St. Heisenberg’s Hospital for the Probabilistically Unwell
The sign outside St. Heisenberg’s Hospital helpfully changed its message depending on who observed it. Currently, it read: “EMERGENCY ROOM: PROBABLY THIS WAY” with an arrow pointing in three directions1.
Nurse Brad (definitely human) stood at the reception desk, his smile stretching exactly as wide as human smiles should stretch and no wider.
“Welcome to St. Heisenberg’s!” he beamed at the new arrival. “Are you here for treatment, visiting a patient who may or may not exist, or applying for our quantum insurance plans?”
Mrs. Pemberton clutched her handbag, which contained her husband. Or rather, the probability of her husband. “He collapsed at breakfast. Or will collapse. Or has been collapsed for years. It’s terribly confusing.”
“Ah yes, Temporal Syndrome. Very common these days.” Brad handed her a form. “Please indicate which version of your husband you’d like treated. We have a special on Tuesdays—buy one reality, get one free2.”
The waiting room was a masterpiece of quantum architecture. Patients sat, stood, and levitated simultaneously. A small child existed in the corner, playing with toys that were definitely age-appropriate in at least one universe.
“NEXT!” called Dr. Smith, Dr. Jones, and Dr. Williams-Patel-Henderson simultaneously from the same door.
Mrs. Pemberton approached hesitantly. “My husband—“
“Is in the vending machine,” Dr. Smith observed.
“Is perfectly healthy,” Dr. Jones diagnosed.
“Is a small potted plant,” Dr. Williams-Patel-Henderson noted with interest.
This was the problem with modern medicine. Too many observers, too many opinions, all equally valid until proven otherwise3.
“The gift shop is having a sale,” Brad announced to the waiting room. “Get Well Soon/Sorry For Your Loss cards are buy-one-get-one-infinite. Perfect for all possible outcomes!”
The continental breakfast in the cafeteria had achieved not just sentience but medical degrees. A particularly ambitious croissant was performing surgery on a danish that might or might not have insurance.
“I just want my Harold back,” Mrs. Pemberton said tearfully.
“Which Harold?” Brad asked sympathetically. “The Harold who loves golf? The Harold who’s allergic to existence? The Harold who became one with the universe last Tuesday but got better?”
The hospital’s PA system crackled to life: “Code Blue in all wards simultaneously. Also Code Green in Ward 5. Code Mauve in the probability wing. Code Breakfast in the cafeteria4.”
Dr. Martinez rushed past, chasing a patient who was simultaneously running, walking, and already in bed. “Third one today!” she called cheerfully. “Remember when patients stayed in one state? Those were the days!”
Mrs. Pemberton’s handbag meowed.
“Oh dear,” Brad said. “Looks like your husband has achieved feline probability. Nurse Whiskers handles those cases. NURSE WHISKERS!”
A cat appeared. Or possibly a nurse. Or possibly both. It was hard to tell at St. Heisenberg’s, where the dress code specifically allowed for existing as other species5.
“The real question,” said the hospital administrator, materializing from a probability cloud, “is whether we’re treating the disease or creating it by observing it.”
“Yes,” everyone answered simultaneously.
In the end, Mrs. Pemberton took home three versions of Harold: one who thought he’d never been sick, one who was convinced he’d died, and one who’d turned into a philosophical concept but was getting better with antibiotics.
The gift shop card she bought simply said: “Congratulations on Your Simultaneous Recovery/Loss/Transformation!”
It was exhausting, being sick in the future. Almost enough to make one nostalgic for 1996, when illness was analog and death was binary.
Almost.