Imagine hospitals full of life, glittering domes soaking up sunlight in winter and reflecting it in summer, hospitals where suffering is alleviated and patients wake to the smell of spring rain and lilacs. Your personal physician leads your health team, and you meet your team-leader, a specialist, scientist-teacher. You discuss your health while sitting on the wooden deck overlooking green hills.

Your specialist teaches you about your personal Nano-bio-machines swimming in a glistening drop of water, like tadpoles in a crystalline river, the drop dropping onto your dry lips, and rushing into the current of your body. Your Nano-bios are on their way to schedule a meeting with your tumor, traveling your electromagnetic aura, and your physician and specialist can smile and scientifically say the word "aura" without sniggering. Your specialist touches your arms and slowly runs fingers up, making a U-turn at your armpit, to your stomach and your tumor, where your Nano will settle, and translate, so that your specialist and your tumor can have a serious therapeutic discussion. Tell us, he asks, what is your purpose?

What will your tumor say? Will it respond that you always worried too much, and you held all that worry in your stomach, that you swallowed too much pride? And where did that pride come from? Did you want to become rich and famous, an entertainer, miserable, then dead? You tried. You tried hard, like the lone errant penguin heading toward the end of the earth. You kept pushing as if that glimpse of ice sparkling on your summit was worth the agony and worry? And now you cannot smell lilac in spring. Or perhaps you never ventured forth and are looking back on missed opportunities and have languished in a stagnant pool for too long, staring at someone else’s accomplishments, trying to understand a George Eliot quote, "It is never too late to be what you might have been." Or maybe you ate too many plastic foods.

Your specialist discusses these issues with the tumor. You listen to their conversation. It becomes a heated debate, fierce even, and you finally join in. Unable to keep silent any longer, you yell at yourself, and your specialist diverts your anger into a direct discussion with your tumor. After a lengthy lively exchange, you and your tumor agree, you convince your tumor to stop growing, to recede into the vapor, reform itself into a smile, or a touch, or the sweet smell of the lilac.

Your Nanos, having accomplished their task as translator, dissolve into a mild sedative interacting with your dopamine, stimulating your serotonin, and ready with a small shot of norephinephrine for you when you wake later ready to play soccer with your eight-year old daughter.