I survived a round of cutting edge medicine | Life

The two surgeons, dressed in gowns and with serious faces, stood by my bed for a preoperative conference. “Maybe we should have a snack first,” Dr. Sam suggested to her colleague. “No. We have to wait until after the surgeries,” Dr. Katie decided. Dr. Sam, a first grader, nodded and pushed me back onto the couch, where I lay down as he measured me on a vertical line from the top. neck to waist. Meanwhile, Dr. Katie, a fourth-grader, was sitting nearby, working on a stack of consent forms. She handed me the sheets and said, “You have to sign them all, and don’t skip any pages.” Illegible scribbles filled the spaces above each signature line, and I asked what he was actually signing. “Oh, just things that allow us to do the surgeries, and then you have to pay us, even if…” He did a “c’est la vie” shrug. I had a bad feeling about this, but I scribbled my signature 13 times and realized, too late, that every one of the consent forms mentioned surgeries. Plural.

Doctor Sam, a title she considered friendlier than “Dr. Samantha,” had assured me that this procedure would extend my life by 50 years. Other details were vague, except that I would look very old at the end. Dr. Katie frowned as she joined Dr. Sam in the operating room. “You used up all the measuring space on his stomach!” The younger doctor snorted. “Playing surgery was my idea! I can cut it first!” I really wished I had read those forms. Finally, Dr. Sam sighed, erased the invisible marks from her, and brought her diagram closer to my left hip. Dr. Katie took her own measurement near my right hip and looked at her partner. “OK? Ready? Let’s go.” They picked up two small brushes with pointed ends.

I shook my head up. “Wait. Are you doing two surgeries at the same time?” They nodded. Neither of them laughed, didn’t even smile. Doctor Sam’s voice turned stern. “Go back to sleep.” “Sorry, doctors,” I said, ” but they haven’t anesthetized me yet.” My surgeons ran out of the room. Perhaps they had decided to eat their sandwiches, I hoped, but they returned too soon, carrying a collapsible plastic water jug ​​with a spigot. While Dr. Sam lowered his mask of impromptu anesthesia on my face, I prayed I didn’t start hyperventilating. Fortunately, my teenage grandson, Henry, was working at a nearby desk, with a clear view of the operating room. Henry is the witty, creative guy I wish he’d see He’s going to sit across from me at a dinner party. He also knows the difference between fake surgery and cardiac arrest.”Henry, if I stop breathing, you’ll call someone, right?” He looked up from his laptop and smiled. there is prob motto, grandma.” Dr. Sam glared at him. “No speaking. You’re asleep.

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