General

He was a surgery-addict. He'd had his eyes made different colours. His cheek bones had been broken and reshaped so that they were high and perfectly symmetrical. His nose was longer and straighter than the one he had been born with. His legs were a foot longer having had inserts into his femurs, tibias and fibulas. And he's not even done, he has a list of surgery's as long as his arm of things he wants. He says he'd rather live in a hovel and look perfect than have a nice house and look normal. Me, I'd rather not go under the knife, not for anything.

By ravinder, November 3, 2013.
General

The surgeon came to introduce himself. I suppose that was to put me at my ease before my heart surgery, but all I could think of is what he'd look like in a mask and gown as he cut my chest open. I wondered if he'd feel remorse if I died on the table, or if that was all in a days work for him. His words washed over me like a bucket of cold sick and I felt nauseous to the pit of my stomach. Then with a smile that was supposed to reassure me he asked if I had any questions. I supposed that 'Is there any way to avoid surgery?' had already been answered countless times, so I shook my head.

By ravinder, November 3, 2013.