The secret stories of a gynecologist

By Federico Zapata

Federico Zapata Pérez es un profundo observador de la naturaleza humana. Sus relatos parecen delirantes pero coherentes y enhebrados con una certera y calculada imbricación. Ya tienes entre tus manos la primera de las que deben ser muchas de las novelas de este nuevo escritor. Prepárese para dejarse llevar por las historias de él recién sacado de la vida.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Editorial Libros para Pensar
• Release date: Jan 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9791222067391

Book preview

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Federico Zapata Pérez

NOVEL

Any similarity with reality,

it’s pure coincidence.

NOVEL

Title of the book:

THE SECRET STORIES OF A GYNECOLOGIST

Writer:

Federico Zapata Pérez

Editor:

Édver Augusto Delgado Verano

Editorial support:

Alina María Ángel Torres

Jorge Eliécer Martínez Miranda

Jorge Andrés Hoyos

Nahomy Arenas

First Edition

ISBN: 978-958-49-8502-6

Layout:

Jorge E. Rodríguez Martínez

© Federico Zapata Pérez

© Editorial Libros para Pensar s.a.s — Medellín - Colombia 2023

Cel: [phone]

[e-mail] - www.librosparapensar.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Medellin, Colombia

Hecho en Colombia

Printed in Colombia

I dedicate this book to…

God.

my parents, Gloria and Gilberto.

my beautiful family.

and all my patients for allowing me to take care of them.

Index

Prologue

Dr. Emilio Alberto Restrepo Baena 9

Chapter 1

An uncomfortable cab driver 13

Chapter 2

A revealing dream 23

Chapter 3

Part one: Jean Carlo, The Splasher 35

Chapter 4

The strange story of doctor Kung Fu and The Fellationist 43

Chapter 5

Part two: Jean Carlo, the Sprayer 79

Chapter 6

Carmelina’s breasts and a special delivery 105

Chapter 7

The return of doctor Kung Fu 123

Chapter 8

A miracle and two atheists 141

Chapter 9

An eminent criminal lawyer and the iron giant 163

Chapter 10

The night of the opera and a very insecure insurance policy 175

Chapter 11

The patient who loved me 191

Chapter 12

The reunion with Pachino 201

Chapter 13

Sheila milena and her scams 233

Chapter 14

Checkbook and revolver 239

Chapter 15

The angels of Sheila Milena and the amulet

of Maicol Alberto 251

Chapter 16

A funeral foretold 269

References 293

PROLOGUE

Federico Zapata, is a natural-born, inexhaustible, and blunt storyteller.

Everything in him has a frenetic and inescapable air accounting for his compulsion to live life as if there was no tomorrow. And in the same way he faces his work, his relationships, his patients and now, literature.

Jut a few months ago, our teacher-student relationship showed the genuine admiration I felt when I got involved in a new book soon to be published. He confessed that it seemed a distant and unaffordable dream to him. I knew his condition as a powerful narrator, so I asked him to tell me all those stories so I could write them, all within a hospital-like narrative I was working on in that time. Federico did not answer and immediately took up another story -you have to believe me-, even more amazing than the previous one. Then I knew: He wasn’t going to give them to me, just like that. No matter how much he loved me. He could perfectly make his own stories and publish them as a book. I forgot that Federico does not only program, he executes. He achieves everything he sets his mind into. He finishes all his tasks and when gets in his head, he acomplishes it in an outstanding way. And that’s him in his life: an achiever of dreams. Now the story repeats itself in literature.

What was supposed to be some scary stories he shyly showed me just to test my opinion, grew stronger. From a few unpolished anecdotes some round stories were born, which were improved under the supervision of some literary workshops. I suggested him to take one and he signed up to four! His excuse was that they were at a very low cost, but I suspected that they were going to fall short of his desire to absorb all the new knowledge that was opening up in his mind. His fingers started typing, at first five, soon ten, and then fifteen stories came out of his hands. It ended up being a novel that, due to a respectufl cut from the editor, it came out as a local version of the seven volumes of In Search of Lost Time, never so literal, of the admired and little read M. Proust.

This is how Secret stories of a gynecologist was born. The gateway to the literary universe of Federico Zapata. A writer from whom we will soon have news, because we know his commitment and his character, those of an effective salesman. A seducer that doesn’t get tired, doesn’t give up, that always wants more. He is his own challenger. He wants to overcome himself and feel better and more competitive. Because he never stops, and this is the opininon of someone who believed to be fast and compulsive, until he knew Federico closely.

You already have in your hands the first of what must be many of the novels of this new writer. Prepare to be speechless with stories that, if I wouldn’t heard several times with total coherence, I would dare saying are the product of his insomnia between shifts.

It always makes me happy when a new writer appears. One that is promising and committed. And it makes me even more happy to know that he is a doctor and my student. A friend that shares my profession twice, and now triple: gynaecologist-obstetrician, laparoscopist, and writer.

Federico is a deep observer of human nature. His natural curiosity does not rest and is a graceful narrator. And the book traps you in each chapter.It is written in a way that makes you want to continue and see how it ends, to know how the plot is unfolded. Those stories seem delusions but coherent and threaded with accurate and calculated imbrication.

It soothes me to find such an entertaining book that gives account with such keenness of his world. One that shows a profession full of surprises and turns that make one day never to be equal to another. And I like much more knowing that it will surely be the first in a long saga, which like Federico, will be difficult to contain and restrain.

Congratulations, my fellow writer. Long live your books. May there be many hours of writing to the happiness of the large number of readers you do not yet know, but who joyfully hope to devour your works, even those you have not yet written.

—Emilio Alberto Restrepo Baena

Chapter 1

AN UNCOMFORTABLE CAB DRIVER

It was two o’clock in Friday afternoon on May 15, 2020, when Dr. Mateo Meneses left the hospital after delivering a baby. He got in a cab and sat in the back seat. He never imagined that the next few minutes would bring an overwhelming terror that would test his heart with an adrenaline pumping so intense that only a strong cardiovascular system could withstand without infarction.

After being a victim of extortion, death threats for absurd situations and, on one occasion, was forced to pay not being murdered, his mind just wanted peace. This, added to being victim of two recent armed robberies in less than two months, which seemed small compared to the extortions. He felt that the cup was already full and nothing new and worse could happen to him. He believed that the quota of grievances he had suffered would exempt him from new similar events. It was enough.

He tried to look on the bright side of the arriving pandemic, the dreaded Coronavirus. The streets were empty due to the quarantine imposed by the government and even thieves avoided going out for fear of contagion. The rate of thefts, personal injuries and homicides –which in a city like Medellin were bread and butter– dropped astonishingly in less than a month, to almost zero percent.

He had several pregnant patients close to delivery, so he was obliged to go out to check on them, and at other times to deliver their babies.

He felt at ease complying with the rigorous biosecurity protocols, since the city reported a very small number of cases which made it unlikely that he would catch the disease at the clinic. He felt even safer in the streets, a place in which he was paranoid about the recent robberies, but the solitude of the streets due to the absolute confinement also meant an absence of thieves.

From the moment he got into the cab, he noticed with discomfort that the driver was constantly looking at him in the rearview mirror. He seemed more interested in scrutinizing him very carefully than in keeping his attention on the road. At first he thought it was just his traumatized imagination, but he realized it was true when the car stopped in the first red light and the cab driver stare at him with little disguise through the mirror.

He thought about analyzing the driver’s face to find possible features that calm his mind, he had a lot of experience doing it, but the mandatory facemask the driver was wearing only allowed him to see his eyes and his inquisitive look. He wanted to get off of the car out fear and as a precaution, but he hesitated. Doubting was his big mistake.

He decided to talk to him a little and see if he detected anything unusual. He wondered, why was hi looking at him so much?

—It’s nice out here today. Beautiful weather. How do you like it? —he said, trying to impose a topic of conversation that would ease his tension.

The cab driver replied curtly:

—Nice weather, yes —while still staring at him.

Dr. Meneses became even more uncomfortable and tried to see the horizon through the window. But when he looked again at the rearview mirror, his eyes met those of the cab driver, who continued to inspect him with unusual interest.

—How’s work, sir? —Meneses insisted, a little nervously this time.

—Not that good. Just one or two clients. The government and the virus don’t let anyone out," he replied as he continued to look at him in the rearview mirror intermittently.

He gave up talking when he realized it was a futile effort, so he chose silence. In the following minutes, it became disturbing when he noticed that the car was moving slower than usual. The cab driver was in no rush, but an evident curiosity to scrutinize him. The loneliness of the streets added more discomfort to the environment.

Dr. Meneses hoped to find some police along the way, but even them were in short supply because of the pandemic.

—Can you play some music? —he asked, hoping that this would break the tension.

—The radio is broken and I have no money fix it —replied the cab driver.

In that moment, as a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, he let his mind wander about the possible motives of the driver.

—«Does he like me? Or is it maybe that some of his cronies are hiding somewhere around and they are going to mug me. Do I look like someone he knows and is trying to remember? Is this a hidden camera TV show or something?»

All these thoughts were interrupted when the cab driver asked him:

—You work at the clinic I picked you up, right?

—Yes —he replied.

—What specialty do you work in? —he said without taking his eyes off him, something that was still intrusive.

—I am a gynecologist.

—So, you deliver babies.

—Yes, of course, that’s what I do the most.

—It means that you are never short of work doctor, you earn well —the driver commented while smiling sarcastically without taking his eye off him.

—It’s not easy, believe me, because the government takes a lot in taxes.

—C’mon, don’t complain, my doctor. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I was going to rob you.

At that moment it was no longer only the direct stare that bothered him, but also the tone of the voice that he could not decipher. Two additional beads of sweat slid down his forehead.

—I’m going to take this route, it’s faster. You doctors are always in a hurry —said the cab driver as he headed down a narrow street. There was a long and leafy forest on the right side.

This made the doctor even more worried and set off his alarms. He looked around the street for other cars, but none could be seen. It was just the two of them.

The cab was going very slow, and that was irritating.

—What is your name, my doctor?

—Mateo Meneses —he answered.

—I think I know you very well.

—Do you? I don’t think so. Perhaps you’re mistaking me by someone else.

—No, my doctor. It is you. I finally remember you. You have really changed very little; you delivered my wife’s baby.

—Oh! Really? That’s good to know.

Hearing this, he was able to breathe normally again and enjoyed the fresh air coming through the cab window.

—And how did your wife do when I delivered her baby? —he asked comfortingly.

—The baby died, my doctor —said the driver in a breathy voice, looking at him fixedly and sharply.

An eerie silence filled the atmosphere of the vehicle. It seemed as if time had stopped.

—Was it really me? —he asked while panic took over his mind.

—Yes sir, I will never forget that day and even less your name. It was you, Dr. Mateo Meneses. I have wanted to meet you for a long time. I had a hard time remembering and recognizing you. It happened exactly nine years ago.

The afternoon was warm, but a freezing cold ran through the doctor’s entire body to the depths of his being. It was pure ice coursing through his veins. He felt an avalanche coming over him and tried to recall some related event, but he understood that the multitude of deliveries attended in his life could cloud his memory. Still, he didn’t have a tragic memory like that in his head.

How could I have forgotten?

At that instant, when he was trying to remember, the cab driver suddenly stopped the car and parked at the edge of the forest on the avenue.

The doctor felt a strong oppression in his chest. He felt suffocated. He was involved in a terrifying and unimaginable situation. Alone, helpless, powerless, in a vehicle parked on a lonely street and with a cab driver who told him a heartbreaking story.

—Why did you stop the car? —he managed to ask the driver by making a superhuman effort.

The cab driver reached his right hand down the front of his pants to pull something out.

—I can’t waste an opportunity like this.

Dr. Meneses, in a sweat, sensed that the world was going to end. He imagined the cab driver pulling out a gun and taking vicious revenge for his dead son. He wanted to run away, but fear paralyzed him. His chest ached, he knew that life was finite and in a city where death and tragedy were something very usual, a death like this would be just one more of those that occurred daily.

The cab driver quickly found what he was looking for and with the object in his hand, immediately turned around and headed straight for the doctor’s body.

The doctor waited for the final blow. He was resigned to pay with his life the necessary price for the death of a child he did not remember happening. The most beautiful scenes of his life rolled through his head in a fraction of a second.

Among them, his beautiful childhood with his neighborhood friends. His adolescence and the soccer championships he won. The penalty he wasted shooting over the goal in the last minute of the final match, for which he was always remembered.

When he graduated as a doctor accompanied by his parents, or when he thought he had found the love of his life, on seven occasions and on each one of them he dreamed of true and complete love. The moment he created a new surgical technique for suturing wounds that ensured better healing and aesthetics, which brought him an overwhelming success in several universities around the world that wanted to replicate it and that nicknamed it in many countries as the bulletproof stitch suture.

He assumed that the final blow would be very quick and painless. An accurate shot in the head in a lonely place would be enough to atone for his guilt and end his dreams, his projects and his entire existence.

The divine breath of life he once received when an egg was fertilized by a winning sperm and made him a human being, would end in a few seconds leaving one more story to be forgotten. The unavoidable oblivion he would never have wanted this soon.

—Look at this beauty —said the cab driver, as he pulled a photograph of a nine—year—old girl out of a thick wallet.

—Who is it? —asked Dr. Meneses, dumbfounded.

—My daughter, the one you brought into the world, my doctor —he said, taking off his mandatory anti-coronavirus protection mask. See how beautiful she is!

—I don’t understand. You were saying that he died.

—You have a very bad memory, I see. I’ll remind you how it all went. My wife was hospitalized and you arrived very punctual at the shift change at one. You were asked to check her, she was pregnant with twins: a boy and a girl. After examining her closely, you started screaming in desperation: Severe acute fetal distress! Emergency C-section!

The entire staff rushed her into surgery. Under general anesthesia, at ten minutes past one o’clock you had delivered both babies. The boy was stillborn, but thanks to God you were able to save the girl. If it wasn’t for the speed of all the staff and yours, she would also have died. She is now grown up and healthy, see what a beautiful picture. Her name is Chelcy Olivares. How could I forget your face, my dear doctor? She is so smart, but mainly she has stood out for her excellent gifts for singing and dancing. She won a scholarship from the mayor’s office to an advanced school. They say that she dances with a magical grace, also that she has an angelic voice that spreads an inevitable joy to all who hear her singing. I have been repeating to myself ever since you got on the car: I know him, I know him. Yes, you saved my little girl’s life!

Dr. Meneses was born again and the pain in his chest disappeared. He took a deep breath; he was stunned. He could remember everything clearly now.

It was a monochorionic twin pregnancy with a condition called Twin-Twin Transfusion Syndrome, a rare and dangerous disorder in twins. It happens when they are with only one placenta to feed, they have less blood and nutrients to survive and usually, there is one that hogs all the circulation at the expense of the other, who ends up suffering. It is like having two eating on one plate, with one consuming its own food and that of the other; this causes the second one to be deprived of food and therefore malnourished and paying the consequences.

—What a pleasure to see you, my wife will not believe me when I tell her. Come on, let’s take a selfie, but without a mask. C’mon, take it off without fear, I assure you I don’t have the virus.

And saying this, the cab driver excitedly took out his cell phone to take the picture.

In the photographic record, Dr. Meneses appeared sweaty, pale and with a stunned face.

—Smile a litte my doctor, don’t be so serious —and he repeated the picture.

In the second selfie he took, the doctor looked the same. The cab driver refused to make him smile and take more pictures, he resigned himself to the ones he had.

—Where are we going to go? Ah, yes, I remember. Come on, we’d better get going quickly. It’s very lonely here and we might get robbed. You look unwell and pale, you must have anemia, Doctor Meneses. You work a lot and don’t eat very well. You should take a blood test, have some iron and eat a lot of spinach, that will help you recover," said the driver with a scientific attitude, kindness and a serious voice. Just like a doctor prescribing medications to a patient.

When the doctor arrived home, he was exhausted, almost dead.

He spent the whole night absorbed and sleeplessly staring at the ceiling of his bedroom trying to understand how it all happened. Since he couldn’t sleep, he preferred to remember that 28 years ago, on his last internship night in the emergency room as an intern doctor –just a few days before receiving his diploma– he met a very peculiar drunk patient and had a revealing dream that would mark his existence.

That’s practically where it all started...

Chapter 2

A REVEALING DREAM

It was a typical Saturday shift in Medellin, and the medical staff was expecting many injured people as it was usual during those violent times in Colombia.

Dr. Mateo Meneses was in the last month of his internship. He was on his way to become a physician and surgeon. He was actually 8 days away from his graduation ceremony and soon he would begin the obligatory rural service year.

That night, he arrived at the hospital very punctual as it was usual, just a little before seven o’clock. He never imagined that on the last shift of his medical internship, he would have surprises that would mark him for the rest of his life.

The shift began with a thin, drunken individual of about 24 years of age. He arrived bleeding from his head. He was accompanied by his mother who complemented his humble clothing with a dirty old shawl.

Dr. Meneses examined him and then proceeded to stitch him up. It was a superficial wound in the parieto—occipital area of the scalp, about 25 centimeters long. The patient had another one on the right side of the chin of about eight centimeters longm, also superficial. The suture, which would normally take fifteen minutes, took an hour and a half to perform due to the constant movement of the drunkard who was screaming for vengeance against his aggressor.

—You are the best doctor! you are the man! Save my face and my head please —cried the patient in tears.

Many drops of liquor—flavored saliva reached the doctor’s mouth, who —with stoic resignation— finished the sutures in the best possible way.

The precarious condition of the hospital limited the supply of protective equipment to doctors and nurses, so he did not wear a mask. He was used not to wear one. The assistant nurse looked at him with disdain for having to start the shift with a restless and uncooperative drunk.

To make the scene worse, the drunk finished off with a barely expected vomit, which managed to wet part of the doctor’s neck and the nurse’s shoulder. Both cleaned themselves up with alcohol, while two security guards restrained the drunk.

As the mother dried her tears with the old shawl, she said:

—My son, Maicol Alberto, is a very healthy boy. But lately, I’ve seen him in bad company with strange friends. One of them was the one who hit him with a bottle. It’s a good thing we were near the hospital, doctor.

—Relax, he’ll be fine.

At the end of the suture, he was transferred to the observation room to monitor his evolution for a few hours. Since, given the trauma to Maicol Alberto’s head, he considered that this was the most prudent thing to do.

He continued taking care of other patients, and by one o’clock in the morning the service was empty and under control. He prepared to wait in the office while more patients arrived. Outside, his two other fellow physicians were attentive. Tiredness overcame him and he sat in the chair and fell into a deep sleep.

The doctor began to dream that he was driving his car along the busy 92nd avenue. Just as he stopped at a red light, two individuals on motorcycles approached to him, each on one side. With revolver in hand, they demanded him to he leave the car. As