Author's Note: Here you are retromania, your "Homer and Marge have cancer and try on different bodies" multi-chapter fanfic request!

Chapter One: Open Surgery

A peaceful afternoon in the Simpsons household, and Marge was hard at work keeping the house in order.

As she was vacuuming, she found an assortment of letters stashed under the sofa.

"Hmm, I'm used to finding dimes and dog hair under here, but never mail" she said.

She picked up one of the letters and discovered something that unsettled her.

"These are all calls for medical check-ups, Homer's been keeping his doctors' appointments from me, and he never usually does that unless..." Marge began, but cut herself off from this train of thought, for it only lead to calamity for her.

She needed to take her mind off of the letters. Homer was at work and the kids were at school, she had nobody to talk to, nothing to distract her.

And then the notion to watch television occurred to her.

Daytime highlights on the box, an invitation to a mind-numbing indulgence of continuous mediocrity from now to early evening.

But something much needed when facing the unravelling of her husband's fragile grip on mortality.

She channel hopped for over twenty minutes before settling on a medical soap opera on Channel K-P SYTCH 0.1. "Medics Matter", a trashy novella created chiefly as a comeback veichle for Rainier Wolfcastle.

"Listen Hilda, god doesn't make people better, I do" Wolfcastle said to the rather alluringly seductive female actress playing Sister Hilda Bergstrom.

"You're such a blasphemer Fredric Rahall, you leave me no choice but to cast the first stone..cold kiss" she said, fainting into his arms and gently placing her luscious lips on his.

"Oh come on, who writes this junk...I could do so much better" said Marge.

"Think you could do better?" the continuity announcer proclaimed as the cut to break occurred, "Then enter our Medics Matter creative writing competition, script us seven days of sassy surgery and you could win a holiday to Barbados!"

Marge's eyes widened, relishing yet another opportunity for the Simpsons to head someplace, her eyes homed in on a typewriter lying in a small box of trinkets right next to the lamp. She had taken the box down from the attic during a morning clear-out.

Marge opted to again indulge her creative spark, and set to work on a manuscript.

Seven days, seven episodes.

She placed her hand on her heart, she felt no pressure.

Now was the time for surgery