WoundedBird
September 1st, 2010, 05:36
- I stood there in the operating room, my head reeling. I had done this many times before. Betadine, circumstraint, clamp, scalpel, sutures just in case. Dr. Cox seems so confident, he loves his work. I respect him...I don't know. Sometimes I'm not so sure. -
Dr. Knox enters the operating room. He's grinning. He lathers-up, rinses, lathers again. After all, he wouldn't want any pathogens creeping into the circumcision wound. That's Dr. Cox for you, always thinking of the children. He's a man of average stature, fair hair and a sunny disposition. His own kids call him "Dr. Smiley." He's always smiling. That's Dr. Knox for you, ever cheerful. He knows the result he wants, high and tight, clean and dry. The Jews would agree, Brit Milah is a sacred covenant. A child's body, after all, is the canvas upon which we paint our wishes. A hygienic entity is one step from God. The doctor gets it. Besides, tradition illustrates that an act of solidarity is always beneficial.
I am a nurse at a public hospital. I once had a coworker, one who did not work in pediatrics, who expressed to me the most curious opinion. She said "A purloined prepuce is ecstasy wasted and the potential for bodily integrity discarded." She seemed a disturbed individual. Imagine, a grown woman so concerned about a baby boy's genitals. There's something creepy about that. Good thing she prefers cardiology.
The Jews know that the flesh of a man is the sweet ambrosia we offer in ceremony to God. The Muslims get it too. A knife to the flesh, the excision of sensation; that is the way of the healthy. This child is Christian, but he's also American. He has assaulted the world in several ways. First, he was conceived by filthy copulation. Second, he contains the tools of sexual depravity. Third, well, he's male. In America the masses appreciate the allure of perfect symmetry. No religious excuse necessary. Today it is a medical procedure. Hygiene and science are all the dogma we need. Certainly symmetry is not guaranteed, but an effort for perfection pleases the Lord. Sometimes evolution makes mistakes. The foreskin is one example.
When the doctor carries the pink succulent in like a sacrificial lamb, the babe with translucent skin seems a perfect offering. He says he prefers using soft cotton restraints. Dr. Knox is a warm heart. This little fella's named Henry. His mother asked for low and loose, but we know what Dr. Knox prefers. While analyzing Henry, the doctor decides the incision point. Now he is omnipotent, the infant can offer no caveat. The action of immediate concern is that of tearing the prepuce from the glans, there exists a synechiae, a connective tissue. This penis is sealed shut like a rose bud. The doctor grasps the tip of the foreskin and yanks it back, it tears like a fingernail. First mission accomplished. The infant becomes rigid and emits the most piercing scream I've ever heard; that's saying a lot in my line of work. I wanted with all my being to snatch him up and run. But I have a career to think of.
The tender pulp of Henry's inner penis is exposed. It's oozing blood and other secretions. Dr. Knox grasps the penis, brings the clamp down and lays it upon the bleeding glans. The frigid sting of the steel causes the infant's eyes to widen and he releases another shriek. The doctor, his eyes glassy with necessity, screws the clamp tight. He's crushing the tissue with thousands of pounds of pressure; this way death is usually prevented. An occasional hemorrhage resulting in death will be listed as simply that. Upon application of the scalpel, the skin slides off, a piece of sushi. Only gurgles now emit from the orifice which minutes ago trumpeted a piercing protest. Catatonia is the soundest sleep of all.
The doctor instructs me not to discard the foreskin, it can be used to help others. The skin will expand in a laboratory and be grafted unto burn victims and other unfortunates. I comply, the prepuce is ushered away by another nurse. The pink baby body is now an intense fuchsia. The indigo veins are quite visible through the translucent skin, he looks like a perfect dumpling. And like a breathing hunk of ham, he may be flesh and blood, but his body is not his own. "As sentient beings we have the right to rule, we can sculpt our children into anything we want. And if they dare complain, remind them, if it we're not for you they'd have never been born." That's what Dr. Knox tells parents as he presents to them the consent forms.
Sometimes I wonder if the The Procedure is ethical. It has been said that the prepuce is the center of male sexual sensation, Meissner's Corpuscles enervate the triangle of mucosa deemed the Frenular Delta. I myself have learned to follow rationality; fine touch is overrated. Besides, Dr. Knox wouldn't steer us wrong, how in the world could he sleep? No, everything is all right. When I ponder how a procedure which removes sexual parts from a neonate could possibly be so benign, let alone beneficial, I remember a conversation I had with the doctor's associate, Dr. Fischer.
Dr. Fischer told me about a friend of his who lost two fingers in a gardening accident as a child. The limbs were gone: nerves, veins, skin...all were severed and lost. But he experienced the most remarkable phenomenon; he could still feel the fingers! Indeed, he now calls them his "Lil' Phantom Twins." Why, he claimed he could even use them! That's life for you, always presenting miracles. He said, in fact, a three-fingered hand is more efficient than one with five. Phantom fingers are quite agile. And of course, now that he is missing those fingers, his chances of suffering from a hang-nail or fracture are substantially reduced. Due to this information, Dr. Fischer recently gathered the gall, and had amputated the ring and pinkie fingers from his right hand. Now he is just like his friend. He told me he wished he'd had them removed long ago. It makes perfect sense. And even if the procedure can be said to cause harm, we are simply preparing the poor dear for a world which is more damaging than any scalpel or will to denude.
I fear I've been off topic again, assuaging the cloying fears which drag me down, the bane of many I am sure. What's intuition for when perception is better served by the intellect of others? My mother always said, "If I say the sky is green and you can see that it is blue, it's green." She was a wise woman. I decided on the green sky long ago. Every time I express any of my doubts, I am surrounded by an array of blinding smiles. They have a talent for coercion, those bright white teeth and twinkling eyes.
Dr. Knox is in the process of removing the clamp at this very moment. The tiny baby's organ is a delicate tulip in full bloom, only with most of it's petals removed. The infant's eyes are half-mast, he looks most mild now; the tranquility of surrender attends to him like cherubim. The doctor looks on, still smiling. He tilts his head and sighs. Another job well done; not an increment of glans caught in the melee this time. And not a peep from me, the doctor's cynical subordinate. No, I simply look on and sigh as well. Mother always said, "The meek shall inherit the Earth." I'm still waiting, I don't know. Sometimes I'm not so sure.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/spiraldarkseraphim/blog?bID=503989559#ixzz0yGz348a5
Dr. Knox enters the operating room. He's grinning. He lathers-up, rinses, lathers again. After all, he wouldn't want any pathogens creeping into the circumcision wound. That's Dr. Cox for you, always thinking of the children. He's a man of average stature, fair hair and a sunny disposition. His own kids call him "Dr. Smiley." He's always smiling. That's Dr. Knox for you, ever cheerful. He knows the result he wants, high and tight, clean and dry. The Jews would agree, Brit Milah is a sacred covenant. A child's body, after all, is the canvas upon which we paint our wishes. A hygienic entity is one step from God. The doctor gets it. Besides, tradition illustrates that an act of solidarity is always beneficial.
I am a nurse at a public hospital. I once had a coworker, one who did not work in pediatrics, who expressed to me the most curious opinion. She said "A purloined prepuce is ecstasy wasted and the potential for bodily integrity discarded." She seemed a disturbed individual. Imagine, a grown woman so concerned about a baby boy's genitals. There's something creepy about that. Good thing she prefers cardiology.
The Jews know that the flesh of a man is the sweet ambrosia we offer in ceremony to God. The Muslims get it too. A knife to the flesh, the excision of sensation; that is the way of the healthy. This child is Christian, but he's also American. He has assaulted the world in several ways. First, he was conceived by filthy copulation. Second, he contains the tools of sexual depravity. Third, well, he's male. In America the masses appreciate the allure of perfect symmetry. No religious excuse necessary. Today it is a medical procedure. Hygiene and science are all the dogma we need. Certainly symmetry is not guaranteed, but an effort for perfection pleases the Lord. Sometimes evolution makes mistakes. The foreskin is one example.
When the doctor carries the pink succulent in like a sacrificial lamb, the babe with translucent skin seems a perfect offering. He says he prefers using soft cotton restraints. Dr. Knox is a warm heart. This little fella's named Henry. His mother asked for low and loose, but we know what Dr. Knox prefers. While analyzing Henry, the doctor decides the incision point. Now he is omnipotent, the infant can offer no caveat. The action of immediate concern is that of tearing the prepuce from the glans, there exists a synechiae, a connective tissue. This penis is sealed shut like a rose bud. The doctor grasps the tip of the foreskin and yanks it back, it tears like a fingernail. First mission accomplished. The infant becomes rigid and emits the most piercing scream I've ever heard; that's saying a lot in my line of work. I wanted with all my being to snatch him up and run. But I have a career to think of.
The tender pulp of Henry's inner penis is exposed. It's oozing blood and other secretions. Dr. Knox grasps the penis, brings the clamp down and lays it upon the bleeding glans. The frigid sting of the steel causes the infant's eyes to widen and he releases another shriek. The doctor, his eyes glassy with necessity, screws the clamp tight. He's crushing the tissue with thousands of pounds of pressure; this way death is usually prevented. An occasional hemorrhage resulting in death will be listed as simply that. Upon application of the scalpel, the skin slides off, a piece of sushi. Only gurgles now emit from the orifice which minutes ago trumpeted a piercing protest. Catatonia is the soundest sleep of all.
The doctor instructs me not to discard the foreskin, it can be used to help others. The skin will expand in a laboratory and be grafted unto burn victims and other unfortunates. I comply, the prepuce is ushered away by another nurse. The pink baby body is now an intense fuchsia. The indigo veins are quite visible through the translucent skin, he looks like a perfect dumpling. And like a breathing hunk of ham, he may be flesh and blood, but his body is not his own. "As sentient beings we have the right to rule, we can sculpt our children into anything we want. And if they dare complain, remind them, if it we're not for you they'd have never been born." That's what Dr. Knox tells parents as he presents to them the consent forms.
Sometimes I wonder if the The Procedure is ethical. It has been said that the prepuce is the center of male sexual sensation, Meissner's Corpuscles enervate the triangle of mucosa deemed the Frenular Delta. I myself have learned to follow rationality; fine touch is overrated. Besides, Dr. Knox wouldn't steer us wrong, how in the world could he sleep? No, everything is all right. When I ponder how a procedure which removes sexual parts from a neonate could possibly be so benign, let alone beneficial, I remember a conversation I had with the doctor's associate, Dr. Fischer.
Dr. Fischer told me about a friend of his who lost two fingers in a gardening accident as a child. The limbs were gone: nerves, veins, skin...all were severed and lost. But he experienced the most remarkable phenomenon; he could still feel the fingers! Indeed, he now calls them his "Lil' Phantom Twins." Why, he claimed he could even use them! That's life for you, always presenting miracles. He said, in fact, a three-fingered hand is more efficient than one with five. Phantom fingers are quite agile. And of course, now that he is missing those fingers, his chances of suffering from a hang-nail or fracture are substantially reduced. Due to this information, Dr. Fischer recently gathered the gall, and had amputated the ring and pinkie fingers from his right hand. Now he is just like his friend. He told me he wished he'd had them removed long ago. It makes perfect sense. And even if the procedure can be said to cause harm, we are simply preparing the poor dear for a world which is more damaging than any scalpel or will to denude.
I fear I've been off topic again, assuaging the cloying fears which drag me down, the bane of many I am sure. What's intuition for when perception is better served by the intellect of others? My mother always said, "If I say the sky is green and you can see that it is blue, it's green." She was a wise woman. I decided on the green sky long ago. Every time I express any of my doubts, I am surrounded by an array of blinding smiles. They have a talent for coercion, those bright white teeth and twinkling eyes.
Dr. Knox is in the process of removing the clamp at this very moment. The tiny baby's organ is a delicate tulip in full bloom, only with most of it's petals removed. The infant's eyes are half-mast, he looks most mild now; the tranquility of surrender attends to him like cherubim. The doctor looks on, still smiling. He tilts his head and sighs. Another job well done; not an increment of glans caught in the melee this time. And not a peep from me, the doctor's cynical subordinate. No, I simply look on and sigh as well. Mother always said, "The meek shall inherit the Earth." I'm still waiting, I don't know. Sometimes I'm not so sure.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/spiraldarkseraphim/blog?bID=503989559#ixzz0yGz348a5