’s.

“Gus, buddy, are you sure you don’t want to have your tonsils taken out?” Shawn asked as they pulled away from his apartment building.  “We can be like Carol and Cindy Brady when they had their tonsils removed at the same time.  We can eat ice cream and—“

“No.”

“But, Gus—“

“I said no, Shawn.  Just like I said no the last seventeen times you asked.  My tonsils are staying right where they are.”

“Some friend you are.”

“Yes, some friend I am.  I’ve read every sentence of the literature provided by Dr. Flynn.  Have you?”

“Gus, if you’ve read it, why would I need to?”

Shawn didn’t want to admit that he had done his own research – when he couldn’t sleep, he scoured online forums for descriptions of tonsillectomy experiences.  He knew it was a bad idea (bad, bad, bad idea) before he started doing it, but he couldn’t help himself.  The more he read, the more disturbed he became, and then he was forced to read more in hopes of finding postings saying that tonsillectomies really weren’t that bad.  He didn't find any – at least any for adults.

Gus turned into the driveway of the SBPD at Shawn’s request.  Had Gus known Shawn’s real reason for wanting to go, he would have driven past the station and right to the psychiatric ward.  Shawn explained there was a check waiting for them, but Gus realized there was no check as soon as they walked through the front door and past the cage.

Shawn walked down the main corridor hugging every officer, plus a criminal or two, who passed him.

The idiot was saying goodbye to everyone.

“Buzz!” Shawn croaked.

“Oh, hey, Shawn.  Good luck getting your tonsils out tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Buzz.”  Shawn abruptly reached into the paper bag he was carrying and pulled out a small box.  “In case I don’t see you again, I want you to have my Big League Chew stick figure collection.  Keep it in a safe place because it will be priceless someday.”

“It already is priceless…” Gus muttered.  “What are you doing, Shawn?”

Shawn ignored his friend and leaned closer to Buzz.  “Keep it away from Gus.  He’s already eaten the llama and the giraffe.  He claims it was an accident, but I don’t believe him.”

Buzz smiled curiously.  “But, Shawn, won’t you be back in a week?”

“Hopefully, Buzz, hopefully.  But just in case, I want to make sure the belongings I treasure the most go to the people I treasure the most.  Speaking of whom…  Chief!”

“Mr. Spencer, what are you doing here?  Shouldn’t you be getting ready for tomorrow?” Karen said as she emerged from her office.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Chief.”  Shawn handed Karen a small leather bound book.  “This is a journal I’ve kept for all of our cases.  You can take my notes and either turn them into a criminal investigation course for the academy, or, what I was thinking, turn them into a bestselling book.  Don’t you think ‘A Psychic’s Guide to the Blue and Washington Black Galaxy’ is a catchy title?”

Gus went into cardiac arrest.  He could see a bright light forming as his heart slowed to a stop.  What was in that book and what did Shawn think he was doing giving it to the Chief?  Maybe Shawn’s fever had spiked again and he was delirious? 

Karen flipped through the pages.  “There’s nothing but drawings of… is that a Creamsicle?”

Gus came back from the light.  If Shawn survived the tonsillectomy, which in all likelihood he would, Gus was going to kill him.

“Good eye, Chief,” Shawn smiled and gave her a brisk hug.  He saw Juliet and nodded politely at the Chief to excuse himself. 

As Shawn walked past, the Chief held out the book to Gus and gave him a half concerned, half amused look.  “Is Mr. Spencer okay?”

“Yes, he’s just a little nervous about tomorrow.  Thank you, Chief,” Gus said quietly as he tucked the book in his jacket pocket.  

Shawn slowed as he approached Juliet.  It had been only a little over a month since she was kidnapped because of him, so things were awkward between them to say the least.  They both tried to hide the awkwardness with small talk, but they both knew it lay just beneath the surface.  At once, Shawn realized he may never see her again.  This could be his last chance to tell her what he felt – to tell her anything.  He had tried once before, only to run out of gas mere inches from the finish line.

Gus saw the expression on Shawn’s face and dread filled his entire being.  Not here, not now.  Not when he was only going to have a tonsillectomy.  He should at least wait until it was something life threatening. 

As Gus rushed forward, Shawn took a deep breath and opened his mouth.  “Jules—” Shawn stopped suddenly when he felt a strong arm wrap around his shoulders and turned to see Lassiter standing next to him.

“Tonsillectomy, huh?  At least that will shut you up for a few days, Spencer,” Lassiter quipped and grinned widely. 

“Carlton!” Juliet snapped before looking at Shawn thoughtfully.  “Were you about to say something?”

Shawn glared at Lassiter and shook his head.  The moment was gone, never to return.  He would go to his grave without her knowing how he felt.  Maybe he could amend his will and his lawyer could tell her at the reading.  Wait, did he even have a will… or a lawyer? 

“Seriously, Shawn, good luck tomorrow.  Carlton and I will stop by to see you in the next couple of days.” 

Lassiter snorted and looked at his partner.  “I never agreed to—“

“We will see you soon, Shawn,” Juliet said as she gave Lassiter a glare that silenced him immediately.

“Thanks, Jules.  Just in case something goes wrong, I want you to have my elliptical trainer—“

“Don’t you mean our elliptical trainer, Shawn?” Gus snapped. 

“—my elliptical trainer,” Shawn repeated, ignoring Gus.  “I obviously couldn’t fit it in the bag, but I brought you a bag of Doritos.  If you store your Doritos and other cheesy tortilla snacks on a high shelf, the trainer makes a very nice step stool, just so you know.”

Juliet hesitantly took the Doritos from Shawn.  “Thank you, Shawn.  That’s very sweet, but…”

“That’s moronic…” Lassiter grumbled.

“Lassie-face, don’t feel left out,” Shawn rasped as he handed Lassiter the paper bag.  “I’m giving you my water gun collection.  Just be sure to clean them thoroughly with water before each use.”

“For the love of Mike, you’re only getting your tonsils out,” Lassiter said and walked back to his desk, noticeably still holding the paper bag.

“I’ll miss you too, Lassie!” Shawn called hoarsely after him, before turning to embrace Juliet one final time, squishing the Doritos between them. 

“Shawn, that’s enough.  Let’s go,” Gus snapped as he pulled Shawn away from Juliet. 

As he followed Shawn to the door, a deeply embarrassed Gus apologized to the officers and criminals for the show Shawn had just put on and said he’d see them all in a few days.  Well, maybe not the criminals… 

Once at the door, Shawn turned dramatically, bid everyone a final adieu, and left.

Shawn had insisted on finding a lawyer and writing a will, but Gus drew the line which should have been drawn long ago.  Shawn would have to settle for writing his will on a paper napkin at the restaurant.  If Shawn was going to put him through hell, Gus needed a full stomach.

As it was one of his last meals, Shawn had a double order of Fries Quatro Queso Dos Fritos.  Gus reminded him of Dr. Flynn’s warning about spicy food, but Shawn just glowered at him as he fought through the pain of each and every swallow of fried gooey goodness. 

Two hours later, when Shawn’s tonsils were retaliating in ways previously thought impossible, Gus drove Shawn to his father’s house.  Gus and Henry had made the executive decision that Shawn would stay with Henry the night before his surgery.  That was the only way to ensure he didn’t eat anything after midnight and he was up by 5:00 AM for his 7:00 AM procedure the following morning.

“Keep an eye on him – he’s a flight risk.  I had to put the child locks on in the car after he tried to dive out on State Street,” Gus said as he walked through Henry’s front door.  “Also, ignore any strange calls you might get from the station.”

Henry smiled.  “I already had a call from Karen.  She said she’ll put an APB out on him if needed.”

Henry and Gus laughed and went into the kitchen as Shawn collapsed on the sofa.  As Henry pulled out steaks for him and Gus and a can of soup for Shawn, Gus described their visit to the station.

“Only Shawn,” Henry said and handed Gus a beer.  “I’ve been trying to get those tonsils pried out of him for twenty years, Gus.  I don’t know how you did it.”

Gus thought of many absurd responses, but he kept them to himself as he glanced into the living room and saw the forlorn look on Shawn’s face as he watched television.  “I didn’t do anything, Mr. Spencer.  I think his sore throats have been bad.”

Henry's expression turned serious.  “I know, Gus.”  Henry put his beer down and fiddled absentmindedly with the steaks for a minute before looking at his son’s best friend.  “I have cupcakes for dessert…”

“I hear that, Mr. Spencer.”

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

Shawn didn’t remember much after dinner.  He vaguely recalled collapsing on the sofa and being forced to watch America’s Next Top Model.  Shawn was simply too tired and too preoccupied to figure out how Gus had convinced Henry to let him to watch the show.  He had whined about wanting a pineapple smoothie, but Gus continued to stare at Tyra and Henry continued to read the newspaper.

He drifted off shortly after that.  It was inevitable as he had slept no more than six or seven hours since learning of his tonsil-suckoutofme and his body simply couldn’t take the sleep deprivation any longer. 

A few hours later, Shawn woke up with a start and thrashed around on the sofa until he realized where he was.  He looked bleary-eyed at the clock on the wall and saw it was 10:45 PM.  America’s Next Top Model had long since ended and Gus had long since gone home, knowing that he’d be back the following morning.  The evening news was now on the television and Henry was still enthralled in the newspaper.

Shawn glanced at the coffee table and smiled at the pineapple smoothie sitting in front of him.  “I always knew you loved me, Dad,” Shawn said and took a sip of smoothie.  He winced at the first sip, but subsequent sips actually felt good going down.

“Don’t tell anybody,” Henry said without looking away from his paper.  “It will damage my reputation.”

“10-4,” Shawn said and took another sip.

“You’d better hurry up and drink that.  No food or water after midnight.”

“I’m not a mogwai, you know.  I’m not going to turn into Stripe.”

Henry snorted loudly.

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

A solemn mood hung over the Spencer house the next morning.  It was too early for the paper to arrive and he had read the previous day’s paper cover to cover, so Henry sat quietly as he drank a cup of coffee and ate a bowl of Mini-Wheats.

Shawn was silent as he sat across the table from him.  As Shawn wasn’t allowed any food or drink and his last pineapple smoothie was consumed before midnight the previous evening (it was technically 12:03 AM, but Shawn did that only to prove he wouldn’t turn into a Gremlin), he looked longingly at Henry’s coffee and cereal – even if the Mini-Wheats weren’t frosted.

Shawn yawned and immediately winced as his tonsils screamed back at him.  It was 5:20 AM in the morning and no sane person should be awake.  “I want to stop by the church and have Father Westley read my last rites.”

“Oh, please.  You’re not going before a firing squad.”

“Oh, please, nothing!  What if something goes wrong and Dr. Flynn accidentally cuts something she shouldn’t.  Those scalpels are really very pointy pointy things, you know,” Shawn challenged as they heard a knock at the back door.

Henry walked over to let Gus in and put his dishes in the sink.  He certainly wasn’t going to admit he was worried about the same thing – not specifically about Dr. Flynn accidentally cutting something she shouldn’t, but about something going wrong in general.  “Shawn, you’re being an idiot.”

As Gus and Henry drove Shawn to the hospital, with Shawn sitting between them in Henry’s truck just in case he made a last ditch run for it, Shawn remained completely silent.  Questions about what flavor Jell-O or Zarex Shawn wanted when he got home were answered with one word responses.  Regardless of his behavior over the previous days, or how much snapping they did in response, they were both worried about him.  They had both secretly read the same forums Shawn had read and knew that he was in for a horrible time in the coming days and weeks.

The atmosphere in the waiting room of the hospital’s surgical center didn’t help the mood at all.  The staff was talking quietly behind the desk, themselves still waking up.  The coffee pot for the patient’s family and friends had yet to be turned on.  An annoyingly chipper meteorologist on the television was saying it would be another perfect day and everybody should get outside to enjoy it.  Shawn looked at who were obviously the other two patients in the waiting room – a woman around his age and a scared little boy sitting in his father’s lap.  He wondered what procedures they were going to have done.  He then wondered if his father would mind if he climbed into his lap.

When his name was called, Shawn’s heart skipped a beat and immediately began running a second marathon.  He relaxed slightly when he was told his father and Gus could sit with him in the pre-op holding room, but it still wasn't enough to stop the cross-country trek his heart was currently taking.

Once Shawn changed into a hospital gown and was settled on a gurney, the nurse wasted no time in starting an IV.  Shawn flinched at the needle, but was pleased that he made it through his first encounter of the day with a pointy thing relatively unscathed.  The nurse was unimpressed when he told her he hadn’t turned into a Gremlin after drinking a pineapple smoothie past midnight.  She quickly took his temperature and blood pressure before hurrying out of the room, likely to do the same to the woman and child who had been in the waiting room. 

The anesthesiologist came in shortly thereafter and explained to them that Shawn’s blood pressure was elevated and he would give Shawn a sedative to calm him down.  It looked as if Shawn would be going to his happy place a little earlier than expected.

The nurse had the timing down perfectly – just as the sedative kicked in, she reappeared in the holding room.  “It’s time, Mr. Spencer.”

Shawn reached out to give the nurse a fist bump, but she just looked at his fist oddly and began tightening the blankets around him instead.  “You can’t leave a fist bump hanging out there…” he slurred hoarsely.

Gus immediately reached over and completed the fist bump.  “Thanks, buddy,” Shawn rasped and grinned. 

Henry placed his hand on Shawn’s shoulder as two attendants came in to get him.  “See you soon, kid.”

Shawn rolled his head toward his father and grinned.  “See you soon, baboon!  Later, alligator!  Take it easy, greasy!  See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya!  Time to go, buffalo!”

Henry and Gus followed the attendants out of the room and watched as Shawn was wheeled down the hallway.  As they turned the corner, Henry and Gus could hear Shawn giggle and then croak hoarsely, “Mañana, iguana!”