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CONVERSATIONS
WITH DR. SCALPEL: A SOMEWHAT ACCURATE TRANSCRIPT
True story, recounted here to the best of my recollection.
CAST:
DR. SCALPEL:
Uptight gastroenterologist with little confidence in his abilities (and
for good reason). Lacks self-esteem, and tries to compensate by
bullying patients. Absurdly average appearance – picture a
just-past-middle-age white guy, skinny, bald, thick glasses; basically
an accountant straight out of Central Casting, but somehow miscast in
the
role of a doctor.
OUR PROTAGONIST: Mild-mannered
young man, bespectacled and bookish, yet quietly dashing.
Articulate and witty, in spite of his physical state – his health has
been deteriorating due to an unknown malady involving infection and
inflammation of the lower intestine, his mental well-being hindered by
the agonizing ennui of hospitalization.
BARISTA: Able
sidekick of OUR
PROTAGONIST. Quick of thought, sharp of tongue, chic of
appearance.
THE PROFESSOR: Father
of OUR PROTAGONIST. Patient and courteous, though with a
sarcastic streak that cuts through when conversing with fools and
imbeciles. Eternally wise and, like OUR PROTAGONIST, quietly
dashing.
SETTING:
A bleak, fluorescent-lit room in a mammoth hospital in the Midwest of
the United States. Sun streams through the windows, which
look out onto an expansive sea of asphalt (i.e. a rooftop). On
the walls are pastel fish frolicking along the top of deep blue
wallpaper. Various machines populate the room, offering constant
beeps and occasional shrieks, and casting a sinister glow from LEDs
signaling unknown messages. In short, your typical hospital
room.
SCENE ONE:
OUR PROTAGONIST lies on the hospital bed, the back of which has been
raised to a 20 degree angle. BARISTA sits on a chair to his left;
DR. SCALPEL stands in the corner, to OUR PROTAGONIST’S right.
DR. SCALPEL: You’re sick. Your colon failed. Your
medicine failed you. I’m going to have to remove your colon;
that’s the only solution.
OUR PROTAGONIST: No, actually, I'd prefer to keep it, if it all
possible.
DR. SCALPEL: Sorry. Only solution. Medical treatments have
failed. Gotta cut it out. You just don’t understand how
sick you are, see, but I’m the doctor, so shut up and listen to me,
because I know what I’m doing, and I know that when things are broken,
you have to remove them. You know, it’s entirely possible to shit
in a bag for your entire adult life and be a normal person and be
active and do all the things you want to do except for certain things
that no one would ever want to do anyway, like swim or ever wear a
shirt that's not incredibly baggy or sleep on your stomach.
OUR PROTAGONIST: No, really, I'd rather keep it. I've become fond
of it and rather it not be sliced out. Isn’t that, um, a pretty
drastic
solution? Shouldn’t we think about other things, too? Like,
say, something that doesn’t require the removal of a major body
part? Also, my definition of “normal life” does not in any way,
shape or form include passing all of my digested food products into a
plastic bag adhered to my abdominal area.
DR. SCALPEL: Screw you. Stop questioning me. I’m a
good doctor! Now hold still while I cut you open and take out the
broken colon. You won’t feel a thing. Now which one is the
colon? Is that it . . . or is that the spleen? Or the gall
bladder? You know what, I’m just going to recommend that we take
out pretty much everything in here; most of it is superfluous, anyway.
BARISTA: Slow down, there Doc. [At this point, BARISTA launches
into an incredibly eloquent and nuanced assessment of OUR PROTAGONIST’S
health and future, offering a succinct rebuttal to DR. SCALPEL’S
opinion, thoroughly and convincingly demonstrating his gross
incompetence. The exact details, sadly, were unrecorded and were
of such profound wisdom that they are impossible to recreate.] In
short, I question your abilities, and suggest you re-think your
strategy, or, failing that, go jump off a dock into alligator and/or
python-infested waters.
DR. SCALPEL: Now see here, I’m the doctor. You think you’re
so smart, but I’m the doctor. And he needs his sphincter or
appendix or whatever removed. Stop questioning me. You
think you’re so smart. Shut up! Just shut up! I’m the
doctor! I’m compassionate! I know what I’m doing!
Can’t we all just get along? Here, hold this clipboard while I
sharpen my scalpel.
THE PROFESSOR (enters the room): Excuse me, what seems to be the
problem? I thought perchance I could assist this young gentleman
in his pursuit of better health, but it seems that there is a
commotion. What foul deeds are you undertaking, good doctor?
DR. SCALPEL: He’s sick, see. Got Sick Syndrome. And I’m
such a schmuck that I can’t understand why he would possibly object to
my demand that he carefully remove his colon and throw it into this
here wastebasket like a good boy.
THE PROFESSOR: How absurd, my good sir! Have you not
considered other treatments for his maladies, such as utilizing the
latest medical advances, including these “pills” and “intravenous
drugs” of which I have heard so much, which
have utterly amazing properties, among them the mysterious
“antibiotics,” and which have recently shown tremendous promise in
curing illnesses both painful and perplexing? Truly, our modern
times are amazing! I encourage you to examine the medical
literature posthaste, or to consult with your esteemed colleagues,
several of whom have entered this very room to converse with this
handsome young man, and have consistently voiced the opinion that to
remove body parts or to perform such ghastly operations as those which
you suggest would be unwise, considering the many alternatives
available.
DR. SCALPEL: Shut up! I’m the doctor! Don’t you dare
question me! And screw you for using big words! Just
because I don’t know what I’m saying doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m
talking about! Here, hold this flashlight while I cut ’im up and
get rid of this putrid, useless coil-o-crap.
THE PROFESSOR: I will not, and you shall not! Withdraw your
dagger, good sir, and leave this room at once!
BARISTA: Yeah! Go take a look at Colons of the World and How to Treat
Problems Within Them, Volume IX, pages 453-472, where you will
several useful case studies similar to OUR PROTAGONIST’S illness.
I have memorized this entire textbook, and can assure you that your
approach to this case is as illogical and dangerous as pitching a tent
in quicksand. You like that simile? I’m trying to be more
folksy, like Molly Ivins.
OUR PROTAGONIST: Yeah! I want to keep my colon. I want to
keep it in one piece, attached the whole way down, ending at my rectum,
as it does now. It may be inflamed. It may be red and
swollen and even a bit battered and bloody, but gosh darn it, it’s the
only colon I’ve got, and I’d sure miss it if it were gone. Please
don’t take it from me, mister. It’s not in such bad shape.
I’ll treat it well. It’s just misunderstood, but if you give it a
chance, and some drugs, and then some even stronger drugs, it will grow
up to be a thriving, happy colon.
DR. SCALPEL: No! Cut!
DR. SCALPEL quickly draws the curtain around OUR PROTAGONIST’S
bed. Backlit by the harsh fluorescent light, DR. SCALPEL casts a
“Psycho”-like shadow as he lunges for OUR PROTAGONIST’S abdomen,
scalpel poised high, ready to slice. OUR PROTAGONIST, thinking
quickly, lassoes DR. SCALPEL’S arm with the IV tubing tethered to his
arm, jerking the knife away before it can do any harm. THE
PROFESSOR and BARISTA wrestle DR. SCALPEL to the ground, tie him up
with gauze strips and tourniquets, and shove him into a basket marked
“Soiled Linens.” A passing nurse takes the basket to the end of
the hall and dumps the contents down the massive laundry chute.
A
few hours later, DR. SCALPEL’S replacement arrives. She
is brilliant, compassionate and otherwise the ideal doctor. She
is
also, coincidentally, the same age as OUR PROTAGONIST, and
devestatingly beautiful, and incredibly witty, and she and OUR
PROTAGONIST fall madly in love and live happily, gastrointestinal
problem-free, ever after.
FIN.
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