When Your Surgeon Tells You He’s A Writer (Don’t Wait For The Punchline – There Isn’t One)

Tomorrow is D-Day. Or S-Day. Surgery Day.

In order to get my mind off such things as Super Bugs, wondering if I’ll be sharing a room with a chronically flatulent patient, debating if it’s worth taking in books to read and – most of all – trying not to have that thought ‘What happens if…’

You see, I am that person who is worried that the anesthetist will make a boo-boo and not give me enough juice to stay asleep and instead will wake up midway through the operation – and considering the area my surgeon’s operating on, his whole hand is liable to be in my mouth and I will bite his very expensive fingers off.

I’m not happy this is the turn of events the adventures of my stupid jaw has taken, but, in the words of Emperor Joseph in Amadeus, there it is. Not in the least because it has swallowed up a sizable whack of my yearly salary. My surgeon, happily, seems like a friendly fellow. Like the day when I rang his office and begged him to take out my tooth while I was under the general.

“Sure!” he exclaimed. This is after I’ve been begging my regular dentist, and my specialist, for ages to do the same. Great, I thought. Then came the addendum to his bill. That needed a drink to get over.

The first time I went to his offices, I had to fill out yet another form detailing my health (ah, those mental health sections always slow me down). Coming from work, and happy to stretch my back out, I stood at the reception desk and readied my pen.

“No, no,” said the receptionist. “Sit down and do it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because we need to keep this area absolutely clear. We get a lot of people coming through.”

I looked around at the empty waiting room, taking note of the array of magazines and depressing morning television on mute in the corner. I returned my gaze to her, with raised eyebrows.

“Busy?” I asked.

“Yes. Very busy.”

“It’s not right now.”

I could see her getting irritated with me, so I raised the white flag and plonked myself down and filled it out without being any more of a bother by pointing out the obvious.

Pretty soon I was called – with relief, by her, I think – to do into my surgeon’s spacious, windowed office. He even had a sideboard along one wall – honest to God, sideboard. Like out of Mad Men. It was all I could do to see if I could check to see if he had any whiskey hidden inside.

The assessment was quick. (“Your physio doesn’t think she can assist your case any further without surgical intervention.”)

My reaction was quicker. (Tears)

Holding out a tissue box for me, he looked back over my file.

“Your job occupation says you’re a writer.”

“That’s right.”

“Hey – I’m a writer too!”

Okay, okay. I thought. Stop RIGHT THERE. This isn’t the sort of opening line I want to hear from the person who’s going to slice my FACE open.

But it kept going.

Turns out he writes political satire (but of course, makes perfect sense) and nonfiction. Lovely. And normally I love to listen to what people write and how they write it. Just not this day.

I think by this point my discomfort was pretty plain, so to be merciful, he went into details about what he would be doing.

Liposuction.

Yes, I was surprised too.

From my stomach (“Take as much as you want!!!” I said) to then inject into the TMJ area after the removal of the left arterial disc – now useless, because it’s jammed. It will be my buffer from now on, and will work perfectly, I’m hoping, for ever and ever.

When I come back, I hope I shall bring good tidings.

Wish me luck x