Glass Eye

“Gweneth, the technology in replacement body parts is so advanced these days, that I am………”  The old lady that sat opposite the young doctor cast him a steely glare from over the top of her half eye glasses.  Dr Grahams knew immediately that he was on very shaky ground, but he had no idea how he had got there, he was about to find out.  
“Dr Grahams,” Gweneth Pollet’s voice was quiet and raspy, a voice that had seen at least a hundred years of service.  “Dr Grahams, not even my very own great-grandchildren are permitted to use my first name, only my close friends, which would be those girls I attended school with, have that privilege.  You may call me Mrs Pollet, and if I like you, and we shall see about that, I will give you permission to call me Granny Pollet.”

The thought of being liked by this disgustingly archaic relic of a human being filled Dr Grahams with horror.  Mrs Pollet had been referred to him, in desperation, by her son.  She had been widowed fairly young, at about forty, and had consistently refused to replace her worn out body parts and improve her waning looks and fertility.  She was now, her son said, and understandably so, becoming unpleasant to live with.  Dr Grahams didn’t want to go down the road of having her declared insane which would lead to the Grand Medical Court making the decision of restoration for her.  His onetime lover had made that mistake with one of his patients, the patient had subsequently committed suicide.   The shame a patient’s suicide brings to a doctor's future career is insurmountable, suicide is viewed as failure by the Grand Medical Court.  He had been strongly advised, for the sake of his own career, to dump his lover, which he unhesitatingly did.  And now this shapeless, wrinkled, arthritic, fat blob of a Mrs Pollet was sat before him and had the effrontery to say she might get to like him, flying in the face of etiquette, Dr Grahams allowed the shudder of revulsion to run down his body.  However, he was honour-bound to do the best he could for his patient, in this case Mr Pollet, who was obviously suffering because of this stubborn old woman.

“Mrs Pollet,” the doctor continued, “I see from our records that over the years you have had a lot of medication, for diverse viruses and bacterial infections, painkillers for your arthritis, dentistry, eye glasses to correct your myopia, the removal of cataracts, and so the list goes on.  You know that a full restoration is still possible, even at your advanced state of deterioration.  Think, Mrs Pollet, what the future could hold for you.  To be physically capable of caring for yourself, to be pain free, to be nimble and active, to be able to re-marry and have more children should you wish.   Also, think of the money you would be saving the Court, money that could be put to good use in the further development of brain transplantation.  Really Mrs Pollet, isn’t it time to stop being so selfish, this world is no longer equipped to deal with the thoughtless and self-indulgent fantasies of such as yourself. ”  
Dr Grahams felt a glow of triumph, this little speech always worked, always persuaded the hesitant or those who clung resolutely to the mis-belief that ‘nature shouldn’t be tampered with’.  The ancient and honourable laws of the Court forbade forced restoration, unless a case of insanity was proven.  Every doctor had his own ‘little speech’, and every doctor claimed success.

Mrs Pollet, placing both hands on the top of her walking cane, leaned forward toward Dr Grahams, the steely glare was back.  
“Dr Grahams, this is my body.  It leaks and farts, it wobbles  when I walk, and not in a nice way.  My breasts hang down to my naval, probably further if my navel wasn’t so large and round.  My bones creak and groan, the malformation in my hands and feet is hard for even me to look at.  I have to allow an extra amount of time if I have an appointment, nothing happens fast any more, not even the early morning dash to the loo, unfortunately.  I sometimes gasp like a fish out of water, and I have been seen to turn blue, but Mr Grahams, this is my body, MINE.  See these hands, these hands were held by my husband, these hands cradled my babies.  These breasts, once so pert and full, gave my husband pleasure and in turn gave my babies nourishment. This body as you see it now, is the result of being loved.  The muscles long ago lost their elasticity due to birthing many children, I wear the scars of childbirth with pride, and yet YOU, you Dr Grahams would take it from me.  Every facial wrinkle holds a memory.  What does your face hold Dr Grahams?  So smooth and plastic looking, you look like my son, my grandson, a face reproduced again and again.  I am not even sure what gender you are, or if you even are any.  Yes, this is my body and as far as I am concerned, I haven’t had my full use out of it yet!”

“Oh dear,” thought Dr Grahams, “She’s going to be difficult.”   Deciding to change tactic, he smiled at Mrs Pollet and asked, “You have made your point clearly, and as you know there is nothing I can do to force you take up these wonderful and healthy life-changing offers.  Is there anything else I can do for you to day Mrs Pollet?”  
Mrs Pollet looked at him from half closed eyes, full of suspicion, "Mm, and you are not going to push me into anything I don’t want, not even a glass eye?”  
Dr Grahams wasn’t sure what a glass eye was exactly, or, for that matter, why anyone would want one, not when there were beautiful full optic transplants available.  Once more summoning up another smile he opened his hands in acquiescence, “In that case Mrs Pollet, if there is nothing more, I shall bid you good day.”  
Coming from behind his desk he opened the door for her.  Pausing before she exited, Mrs Pollet looked up into her doctors face, her smile revealed her three remaining teeth yellowing and made overly large by her receding gums, “Call me Granny dear,” she said, reaching up and gently patting his cheek.

Closing the door behind her Dr Grahams leaned against it, fighting back the wave of nausea that threatened to engulf him.  When he once more felt in control, he crossed back to his desk.  Unlocking a drawer he took out a small plastic container.  He slipped this into a pre-addressed envelope and reaching under the desk he pressed a bell button.  The fully and beautifully restored male that entered the room in answer to the bell's summons was a joy for Dr Grahams to behold, and he made a mental note that wining and dining this Adonis could well be an expense worth making.  Handing the envelope to the Adonis Dr Grahams gave what he hoped was a charming, if not seductive, smile.  Without any change in expression whatsoever, the Adonis took the envelope and left the room.  
“Never mind,” thought the doctor, “Can’t win them all.”   
The Adonis would hand-deliver the envelope to Mr Pollet, who would fully understand and know what to do.  The contents of the envelope had been the subject of a heated debate between doctor and patient.  Mr Pollet wanting to obtain and take advantage of the contents immediately, and Dr Grahams having to patiently explain that he was duty bound to offer the elderly woman the alternative.  The doctor's sympathies however, lay entirely with Mr Pollet.  How he had been made to suffer at the hands of that selfish old woman beggared belief.  It was not just the visual unpleasantness, there was the all-pervading stench of urine and escaping intestinal gases.  She seemed to be under the illusion that it was her son and daughter-in-law's duty to cut up her food, wash her hair, bathe her, help her dress, aid her with her lavatory needs and even with cleaning her faecal and urine stained clothes.  Her slowness was making her a nuisance, forever getting in the way in what was a normal, bustling, healthy family environment.

 Dr Grahams was a good doctor, and like all good doctors he put the needs of his patients first.  By the morning Mrs Pollet would have been put out of her misery, the 'mercy' contained in the envelope would ensure that, dying peacefully in her sleep, a good end.  Her son, Mr Pollet would have the release from the burden of her stubborn selfishness and could get on with his life.  And of course Dr Graham would no longer have to explain the added medical expenses that occur when people refuse to grow old gracefully, and with proper surgical intervention, to the Court.  Once more, his curiosity spiked, he withdrew from his bookshelf a rare copy of Brook’s History of Surgical Transplantation (a gift from his grandfather) and looked up ‘glass eye.’   He smiled in satisfaction at the explanation, yes, even those old timers had got it right, they had known the value of beauty.

“Glass Eye” – An early prosthetic device with no practical use other than to enhance and make pleasing the appearance of the wearer.