Shhh! Scribbler at Work

NOT the Sharpest Tool...

(prompt: 'blunt' 18/5/2018)

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, after a series of operations that never reached the monster root problem I lovingly called 'Ayers Rock' (and medicos called a monster gall stone in my bile duct), it came to pass that I would have to travel interstate for a top gastrointestinal surgeon (your basic Mr. Fixit of the gutsy variety) to deal with me.

A series of blunt conversations ensued, even before the fateful, quite fantastical day. I would ask you to keep in mind the basic premise of bluntness in this scenario. There are those who believe it's a matter of telling the outright, brutally honest truth; not 'beating around the bush'; 'faffing' around; 'lollygagging'; watching the grass grow or stopping to pick the daisies. No. None of that. The following conversations demonstrate the importance of being earnest; getting right to the point; 'the long and the short of it'; the truth may hurt (but hanging onto your rockery will prove far more painful).

BEFORE 'procedure' - making 'phone booking with interstate hospital -

Medical Registrar: "We need your permission to use a spyglass this time."

Me: "A spyglass? Like Captain Cook?" (and even on the phone I had to do a one-handed physical approximation of said Cook, spying)

MR: "NO!" He was laughing, thankfully. "It's just an incredible magnification of what the light on the end of the tube is already showing."

Me: "So now there's a torch and a spyglass AND some snips going down the tube?" Once again I'm thankful we don't have a picture-phone or skype-stuff. My facial gymnastics are really something. Despite my best efforts, can't suppress a gasp.

MR: "They're incredibly tiny."

Me: Ohh great... "OK!?" (out loud through gritted teeth) - as if I have a choice ... Ha!

And the dastardly date was set.

ON THE DAY (pre-procedure) -

GI (gastrointestinal) Surgeon, holding my hand and looking soulfully into my eyes: "We're going to get your rock out of you this time love. I have my hammer and my chisel's sharpened. Wouldn't want any blunt tools here."

Me: "They're going down the tube too? The one that's going down my throat and through my liver and into my bile duct? That tube?" My voice has become strangely squeaky.

GIS, cheerfully: "That's the one. You've got it right."

Me (guessing/hoping he's only joking about the stonemason's tools bit): "But, but... I know you can't bring the stone back up again, and it was suggested to me it's going to take a helluva lot of prunes to shift the Rock. So... the game plan is-s-s-s?

GIS, still cheerful as ever: " I'm going to give it the chop. That's what the snips are for."

Me: "Oh-h-h-h-h." faintly (almost don't need an anaesthetic any more, my world is spinning).

ON THE DAY (post partum)

GIS: "I GOT IT love!" he says with the broadest smile and a hearty hug. "Chop, chop, chop - into tiny pieces. So small you won't even know you're passing them!" (surgeons tend to discuss such delicate matters with gusto, I've noticed). My relief is monumental as he give me another hug and says, "And the other good news is that I didn't have to do a caesarean to get it, which was just as well. I'm a bit rusty in that department, being a GI man."