Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 288(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
As a result, my business partner and I are relaxing on a random Thursday night. It’s about time because we’ve been working like crazy at the practice, and then all our free time is spent with our beautiful girlfriend, ravishing her but also taking her to see new sights. We love showing the world to her, and to be honest, she helps expand our horizons as well. We have so much more appreciation for children, domestic life, as well as the female form because of Bethie.
Randomly, I leaf through the latest issue of Plastic Times. It’s just some professional reading. There’s a woman on the cover who supposedly has had “good” plastic surgery, but to my trained eye, it looks terrible. The skin on her cheekbones is pulled too tightly, and her eyebrows look frozen in place, giving her that permanent “surprised” look. Plus, her lips are far too full. I’m not sure why the current trend these days is to look like a puffer fish, but so be it. You can’t talk a patient out of what she wants despite your best efforts.
“Anything good?” asks Ryder. He’s looking over some charts, ever the hard-working physician.
“Nah,” I shake my head. “Just some tips and tricks on how to do the latest sutures. It’s fine. I’ve always been good at sewing, but you know, I’m not even sure it makes a difference these days. They have this new thread which is really fine and dissolves within weeks. Supposedly you can actually sew really badly, and it doesn’t even matter.”
A lot of people giggle when they find out that Ryder and I are expert seamstresses, but it’s true in a way. As plastic surgeons, our sewing ability is prized, and we wield our needles with a steady hand. When it comes to the difference between a scar that’s healed seamlessly, and a scar that looks jagged and ugly, most people would prefer to come to us knowing that our skill is truly exquisite.
Suddenly, my eyes land on a eye-catching headline: Medical Ethics: A Thing of the Past?
That’s odd. What could this be about? There’s an anonymous article in the journal detailing some sketchy practices going on in our industry. It’s not just the usual chop shop schemes, where a fake doctor injects someone’s butt with low-grade silicone from Mexico. Nor is it the kind of plastic surgery horror stories where they used the wrong implant size, or accidentally gave an Asian woman a black woman’s nose.
Instead, this article hits close to home. It discusses doctor-patient relationships, and how physicians are now pushing the boundaries of such relationships. I frown as I read. Although many people like to believe there are bright lines when practicing medicine, in fact there really aren’t because of the nature of the work. We ask women to take off all their clothes before us, and then touch them in all sorts of places that would otherwise be taboo. We ask them questions about their medical history, their smoking habits, how many children they have, and even whether or not they’re using birth control. The usual guidelines aren’t so clear when you think about the intimacy that can exist between a doctor and his patient
But then my eyes begin to bulge because the story is creeping closer and closer to home. It’s discussing sexual relationships between doctors and patients, and how allegedly more and more physicians are taking advantage of a patient’s vulnerability. The breath stops in my throat the articles detail an alleged instance of malpractice. It describes a Park Avenue practice consisting of a handsome doctor duo who ravished a patient during her first consultation. It doesn’t mention any names, but my knuckles grow white and the magazines shakes as my fingers tremble.
What the fuck? Of course, there are many doctors in New York City, and even thousands of plastic surgeons. But there aren’t that many practices on Park Avenue, and there aren’t many plastic surgery practices on Park Avenue which consist of two handsome doctors. Ryder and I are really the only ones because most of our colleagues are old, fat, or both. Medical school doesn’t exactly attract male models given the long hours and high cost.
Fuck! What the hell is this? Why is someone writing about us in veiled terms? And how dare they? They don’t know the circumstances of what happened, so how can they accuse us of breaching medical ethics? What the fuck?
“Is there a problem?” asks Ryder from the other side of the living room. He’s looking up from his chart with a bemused expression, that blue-eyed gaze clear. With trembling fingers, I hand him the article.
He frowns as he reads it, quickly scanning the words. Then, my business partner takes a big breath, and puts down the magazine.
“Well, this is complete horse shit. What the fuck? Who came up with this?”