Surgery Pals

A sapphic medfet tale

After the initial shock of the not-so-unexpected news, Cindy was getting ready in the preoperative holding area. With the help of Bethany, a friendly veteran nurse, she was undressing -- piece by piece -- and passing each item of clothing to the helpful lady.

"The socks too, darling. Here in this little bag."

"I hope the bag is airtight," joked the girl trying to hide her anxiety.

The typical and informal look of the young woman who only wore dark jeans, comfortable t-shirts and Vans, almost as a uniform, gave way to a simple teal green surgical apron (sparsely tied at the back), a cap that Bethany helped her to adjust and a pair of feet covers that allowed a greenish tattoo on the left foot to be seen through the transparency of the material. Asked about a list of known allergies and experiences with previous surgeries, the distressed girl almost automatically answered no to all of them and signed some papers that she also didn't bother to read. In a brief moment of anticipated vulnerability, the soon to be operated patient looked into the experienced nurse's eyes as if awaiting some kind of guidance.

"What now?"

"Are 'we' ready, sweetheart?"

"Yeah... I think 'we' are."

The half-naked brunette was told to take some pills and to lie down on the bed while other people came into the room to take her to the operating theater. As the gurney was wheeled through corridors she had never seen other than on sets from medical dramas, Cindy felt like taking part in some kind of endless procession. One of the guys pulling the trolley (a strong black guy whose forearm was thicker than her leg) wanted to break the ice:

"Cool tattoo! What does it mean?"

"It means we do a lot of shit in this life."

For the stretcher bearer, just a reason for a discreet laugh; for the girl, the memory of the (now ex) boyfriend who had sex like a wild mule and who -- for that reason -- caused the bleeding in her uterus that this damned surgery will supposedly fix.

Having arrived in the operating room, in the blink of an eye, the slight woman was transferred to the operating table by the same strong arms that carried her through the white corridors of the hospital. As other people came and went, Bethany said goodbye to the patient with a brief caress on the hand. Deep down, she might have wanted to give Cindy a kiss on the forehead or something similar but preferred not to add a dramatic touch to a situation that was commonplace for herself but, for the anxious beauty, an unfamiliar experience.

Another team quickly attached electrodes to her, arranging the now naked body on the table; brought in equipment, and fiddled with monitors that blinked and beeped. As the medication took effect, she felt the arms being positioned apart as in a crucifixion ritual. In the left wrist, a quick and accurate needle prick made way for new drugs to enter. They asked the patient to rest her head comfortably on the small pillow but, by this point, the slightly groggy girl could not have done otherwise. In that position, all she could see were masked heads passing back and forth. One of those heads moved closer. Before her eyes, dazzled by the ambient lights and the effect of the relaxants, the image of a female face with pink mask and cap formed up close.

"Cindy, right? Everything okay?" with smiling eyes.

"Hmm... I think so. Are you the surgeon?"

"No, I'm team. Sheila. Nervous?"

"A little. New to me, you know?"

"Don't worry. You'll be fine! Did they explain to you what the procedure will be like?"

"Yeah, but I didn't pay much attention. I just want it to be over."

"Did they tell you about the part where the students train with you while you're out?"

"What?!"

"Ha-ha! Just kidding! So you're a surgery newbie?"

"You bet! And I'm nervous as hell!"

"Relax! Nothing strange will happen."

"Will you stay with me during the operation?"

"Sure, sweetie! During and a little after. Do you want me to film it?"

"Filming? And is it allowed?"

"Sort of. But they won't care."

"Okay, but--"

Before the conversation could continue, a gloved hand placed a light fixture as large and intense as a flying saucer hovering above. New voices were now talking around the room. The anesthesiologist sitting behind her head began injecting a white liquid in the punctured vein while holding a clear mask over the delicate face. Feeling the legs being placed in a position easily recognizable from past gynecological exams, Sheila's voice was heard once again:

"Here comes the milk! See ya later, Cindy!"

For centuries, physicists and philosophers have debated the nature of time; but what happens during anesthesia is notoriously particular. Like some kind of time and space travel, Cindy's eyelids slowly closed in that scene and opened in the recovery room. The semi-awake patient thought that a few minutes had passed while she remained motionless; she was now, in fact, two floors away from a situation that had taken place three hours ago. The bed was different, as were her clothes. No longer the cap, the feet covers or the embarrassing apron. Another team moved around, arranging a tray with food for the girl who had been fasting for several hours. A beautiful young woman approached with an inviting smile and familiar eyes.

"See? It was super smooth!"

"Sheila? Were you there the whole time?"

"Yup! You were a good girl. Everything turned out fine."

"Is everything resolved? When am I going home?"

"Everything's fine. You're leaving early tomorrow. Do you want me to help you with the food?"

"That's fine, thanks. Don't you have to go?"

"No problem. My shift is over. We can gossip a little."

The two girls -- who seemed to be of similar ages and backgrounds -- talked for long minutes, exchanging experiences, contacts, many fears and a few dreams. Seeing Sheila that Cindy was still drowsy due to the effect of the medication, decided to let her new friend sleep.

"Gotta go, sleepy beauty!"

"Wait! And the filming? Did you do it?"

"Of course! And I've even uploaded it to YouTube."

"Sheila!"

"Ha-ha! It seems like I love torturing you, huh? Sleep. See ya."

Sheila hadn't even left the room when she saw the girl fall asleep.

Since it was a simple procedure, Cindy woke up the next morning ready to leave. As she had arrived at the hospital anxious for the operation, the nervous young woman not even remembered to bring an extra change of clothes; wearing the same items from the day before. The recovering girl carefully zipped up her pants, put on the t-shirt that now covered the marks left by the electrodes, put on the socks that were left in the bag, tied the worn-out shoes and was taken to the hospital door in a wheelchair just as the protocol demands. In her pocket, the inseparable phone. Outside, a sister -- the only relative in the city, was waiting somewhat disinterested.

For the next two or three days, all the newly operated woman did was rest from the procedure, calm down from the shock, follow medical advice and wind down. The repaired uterus became a personal symbol of a failed relationship that had finally ended on that operating table. The sister -- a fucked up human being -- rarely asked her about the procedure, recovery, or well-being. After being cooped up in pajamas for two days, she decided to gradually resume regular life. Having never spent so much time without using the ever-present phone, Cindy checked the (anxiety) device. Among the dozens of unread messages, one caught her eye: Sheila's. She heated up a cup of cheap cocoa in the microwave, sat on the sofa and texted the newly acquired friend.

"Hey! You there?"

"Sup, sweetie?" answering just a few minutes later.

"Are you at work?"

"Not now. I'll be in at four today. Are you okay?"

"Yep! Better than I imagined. New uterus, new life. I guess..."

"Does that include that jerk you told me about?"

"Totally!"

"He-he! What about your sister?"

"Well, maybe this would require a new surgery."

"If you need another surgery I'll be right there by your side," with a laughing emoji.

"You were so nice to me!"

"Oh, sweetheart! You're easy to like. Maybe I saw a little bit of myself in you."

"Listen, I'll call you later so we can talk better."

"Sure! I'll be home at eleven."

"Okay! See you then."

"xx"

Again, like those mysteries that defy physics and philosophy, a new temporal anomaly occurred that day: those hours that separated the initial exchange of messages between the two girls and the moment of the phone call later dragged on for what seemed like centuries. While Cindy spent the rest of the day devouring all of Sheila's social media posts and photos; her friend viewed each surgery she participated in that shift as a torturous eternity. As one waited in bed, browsing endless series, counting the seconds to make that call; the other arrived home, kicking off the sweaty shoes and ran to the sofa with a can of soda in one hand and the phone in the other. Seeing the fervor of the two girls, Chronos -- the God of Time -- poured out his mercy: it was eleven thirty.

"Yo!"

"Hey!"

"How was your day?"

"Great! And you? Taking your meds?"

"I'm a good girl, remember?"

"You're more than good. You're sweet!"

The sugary conversation goes on for more than an hour. Other experiences exchanged, other fears, other dreams. Plans to meet were made, short questions with long answers, shared tastes, little secrets and big obvious things. They talked about the annoying sister; how Bethany stole her colleagues' lunch at the hospital. The call was about to finally end when Cindy remembered:

"Hey! What about the video of my surgery?"

"I thought you forgot about that."

"Was it really embarrassing?"

"On the contrary. Oscar-worthy!" with a spicy giggle.

"Send it to me."

"A sec..."

"Oh my!" opening the video after about thirty seconds of downloading.

After those days of turnarounds in the life of the girl with the wounded womb, what was shown in that video would lead her to experience a feeling she had not known. Yet. Amateurishly captured on the friend's phone was the record of the most vulnerable moment in her life. It was an image of herself that would never be provided by the immediacy of the mirror or obtained by the casualness of a selfie. The exposed body, fragile and defenseless, being manipulated by strangers in poses, perspectives and angles that had never crossed her mind -- nor eyes. Starting from the moment Cindy's eyes give in, the entire anesthesia procedure was recorded in every detail: the gaze lost in the infinity of unconsciousness as the sedatives take effect, with the transparent mask being held against the delicate face. For a brief moment, the anesthesiologist removes the gassing apparatus from the patient, who is now completely blacked out. As the jaw drops due to the force of gravity, the meaty lips begin to slowly and gently detach; an airway device is introduced into her mouth. With the return of the same mask (now fogged up by the young woman's breathing), it would be a matter of seconds until the Propofol completes its function. At that moment, she is completely (and officially) sedated and anesthetized.

Sheila's camera still recorded the entire intubation process: with the mask and airway device out of the way, the doctor held the back of the slack head (tilting it slightly back) with his right hand while, with the left one, an endoscope is put into the girl's open mouth; the tracheal tube is inserted down her throat. Having freed both hands to connect the unconscious female to the breathing apparatus, the patient's head slowly rolls to the side until it is caught again by the skilled doctor who puts it in place. At the height of Cindy's vulnerability, she does not even breathe on her own -- a machine does it. As a closing ritual, the airway tube was fixed with tape that zigzagged across the cheeks, chin, and nose. With two smaller pieces of same tape, the slightly watery eyes (which refused to close completely) were held in place. Satisfied with the numbers and sounds emitted by the monitors, the anesthetist -- like a kind of priest -- entrusted the young woman's body to the other members of the team. This was the longest picture in the video and the one that most impressed the girl who was watching it (in awe) for the first time: the expressionless face (or maybe with some kind of expression we haven't invented a name for yet) with a tube tied to the half open mouth, the upper teeth barely visible as if they were delicately biting down on the airway device, the tongue hanging out to the side trying to escape from the corner of the lips, her eyelashes squeezed by the pieces of semi-transparent tape.

With slightly shaky images, the frame opens to show the powerless body as a whole. The palms of the hands point upwards with an oximeter placed on one finger. Several people moving limbs here and there, arranging, positioning and fixing things, preparing surgical instruments, pieces of surgical sheets. The well-shaped legs, previously positioned on a type of support, are finally prepared for the procedure. The foot covers are removed, causing her suspended limp feet (still a little sweaty and with little marks from the socks) to dangle softly like fruit on a treetop. The inexpensive tattoo briefly displayed in the middle of the operating room as it was a painting in an exhibition. As soon as the legs were being draped, the video abruptly ended as Sheila took over her role in the ceremony.

"Sheila..."

"Yes?"

"It's... it's me!"

"Yes, sweetie. It's you!"

"It's so... so..."

"Shocking? Bothersome?"

"Yeah! No! It's so... so... hot!"

"But you're hot, babe."

"I mean the situation... me... my body... so fragile... so... vulnerable!"

"I know, Cindy. I know. It's fucking hot!"

"And you were there. With me."

"Yes, taking care of you."

"I know but do you also find it hot?"

"I do. A lot!"

"Sheila..."

"What?"

That night, the final minutes of their conversation took an unexpected turn. Their words took paths that are unnecessary to describe even to the most vanilla minds.

Throughout the week the two friends spoke every day according to Sheila's free time. On the first weekend they met, talked, laughed, cried, had fun. In the second week -- when Cindy returned to work -- the duo continued to talk every day. The following weekend they met again, talked, laughed, cried, had fun and had sex. For the next eight weeks the partners continued to do these same things. In their hottest moments together, the surgery video was always a central element in their fantasies. In the ninth week plans were already being made.

The two girls who led their lives with as many doubts as dreams, didn't care about classifying what was being experienced; frustrations, projects and bodies were being shared between them. Entire nights passed in a kind of communion as if they had known each other since forever. Obscene amounts of ice cream, juvenile jokes, unspeakable gossip and sexual discoveries filled their days.

One day during the tenth week, when the couple were already habitually sleeping at each other's houses, Sheila complained:

"Sweetheart, my stomach hurts so much! Like really bad!"

"But you're running a fever! And I thought it was gas..."

"I'll get to the hospital early tomorrow to see this. I hope it's not what I think it is."

"Appendicitis!" said both girls in chorus.

The next day, Cindy receives a call from Sheila:

"Cindy..."

"So?"

"Appendicitis. I'll have to go under the knife."

"What a bummer! When?"

"Like... right now."

"And I can't even be with you!?"

"Nope! There's no time. You can come and get me later."

"Who's going to film you for me?" joking.

"Bethany will. I've already arranged with her."

"Really?"

"Yep! And she will send you the video."

"Ha! We're going to be surgery pals."

"But I bet my video will be hotter."

"Why?!"

"Because my appendix is ​​going to be removed through my vagina."

"No way!"

"Seriously! It's the technique they use now."

"But will it--"

"Cindy, gotta go now! See you later."

"Sheila?"

"What, sweetie?"

"I... I... love u..." saying it for the first time.

"Love you too!" after three seconds in a whimpering voice.

A new temporal anomaly awaited Cindy as the next few hours seemed like a lifetime. After approximately five or six eternities later, a notification arrived on her phone: Bethany had sent a video. It was like her own video but with a different lead actress. Same process, even the same anesthesiologist. An airway tube, electrodes, mask, wires, the naked body, unconsciousness written on the face, the machine breathing for the beautiful girl. Similarly, filming is stopped before the actual surgical procedure begins. Due to the circumstances, there was no time to feel horny but she was certain this video would surely serve to spice up future games. The concerned woman rushed to the hospital to see the most important person in her life at that moment. Upon arrival, a second encounter with old Bethany happened.

"Bethany! May I see Sheila?"

"Honey, it's not going to happen..."

"Please, no!" with tears rolling down her face as she sensed bad news.

"Sheila had an embolism during surgery."

"Please, no!"

"We did everything, everything that we could."

"Please, no!" with a choked, almost inaudible voice.

"I'm really sorry, Cindy!"

"Can I see her?"

"You'll be able to see her later. Do you know any relatives of hers?"

"She had no one," said but thinking, "besides me. For ten weeks."

"You can get her stuff from the pre-op room."

"And you can have her lunch," walking away.

She went to a room to collect her friend's clothes, including the socks, in a plastic bag.

The hospital staff took it upon themselves to find Sheila's family, two thousand miles away. At the funeral, two days later, Cindy was just an outsider among her friend's relatives and co-workers. Under the disapproving gaze of those present, she took out the phone and briefly filmed the body of the beautiful young woman in the coffin. The grieving girl then turned and went away. All that was left of her friend was three videos, a pair of socks in a plastic bag and a wound that no surgery could ever fix.

"At least now I have two videos of you and you only have one of mine," giggling inside as tears washed her face.