This was all too familiar. An unsuspecting patient laid on the operating table under general anaesthesia, ready to undergo life-changing surgery in the expert hands of Dr Geoffrey Payne. I never understood why people would go in for his “miraculous” extreme weight loss program. I guess that’s the power of modern advertising and its catchy slogan—No Payne, No GainTM—backed by expertly altered before-after photos turning morbidly obese models into their anorexically slim equivalent.
“Knife,” he said in his typically detached tone.
I handed him the scalpel and he got to work. It was just a routine operation to him, one he had performed, with my help, countless times before, boasting a 100% success rate, or so claimed the clever ads. As always, he made a vertical incision along the middle of the chest, cutting through layers of skin, fat, nerves, muscles—anything in his way, really—before sawing the sternum—the fun part, he called it—and roughly prying open the ribcage to expose the underlying organs.
Meanwhile, I tended to the basic duties: passing him instruments he could barely name, wiping blood splatters and sweat from his face, and monitoring the patient’s—or rather, the victim’s—heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels—vital signs he dutifully ignored.
The electrocardiogram beeped steadily, a reassuring indication that the patient remained in a stable condition—the only miracle of the procedure—as we reached its climax: the removal of all the organs he deemed non-vital. I passed him the “tongs” and he crudely extracted the gallbladder, liver, esophagus, spleen, pancreas, and kidneys. Normally, that would be the end of it. Not this time.
“Ravier, I’m also gonna remove the heart.”
Even after all these years, he still couldn’t say my name correctly. It’s Javier, with a J, like Jalapeño. ¡Cabrón!
“Dr Payne, with all due respect, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Calls himself a surgeon… nada, more like a butcher.
“I know we’ve never attempted this before, but she wants maximum results and fast, right? What’s the worst that could happen anyway?”
Dios mío! Please tell me that’s a rhetorical question…
“The patient dies. That would be pretty bad, wouldn’t it?”
“Extreme weight loss calls for extreme measures, Ravier.”
That condescending tone again!
“How about taking extreme care instead?”
“I’m getting rid of the heart!”
I grabbed his arm, just in time.
“Stop! You’ve already removed most of her presumably non–vital organs. That’s a whopping 38-kilo weight loss! I’m pretty sure she’ll be quite happy with that.”
If she survives.
“Fine, fine. Maybe you’re right. Let’s leave the heart, for now.”
Let’s leave it, for good.
“Alright, close her up!” And he walked out.
I felt deeply relieved when he had left the room, but that didn’t last long. As I “closed her up,” I noticed that something, besides nearly everything in her chest, was missing: the heart. He must have mistaken it for the liver, again. Oh well.