3rd World Plastic Surgery

A while ago a friend of mine had a melanoma removed from her arm. It left a rather large scar on her bicep and left my wife rather worried about the health of our skin. As a couple, we agreed the best course of action was to be men and to do nothing about it and ignore any symptoms that might arise in the future. Then, after some frank discussion, we compromised and went to the skin doctor for a checkup. Due to work commitments we couldn’t go together, so this tale begins with me sitting there, wifeless in the surgery waiting room, desperately avoiding the flu-infested children frolicking about in pools of mucus near my feet…

After contracting all manner of disease and filth from the carpet vermin, I was called into an office by a small man of Indian descent. He was a jolly fellow and immediately asked me to take my clothes off. Up to this point he had probably never seen a perfectly sculpted naked man, so this was his lucky day. Not mine. The next 10 minutes were undeniably awkward to say the least. If you feel your life is perhaps a little too boring and devoid of excitement, maybe get a small Indian man to touch you all over when you’re just wearing your panties. Maybe it will help you to re-evaluate things and find some purpose. He checked my skin for spots and moles, which apparently can get a little too feisty and begin changing shape, moving around, absorbing appendages and generally taking on a life of their own. He even checked places on my body I’m certain have never seen sunlight at all and were in no danger of contracting any form of skin cancer. We jovially chatted while the procedure was taking place, in a fruitless attempt to make the whole venture less weird. During the invigorating skin check I mentioned a mark on the back of my chiseled, rock-hard calf muscle and I inquired as to its nature. I’d first noticed it in my late teens, and other than it itching from time to time, I’d never thought twice about it, but was still curious.He said it wasn’t cancer but got a little excited and proclaimed he could remove it if I wished and he’d get a biopsy done. This should have been the first warning sign. My General Practitioner, indeed, any doctor I’ve ever been to, never does any work other than stick people with needles and hand out Jelly Beans. I could grow a third arm out of my back and he would have just referred me to the 3-Armed Jacket Store (keeping you warm whilst you get work done 50% faster!) on Main St and told me to live with it. So when this guy said he wanted to start cutting, I should have been worried. During our intimate chatting time throughout which only one of us was naked, it turned out he was a visiting plastic surgeon on his way to getting the coveted “Liposuction Certificate” all great doctors compete for. He had successfully completed 65 fat procedures and needed five more to complete the whole set, which included an autographed copy of Kirstie Alley’s book “Perpetually Bouncing Your Way From Fat to Thin and Back Again: How to harvest your back fat for money.” I laughed and stated the obvious, saying I was unable to help him on his quest for more fatty tissue, after which he suggested perhaps my wife might need some work done? For the first time that day I was glad she wasn’t present. So we agreed that even though the thing on my leg was perfectly harmless, he would remove it, leaving no trace, and would tell me the biopsy results on my next visit. I have to admit, I was a little excited too, since my surgical experience up to this point only involved my own fingerprints deep inside my nasal cavity. If the situation wasn’t weird before, it got real weird now. I was lying there, on his doctory bed thing, and because the offending mark was on the back of my leg, he asked me to turn onto my side, propped up on one elbow, with my leg bent, so now I’m doing poses for women’s lifestyle magazines. Out of nowhere, (like, NOWHERE- the place only had one door as far as I could tell) another Indian gentleman appears, to prep me for my slash and grab. Before he touches any scalpels or gauze, he caters to the important stuff: He walks over to a little stereo system on the desk and pops in a CASSETTE TAPE of elevator music. No CD’s in this backwater place. Picture, if you will, the scene: Two small Indian men fuss about with medical instruments while elevator music plays happily in the background, and I’m lying in a suggestive pose in my underwear on a doctor’s bed. I felt perhaps someone would hand me a cheque afterwards and thank me for my time, and I could expect the November issue to arrive on my doorstep soon. I (seriously) had to look at tumour photos on the walls to keep the smirk off my face, such was the absurdity of the situation, and once again felt extremely glad my wife was absent. But, after some very clean cutting, offending tissue removal and sewing that would make Queen Elizabeth’s seamstress envious, I was back on my feet, and barred from any strenuous physical activity for six weeks, which wasn’t a big ask really.

Fast Forward 6 Weeks and my leg was completely healed, and the doc had been in the right. The thing on my leg had been harmless scar tissue and I was in the clear. Cheese and champagne for everyone. Except for the leaving no-trace bit… NOW the scar on my leg was about 4 times bigger, and itched twice as much. To this day my wife says I should have just left it and sarcastically mentions “that’s healing well” every time she catches a glimpse of the massive bulbous lump hanging off my leg. Oh, and the whole saga happened in Australia. Never should have left Bolivia. At least the doctors over there have a clue and I would have gotten over this flu by now…