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There’s a Tunnel at the End of the Light

2004; Lippincott Williams & Wilkins; Volume: 114; Issue: Supplement Linguagem: Inglês

10.1097/00006534-200410001-00052

1529-4242

Robert M. Goldwyn,

Many years ago I read a piece in Time magazine about a twenty-fifth reunion at one of the Ivy League colleges. Although I have forgotten the name of the school, I do remember that the article mentioned a phenomenon that I thought was unique to me: an occasionally recurring nightmare that I still had homework due. Supposedly, the Time writer said, this is a not unusual dream among those of us who are task driven. Imagine, therefore, my surprise at encountering a variant of this theme last summer in Seville, Spain, at the Chapel of Saint Onofre, where, my guidebook stated, “Legend has it that from time to time a phantom monk appears condemned to say a Mass that he had omitted during his lifetime.”1 Ponder, then, what we plastic surgeons might have to experience in retirement or after death. One of my older colleagues, who had been retired for 3 years, fell victim to the macabre. There he was in Florida at Christmas time, surrounded by his grandchildren. The doorbell rang, and one of the Magi presented him with a subpoena notifying him of a law suit that had been filed a week before the statute of limitations would have taken effect. Legal horror stories aside, imagine yourself 15 years retired, protected, if it is ever possible, by the statute of limitations. You are dozing in the gentle June sun on the veranda of the Hotel Negresco in Nice after a splendid, high-cholesterol lunch. Intruding into your reverie like a mortar shell is Mrs. L. Ways Withyoo, the one who had five revisions of her neck lift for reasons of appeasement rather than need. “Thought you could get away, didn’t you?” “Frankly, Mrs. L. Ways Withyoo, I thought I had.” “As long as I have these things under my neck, I shall stick to you like a barnacle to a shell, like a 6-month-old skin graft to the skull,” she says, pointing to a couple of unobtrusive platysma bands high under the chin. “But you are more than 18 years after your neck lift. I never told you that your improvement would last forever.” “I want my money back,” she retorts with a snarl. “Either that or you reoperate on me now—here!” she adds menacingly. For effect, she also tells you that her son is an attorney and her brother a hired killer. “Operate on you now, here, at the Negresco?” you plead in alarm. “I insist. Think fast, Doc. You ruined my neck, and I’ll ruin your retirement.” You feel yourself perspiring. Your blood pressure rises higher than Mt. Everest. In desperation, you summon the maitre d’. “Philippe. I would like to take this lady—a former patient—into your kitchen. And I would like to use some of your knives. I gave mine to the hospital when I retired.” “But certainly, Dr. Everworry,” the nonplused Philippe responds with an understanding smile. “Our staff is ready to help you, but what may I ask will you do for anesthesia?” “A good point, Philippe,” you say, grateful that you had the wisdom to go to the Negresco. “I think I shall use Cognac,” marveling at your ability to think under duress. “May I recommend Courvoisier 1928? It is only 200,000 francs a half-bottle.” You moan and reconsider your choice of anesthesia. Mrs. Withyoo, however, has other thoughts as she immediately grasps your neck in a vise that any Olympic wrestler would be proud to duplicate. Trembling you awake, feeling your own neck. Your wife is looking at you quizzically. “Are you all right, dear?” “Oh, yes. It must have been something I ate.” Still dazed, you ask your wife whether she has just seen a buxom American lady with gigantic hands. “No, dear,” your wife replies carefully, certain, if ever she was not, that she will have to pass her final years with a madman. “Oh, incidentally,” she relates, “a few minutes ago I met in the ladies’ room of all places someone from our home town who knows you; she said you did a face lift on her about 20 years ago—dear, why are you leaving? Where are you running to? You can’t jump into the sea without your bathing suit!”