The Theatre of Bizarre Operations: A Concoction of Unconventional and Fantastic Tales

By M B Evans

These twenty-five original short stories describe extraordinary situations whose solutions provide a unique, ludicrous and satirical view of life.



The tales describe the foibles of individuals and how they deal with these imperfections. They range from astonishing medical operations, eccentric clubs, perplexing and romantic situations, extraordinary people, the idiosyncrasies of modern technology, the problems confronting the modern ghoul and much more. Each story has an explanation or justification at its end.



These easy-to-read, fascinating tales will entertain, amuse and keep you guessing until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Self Publishing Partnership
• Release date: Jan 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839524141

Book preview

1

THE THEATRE OF BIZARRE

OPERATIONS

A STATEMENT BY MAX SEDDLE

I first met the five boys from the Foster family at the County Secondary Modern School at Walton-on-the-Naze in Essex. Two of them were in a class before me but the other three were friends in my class. By some quirk of nature their mother had produced a set of twins followed two years later by a set of triplets. All the children were boys and after this burst of masculine enthusiasm, no more children were ever born. It may be that in an atmosphere of desperation, preventative steps were taken. If their mother had wanted a girl, she was disappointed, and not prepared to risk another boy in mistake for a girl. Her life thus became overburdened with boys and masculine points of view. Her husband – a doctor with little evidence of any self-control – was surprised at the number of male heirs they had accumulated as, according to the book his father had suggested he read in detail before his wedding, he could expect 2.4 children of the mixed sort, not 5.0 of just one. Even in these modern days, biology could throw up surprises and a family where the wife was outvoted by a factor of six to one on just about every subject was unusual. Mrs Foster tolerated this display of numerical masculine superiority with equanimity and fortitude, and looked forward with enthusiasm to the rare days when with her lady friends she could indulge in a ‘proper’ discussion of feminine matters.

The fact of the boys’ birthdays being so close together was of no interest to us schoolboys, what was far more interesting was their names. The eldest was called Matthew Gilpin Foster, the second was Mark Gilpin Foster, the third and the eldest of the triplets was Luke Gilpin Foster, the fourth was John Gilpin Foster and the last one was Thomas Gilpin Foster. We joked that had six more boys come along, they could have formed a full football team of Fosters, or that had she produced another seven children she would have been able to name them all after the disciples. Any more would have been beyond our comprehension of biological excess. Such was what passed for wit amongst us schoolboys.

In character the boys were all intelligent, easily bored and enjoyed practical jokes. Consequently, they often devised their own entertainment. This varied from brother to brother, as would be expected, but one mature interest they all had in common was a fascination with medical matters. Their father, whose quest for fame and fortune had led him to becoming a general practitioner, was responsible for this interest. His overriding objective in life was to achieve a state of indolence. This was an objective at which he worked extremely hard and achieved, one could say, some degree of eminence. He found that being a GP enabled him to successfully diagnose medical conditions with little prospect of any further activity on his behalf. Either his medication was successful (most of which consisted of the provision of placebos, since he knew that many illnesses were cured by the body itself) or he referred his patients to consultants. Either way his life was one of ease, interspersed with some minor medical matters. It was the way he liked it. Each of his sons obtained his intelligence and drive from an unknown ancestor, though whether it was on their mother’s side or their father’s side was always hotly debated. Neither admitted any such responsibility. They assumed, wrongly as it happened, that inherited indolence was a characteristic that would be prevalent in their sons, and override any other less desirable characteristics that might appear.

Despite their father’s earnest wish that his sons become carbon copies of himself, they all showed distressing signs of desiring to achieve some degree of importance with their lives. It was unclear precisely where their wishes for fulfilment lay, but as they developed, much to the surprise of their parents, into mature and responsible doctors, their urge to succeed, if I may use that expression, manifested itself in different ways, as will be seen.

I knew them all at school and became friendly with them, but John was my special friend. As happens so often with childhood friends, after we had left the hallowed and graffiti-stained corridors of our secondary modern school, we lost touch for a few years. I heard through the grape vine that they were all what was termed ‘late developers’ and had subsequently all qualified as doctors, with John and Thomas becoming surgeons. In complete contrast I qualified as an accountant. Before I took the step into salaried employment, I was told that accountancy was the most boring of occupations and was surprised and delighted to find that these adverse views were quite correct. It was boring, and I accepted this boredom with resignation and sometimes relief, as I was seldom required to think for myself. Being of a retiring disposition, thinking was something which I vigorously avoided on every possible occasion. On mature consideration I thought that perhaps some aspect of my friends’ father’s indolence had rubbed off on me, rather than them.

After those halcyon days of secondary education, I lost touch with the five brothers. Our ways had parted and as I had failed to keep in contact with John, it came as a very pleasant surprise one day to receive a letter from him. In it he expressed a wish to renew our acquaintance and suggested that I may care to join him and his brothers in a reunion they were arranging at a coffee shop in Gloucester. Stimulated by a natural curiosity as to how they had all fared in their post-school lives, I went along.

I was the last to arrive and found them all discussing bizarre medical conditions. After the introductions, accompanied by much hand shaking and remarking how much older we all looked, we settled down to some strong coffee and a bit of a chat. Much to my surprise, as boredom was something none of them could abide, they were interested in my work and its routine nature. Hearing this I suspected I might become the victim of one of their practical jokes, but that didn’t happen. I quickly related the gist of my boring life since our school days, and then the doctors all talked about the satisfaction that the intellectual demands of their work provided. Then Luke mentioned a story that Matthew had started before I had arrived.

‘Would you start your story again, Matthew?’ he said. ‘Max wasn’t here at the beginning.’

‘Fine, fine. Well, Max, a most extraordinary case came my way recently,’ said Matthew, and I could tell from the look on his face that it would be a story worth telling.

‘All your cases are remarkable,’ said Luke dryly. ‘Nevertheless, we shall listen with interest and then pronounce judgement. Pray proceed.’

‘All right. It was before I decided to specialise in pathology and was still a student when I attended a sad case in which a baby girl was being operated on. My presence was primarily for observation and instruction. The baby had been diagnosed with a condition that required surgery on her colon. The operation was carried out by a senior surgeon. After the surgery and an appropriate period of recovery, the baby was permitted to go home. Twelve hours later she developed indications that all was not well. The next day the symptoms were worse, and the parents brought the baby back to the hospital for help. During this examination it was discovered that the surgeon had left a set of forceps inside the baby. These were, of course, immediately removed and the baby kept in a ward. The hospital manager couldn’t decide how to deal with this problem. Clearly the hospital was at fault, but which individual was responsible? The surgeon said it was the responsibility of the nurses to ensure that every piece of equipment was accounted for before the incision was closed. The nurses all said that it was the surgeon who was responsible. What do you all think?’

The brothers all hummed and hawed, but no consensus of blame was reached.

‘That is exactly what the hospital management thought as well,’ continued Matthew. ‘Nobody knew and after a considerable amount of time had been spent discussing the matter it was decided to put the case to the hospital’s legal department and see what conclusions they came to.’

‘That,’ said John, ‘would lead to endless procrastination and huge expense. It is what always happens.’

‘Not in this case, brother doctor,’ replied Matthew. ‘You would never guess what the legal brains decided.’

He paused as though he was waiting for suggestions.

‘Get on with it then,’ said Thomas, yawning. ‘We are on the edges of our seats.’

‘Patience is a virtue you know, Thomas. An impatient surgeon is a bad surgeon. Well, in their wisdom the legal department decided not to admit to any responsibility at all. Instead, they lodged a charge of theft against the baby for removing the forceps without permission.’

‘WHAT!’ shouted four doctors and one accountant. ‘That cannot possibly be true.’

‘It is as true as the fact that I’m an underpaid pathologist,’ replied Matthew. ‘I was there and saw everything.’ The others all laughed.

‘I don’t believe that nonsense, Matt,’ said Mark, ‘but tell us what happened in the end.’

‘That is interesting as well. Believing that there was some truth in the allegation of theft, the parents withdrew any claim for compensation and the hospital got off scot-free. The forceps were removed from the baby as soon as possible and she made a full recovery. Eventually no legal actions were taken by either side.’

Expressions of incredulity passed over the brothers’ faces, and after a pause Mark Foster spoke up.

‘I shall tell you a story which is similar in some ways to Matt’s,’ said Mark. ‘In the time before I specialised in pharmacology, I was once asked to diagnose and treat a strange ailment in a young boy. He was brought to me complaining of noises in his stomach. It sounded as though a voice was speaking from his insides. When I listened carefully, I thought that I could hear some words being spoken. I heard, or thought I heard, the words: It’s very dark in here, Dave.’

‘Perhaps it was ventriloquism by a nurse,’ suggested Luke, grinning. ‘They are certainly capable of that sort of prank.’

‘It sounds more like a mobile phone to me,’ said Thomas.

‘So, I thought,’ replied Mark. ‘In fact, I had put my stethoscope to the child’s tummy and clearly heard those words again. You are quite right, Tom. The child had swallowed a mobile phone. You know how small they are these days. The child had been playing with it and put it in his mouth. After an assessment of the situation, and because the phone was so small, it was deemed unnecessary to surgically remove it. The child was given some castor oil to facilitate its progress on its journey. It must have been fully charged because the mobile continued to emit music and speech as it moved about. It was almost as though it was giving a running commentary about its progress. As it emerged from the child’s back end it was playing the national anthem and so we all stood to attention.’

A hoot of laughter greeted this comment.

‘It’s all true,’ said Mark, grinning. ‘The child suffered no permanent injury from his experience and the father was relieved to get his phone back.’

‘Not as relieved as the child,’ said Luke.

‘I can match that story,’ said Thomas. He paused for a moment and cleared his throat.

‘This strange event happened when I was working as a junior surgeon in Switzerland about two years ago. I had attended the wedding of two patients of mine, and I know they were very happy for about six months, living and working together at an altitude of about 5,000 metres. Then the girl found that her legs were becoming hugely swollen, symptoms which were clearly due to the high altitude they were living at. It’s known as HAPE, which for those of you doctors who have forgotten …’

‘Blooming cheek,’ interrupted John.

‘… is high altitude pulmonary oedema which is, as you apparently know, a life-threatening disease. There is no medical cure and to survive she would have to live at a much lower altitude. They moved to a house at sea level and within two months the man had developed symptoms of lower limb oedema, reduced motor coordination, nausea and so on. When he was examined it was found that his cardiovascular system, haematological and respiratory functions had deteriorated, all symptoms which can be, and in this case were, associated with low altitude. So, you now appreciate the position: the girl couldn’t live above 2,000 metres and the man couldn’t live below 2,000 metres.’

‘Oh dear. What did they do?’

‘Well,’ continued Thomas, ‘they tried living at 2,000 metres but it didn’t suit either of them, so they had to separate. One lived at 5,000 metres and the other lived well below 2,000 metres. The ridiculous thing was that their houses were so situated that they could just see each other. They did have one meeting midway between the two extreme levels, but it left them both feeling so unwell that their lives were at risk and they never tried again. They waved large flags to each other every morning and evening and spoke on the phone, but that was the limit of their contact.’

‘Who says there is no such thing as fate?’ asked Matthew.

‘A bizarre and sad case,’ remarked Luke. ‘I can also contribute a strange story which you may find instructive.’

‘It can only be about one of your patients, Luke,’ said Matthew. ‘Your work as a GP has brought you into contact with some rather peculiar people.’

‘Well, it’s actually a sort of surgery story, but I would prefer to describe it as beating the odds.’

‘That sounds interesting. Tell us more.’

‘This incident happened before I was a fully qualified doctor, when the BBC was making a programme about modern surgery. The hospital where I was studying was the one chosen to illustrate the old-fashioned surgical techniques for removing gallstones from the gallbladder, and because there was a possibility that something might go wrong, only one of the surgeons was prepared to be filmed. If a problem or accident occurred, then the resulting widespread publicity would permanently damage their reputations as surgeons, and their career prospects would be seriously prejudiced. The volunteer was an elderly surgeon who was approaching retirement and had a great deal of experience and, I believed, felt he could handle any problem that arose.’

‘Now that’s what I call confidence,’ said Mark.

‘Or rank foolishness,’ said Thomas.

‘Neither. It was experience. He knew a great deal about handling crises. His part in the programme was to illustrate the old-fashioned technique of surgically removing gallstones, and another hospital would demonstrate the newer techniques. Much later he told me that before the operation commenced, he had thought about what he should do should any problems arise. There probably wouldn’t be any, but he had to be ready just in case something unexpected happened.

‘When the theatre had been scrubbed, the instruments sterilised, everybody prepared and the television cameras installed, the patient was anaesthetised and wheeled in. The cameras started to record the operation. As the brave surgeon made the first incision, he could not have had any idea that trouble awaited him. Suddenly, as he progressed, I felt a cold feeling in my stomach as it was clear that he couldn’t find the gallstones. He looked everywhere in the gallbladder and even increased the incision further, so that he could see more. Sweat appeared on his brow and one of the nurses kindly wiped it away. He searched diligently but couldn’t find the damn things.’

‘So, what happened,’ said Thomas excitedly, ‘was what all the other surgeons had feared, and on television as well. Ye gods! What on earth did he do, Luke?’

‘You remember I said that he’d prepared himself for all eventualities. Well, luckily this was one of them, and then when the nurses were all looking worried and the cameras were continuing to film, he suddenly found three gallstones. There was an audible sigh of relief from everybody present as their reputation, and that of the hospital, had been at stake. The stones looked a little dry and crinkled, but he quickly hoicked them out and dropped them in a basin. What was rather odd was the expression on his face. I could have sworn there was a hint of amusement on it, but I couldn’t be certain. The rest of the operation was quite straightforward, and the patient was sewn up without any trouble. What at one time had seemed to be a disaster had become a triumph for the old-fashioned techniques.’

John Foster had listened to all this with interest. ‘There’s something rather fishy about all this,’ he said. ‘Either the gallstones were there, or they were not. They cannot suddenly just appear. Come on, Luke, Spill the beans. What really happened?’

Luke smiled. ‘You’re quite right, John. The surgeon knew that the exploratory work had pointed to the presence of gallstones, but occasionally there is nothing. In this case it was an inaccurate diagnosis which gave the impression of gallstones – a genuine mistake. You may criticise the diagnostician but remember in this demonstration the doctors had not been permitted to use modern scans, and all they had to go on was their own physical examination of the patient and their experience. Anyway, the surgeon had ensured that everything went well by secreting some spare gallstones up his sleeve, and then producing them when he couldn’t find any in the patient. It was an impressive sleight of hand. The only difficulty he had was in keeping a straight face.’

Another loud hoot of laughter greeted this remark.

‘I’m not sure that is quite moral,’ said John.

‘Say what you will,’ continued Luke, ‘but he saved the day. He produced the goods and in the end the hospital came out of it well.’

‘Well, John. It’s your turn now.’

But John refused to say anything on the grounds that he would be embarrassed.

*

‘Gentlemen,’ I said. ‘I’ve sat here listening to all your short, fascinating tales of medical conditions and I think you should collect these and put them in a book.’

‘Whatever for, Max?’ asked Luke.

‘Well. They’re so remarkable that I’m sure others would be equally as interested to hear about them,’ I said. ‘In fact, if you care to relate more of these stories to me at some time, I will volunteer to record them and possibly even publish them.’

They thought about my suggestion, discussed it and finally all, including John Foster, agreed to contribute a story and to examine the finished booklet. The only condition they insisted on was that I presented the material as a narrator. Thus, the following stories came into existence.

THE THEATRE OF BIZARRE

OPERATIONS STORY ONE: THE TALE

OF JOHN GILPIN FOSTER

(DESCRIBED BY MAX SEDDLE)

I chose to record John’s story first because he was the Foster brother with whom I had struck up the most enduring relationship, and I had witnessed some of the events that he later recalled and described.

I knew and liked all the Foster brothers, but became particularly friendly with John Gilpin. We, and all his brothers, were what were called ‘late developers’ and though I did eventually manage to achieve some degree of academic success, the Foster brother’s successes were far more spectacular. At school there was, however, no hint that distinction awaited them. We were all average and none of us showed any aptitude for success in any subject, whether it be arts or science.

John and I soon found that in many ways we were unlike in character, but we both enjoyed a dry sense of humour. I was too introverted and frightened of authority to play tricks on the schoolmasters, but the Foster boys had no such inhibitions and enjoyed setting up situations which they knew would eventually lead to the embarrassment of a teacher or another pupil.

John’s hobbies were also completely different from mine. I was interested in introspective activities such as reading, whereas he was a curious boy and had always wanted to be doing things with his hands. Eventually this resulted in a special interest in two things: the human body and the use of hand tools such as scissors, knives and screwdrivers. His parents had arrived home one day when he was still young to find him ‘operating’ with a screwdriver on his teddy bear. Later they discovered him dissecting one of his friend’s sister’s dolls with a small pair of scissors. Both experiments, he said later, were to see whether the insides of their toys were like his own. Eventually his toys were reduced to shreds by a variety of such operations. I fancy that John was disappointed to find that the insides of his toys were so uninteresting. His parents were horrified and apprehensive that he would attempt to operate on himself and were highly relieved to find that his tolerance to pain was low, and any such experiments were soon abandoned. The seeds of his later work as a surgeon were thus sown at an early age.

As each year passed his interest in dissection grew and at university he developed a remarkable ability to understand medical conditions associated with the human body. He also came to believe that surgery was a universal panacea for resolving many of those conditions. He, and all his brothers, qualified as doctors with ease, but John was undoubtedly the best, and after periods of post-doctoral research abroad he was appointed to the position of surgeon at his local hospital. Here he rapidly achieved a position of some eminence. He had the courage to attempt operations that other surgeons avoided, and the nerve to carry them out. Challenge after challenge was accepted and successfully concluded. Time after time he pared away at the very springs of life while his fellow surgeons held their breath and trembled, but success was invariably the norm. Eventually it became all too easy, and he found that normal surgery was insufficient to satisfy his yearnings for new surgical challenges. One day he and his brother Tom were talking about their respective futures. Tom had also qualified as a surgeon, but he never reached the same degree of eminence that John achieved. Tom remarked how successful John had been and asked where he saw his future.

‘I don’t know about you, Tom,’ he replied, over a cup of coffee, ‘but I’m rather bored at present.’

‘What!’ his brother cried. ‘How can you possibly say that when you have become so eminent a surgeon?’

John smiled. ‘You’re aware, I’m sure, just how extensive routine is in almost every job. For some, routine provides a sense of security and they ask for nothing more than to continue to do the same work day in and day out. I’m not like that. You must know that surgery also often contains a considerable amount of routine work. I get fed up with repairing hernias, and removing sections of bowels – the same thing day after day. There is more to life than cutting up bowels! At present there are fewer and fewer opportunities for challenging surgery.’

‘What about heart surgery? Surely that is as challenging as any operation can be?’

‘You might think so, but no. These days much of heart surgery consists of routine work or is carried out by computer-operated robots.’

‘You could also teach,’ Tom suggested. ‘Teaching the next generation of surgeons is a valuable job.’

John pulled a face. ‘No, thank you, Tom. That would bore me to distraction even more. I love surgery but the challenges for an ambitious surgeon are strictly limited in a normal hospital. There is a huge demand for routine surgery and it doesn’t require someone with my skills to do it. Surgery today is rather like operating a sausage machine, except that it is uncut patients at the start of the production line and bandaged patients at the end. In and out of the operating theatre as quickly as possible. Day after day. You are clearly familiar with the production line for cataract operations or replacement hips? They are typical examples.’

‘Yes, indeed. I certainly am, and I know exactly what you mean. So, what do you intend to do?’

‘There are many conditions of the human body that do not fall within the usual medical categories. These are excluded from general medical practice and the doctors are often unable to help the patient. They lack the flexibility of mind to deal with these conditions and usually just pass them on to some specialist somewhere else. Often no real solution is found and invariably there is no permanent solution at all. This is a niche area and one which greatly interests me. It will provide me with unique problems to solve and certainly unique surgery, should it be necessary. I intend, therefore, to set up a clinic or laboratory to help these patients.’

Tom had let his coffee go cold listening to John’s assessment of his position and proposal for the future. It sounded exciting and he was tempted to ask whether John needed another surgeon. Instead, he wished him all success in his new venture and in a reference to their school days he asked whether John intended to leave some pithy comment on the board in his office on his last day at the hospital. Thus, they parted with a smile. After Tom had left, he regretted that he hadn’t suggested anything about a possible partnership, but by then it was too late.

Tom didn’t see John Foster for about six months, but then he sent him and his brothers an advertisement for his clinic with a long letter about his new venture. It appeared that he had resigned from his position as surgeon with the National Health Service and, two weeks later, on a very wet day he had purchased and later moved into his clinic/ laboratory in Gloucester. ‘The Theatre’ was the name of his clinic, but it was a name which Tom thought smacked of entertainment rather than serious surgery. It had been fitted with the very latest surgical tools and equipment, and John had personally interviewed and appointed various assistants and nurses. The Theatre was opened to the general public soon afterwards, having been advertised in local newspapers and magazines in which he claimed: ‘surgical solutions for the public.’ His advertisements also stated that ‘we operate to achieve success,’ and made the unprecedented and extremely generous offer that ‘we do not charge if you do not survive’ – a claim which Tom thought would put potential clients off. At first the public had been unbelieving of these claims but then, John said, his first client arrived. This was a man who came to him one day complaining of feelings of anxiety, particularly in his stomach, and asked if Mr Foster could do anything to help.

After an examination John had told the man that he understood the cause of his condition and agreed to operate. On the day of the operation the nurses had sterilised the surgery and the instruments, and when all was ready the patient had been brought in and given a general anaesthetic. He had soon become unconscious and John had commenced his work with a bold incision across the man’s stomach.

Tom could read the excitement in John’s writing as he explained how at the precise moment he had completed the incision, he felt a slight movement inside the man’s stomach. John’s sense of the dramatic had led him not to tell his nurses what to expect, and to everybody’s surprise, except for his own, of course, several butterflies emerged from the incision and started to fly around the surgery. They were of different types: swallowtails, red admirals, British blues, fritillaries, hairstreaks and silvers abounded. More and more emerged until with a frantic fluttering the last one appeared: it was a cabbage white. When John was satisfied that there were no more butterflies inside the patient’s stomach, he carefully sterilised the wound and closed the incision with small, neat stitches.

Meanwhile there was some pandemonium in the theatre as the nurses struggled with the concept of an operation which cured someone suffering from butterflies in the stomach. Disbelieving of what they had just seen, they sought to flap them out of a window. The butterflies soon dispersed; they flew out of the window and disappeared into the woods around Gloucester, and all the time John was chuckling to himself. It was no surprise to him as he had correctly diagnosed the true cause of the patient’s complaint. The nurses’ amazement was so great they accused John of setting up a confidence trick, and it was only subsequent events that persuaded them of the authenticity of this first operation.

The patient was taken to the recovery room and within two hours the anaesthetic had worn off. The following day he felt well enough to go home. He wasn’t told the true reason for his feelings of anxiety because he couldn’t and wouldn’t have believed it. The operation was a complete success, John wrote, and the patient never again complained of butterflies in his stomach.

That was the essence of his letter, and at