Not Quite a Regular Guy

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When patients are brought to my office, I think they are usually surprised at my appearance. In spite of what you may have heard, I’m just a regular guy. I don’t have a movie star face, with a chiseled jaw and piercing blue eyes. I’m not a tall, athletic man by any means. I’m 48 years old, just less than six feet tall, average build with a little pot belly, tending toward baldness. I don’t have a ten inch cock, and I can’t go all night, although I’ve always believed that the woman comes first in any relationship and I adore giving oral sex, so I get no complaints there.

I didn’t go to an Ivy League college; I went to the University of Washington. I got my M.D. in Orthopedics, practiced for a few years, then went back to school and trained in Plastic Surgery.

All along the way, though, there was something missing. I know that most of us will say that we are in the medical field because we want to help people, but in the final analysis, it’s usually about the money. I had a head start there, because my parents were wealthy. I have often wondered if my career path would have been altered if I’d not had nearly limitless supplies of money to support my drive for knowledge, but at this point in my life, the second-guessing is pointless.

For me, it really is all about the deep desire to help people. Even if the help they need doesn’t fall within the boundaries of what is considered “Normal”.

For years you’ve been hearing about “That Dr. who does voluntary amputations.”

Well, that would be me.

So maybe I’m not quite a ‘regular guy’ after all.

I went into orthopedics because I have a mechanic’s soul. I know how things ought to work, and I know how to fix them if they don’t work that way. I can look at how a person moves, and tell what I can do to help them without initially resorting to scans and measurements. I spent a few years reattaching tendons, fixing knees and pinning broken bones, but it was not as satisfying as I’d hoped.

Plastic surgery was a better fit for me, but soon enough I found myself satisfying the egos of rich men and women who wanted to be prettier, sexier or younger, and their motivations began to discourage me.

In the late summer of 1999, everything changed, thanks to a woman named Sarah, just in case all you wannabes need to know who to thank.

I was visiting a school chum, Jack, and his family, at a very small town in Eastern Oregon. He has a cabin at a lake about three hours from his home, and we were touring the lake in his ski boat when I noticed a person on the shore waving a shirt and yelling.

I pointed the person out to Jack.

“That’s Gary Leonard,” Jack said. “I wonder what’s going on.” He pointed the boat toward the shore and shortly we were at the dock nearest to Gary, who was running to meet us.

“Sarah’s had an accident with a shotgun, Jack! There’s a tourniquet on her leg, but we need to get her to a doctor, and my damned truck won’t start. Please help me, Jack!” he panted.

Jack looped the shore line from the boat over a bollard on the dock, and we were off, following Gary down the shore and up to his cabin.

We found Gary’s daughter, Sarah, dressed in shorts and a flannel shirt,sitting on the ground with her back against an old Ford pickup. She was holding her right thigh in her hands and rocking back and forth, obviously in shock. Her lower leg hung in tatters, the bones obviously shattered. There was surprisingly little blood on the ground, and there was an old fashioned Boy Scout style tourniquet just above mid-thigh, a scarf wound around a stick, and the end of the stick stuck in her belt. Her lips were tight and grey, but her eyes were bright. On the ground was an old “LaFever Nitro Special” side-by-side 12 gauge shotgun. Jack had explained to Gary that I was a doctor on the way up from the dock, and he asked that I take control of the situation.

“Hello Sarah. My name is Owen, and I’m a doctor. I need to change your position, OK? I need to lay you down so you won’t pass out.”

Sarah nodded, making eye contact with me right away. I instructed Jack and Gary to pick Sarah up and lay her on her back on the nearby picnic table. I supported her left leg and the remains of her right lower leg as they carried her, noting instantly that the knee was shattered, and the foot was mangled nearly beyond recognition. There was no way this was repairable, since a very large percent of the lower limb and foot was pulverized. I took her father aside and spoke quietly to him.

“We need to get her to a hospital, Gary. You’ve definitely saved her life with the tourniquet, but she’s going into shock, and that can kill her as easily as the blood loss. How far away from a surgical center are we?”

“The closest hospital is five hours away on dirt roads. We tried to get a helicopter out here a few years ago, and it wouldn’t have saved much time, since it has to come from Bend. One of our neighbors here at the lake, Dr. Garson, has a little room with some medical stuff in it, though. He’s a retired surgeon. Is she going to lose her leg?”

“She’s dikmen escort already lost most of it, Gary. There’s no doubt about that, unfortunately. My first specialty was in orthopedic surgery, and I can tell you there’s no way to save anything below the tourniquet. How complete is your friend’s first aid room?”

“I don’t know, but I know he’s there this week.”

“OK. That’s where we’re taking her,” I said. I moved back to Sarah’s side.

“Sarah, we’re going to put you in the boat and take you to Dr. Garson’s cabin. I’m an orthopedic surgeon, and I’m going to see if he has the equipment for me to take care of your leg, OK?”

“Are you going to amputate my foot, Dr.?” she asked, looking deeply into my eyes.

“Yes, honey, I’m afraid so. We’re going to leave as much of your leg as we can, but I won’t know much until I see how complete Dr. Garson’s supplies are.”

“Will I keep my knee?” she asked. That was an unusual question for a patient to ask at this point, and it gave me pause. Sarah’s eyes looked calmly into mine as she asked the question. Too calmly.

“I’m sorry, honey but your knee is beyond repair.”

The placid, almost relieved look Sarah gave me sent up a red flag, but I had other fish to fry as it were. I made a mental note to follow up on this with her later, and we transported her to the boat on a sleeping bag from her dad’s truck.

As it turned out, Dr. Garson was a terrific guy, and he had purposely set up a pretty complete little office to take care of emergencies in the local area, including a small area that would serve as an emergency surgery. He even had a small video system and began taping as soon as we brought Sarah into the cabin. He later told me that it was to document events occurring in the building to forestall malpractice issues. I had to admit that I hadn’t thought about that at all. He took his digital video camera and recorded that condition of the injury in detail, and then mounted it in a tripod at the corner of the room on wide angle.

We spoke to both Sarah and Gary, explaining that we both agreed that an amputation was required, and both of them agreed, although Sarah, at 22, was old enough to have decided for herself. While we were talking, I started an IV and gave Sarah fluids to replace the lost blood volume from the injury, along with some broad-spectrum antibiotics to retard any infections.

Since most modern anesthetics, like Diprivan, have a limited shelf life and are really expensive, Dr. Garson was equipped to do peripheral nerve blocks. He used an ultrasound unit to locate the proper location, and then placed a catheter to feed local anesthetic to the site. The anesthetic took effect very quickly, and Sarah’s face relaxed as her leg went numb.

Once we decided to do the amputation and selected a level, the surgery was really straightforward. I was able to find good circulation and sound bone four inches above the knee, so I cut off the skin several inches below that level, creating a pair of flaps that covered the bone nicely. It is typical to insert a plastic button in the end of the bone to make a smooth surface, but we didn’t have that available, so I fashioned a closure from some bone that I removed from the Calcaneus (heel bone). After I gathered the muscle groups together and sutured them over the end of the femur, the stump closed well, and my training in Plastic Surgery came in handy for the skin closure. I was able to close the flap with very small sutures, so hopefully the scar would be small. We placed a drain and bandaged the limb with several layers of padding for the trip down the dirt roads. Dr. Garson volunteered to accompany Sarah to the hospital, and left the nerve block catheter in place, so that he could inject more of the anesthetic as needed to keep Sarah pain free during the trip. All the while, Sarah was propped up in a semi-reclining position, watching my actions with extreme focus. She exhibited no nausea or lightheadedness as far as I could tell, and the look on her face was, for the most part, fascination.

We loaded Sarah and a cooler with the remains of her leg into Dr. Garson’s SUV, and as I was propping her up with a sleeping bag, she gathered me into a hug and whispered, “Thank you so much for your help today, Dr. Owen. I owe you.” Her green eyes looked deeply into mine, and I brushed her strawberry blonde hair from her face and kissed her on the forehead. “You don’t owe me anything, Sarah. I’m just glad I was here,” I said.

“Me, too.” She smiled and looked down at her new stump.

Now I was really puzzled. As they drove away, I had a feeling that I would see Miss Sarah again.

I spent a really great 2 weeks at Jack’s cabin, although he and his family had to go home partway through the first week. I met up with Bill Garson the night before I had to leave, and over a couple of drinks we had a nice chat. I bridged the topic of Sarah with him, and he said the strangest thing. During the trip to the hospital in Bend, he looked back to check on Sarah, and she had one hand emek escort on the top of her propped-up stump, and the other down her shorts. Her nipples were visibly hard, and she appeared to be masturbating!

When I got back into cell phone range, there was a message from Gary, Sarah’s dad. The E.R. Doctor in bend did nothing to change Sarah’s amputation site, other than admitting her for observation overnight, and having her go to her G.P. to have the drain removed in a few days, and the stitches after about 12 days. Sarah was recuperating at home, and Gary asked if I would stop by, because she had something for me. Of course I agreed, and said I’d be over soon.

I pulled into Sarah’s driveway on Wednesday at about 4:30, just as her parents were apparently getting in their car to leave. Her mom, Janet, got back out of the car and gave me a tearful hug, expressing her gratitude for taking care of her daughter, and I got a hearty handshake for Gary as well. When I told them that I was checking into a hotel for a couple of days, Janet had a fit, and told me that if I wanted to live through the night, I would sleep in their guest room until I flew home. In fear for my life, I agreed with a laugh, and Gary helped me take my gear to the room above their garage, which was quite comfy and plush. They apologized for leaving, but said that Sarah had gotten them tickets to a Shakespearean play down in Ashland, about three hours away, and that they’d be gone until the weekend. I asked about Sarah, and they said she was in the kitchen.

I waved as they left, and then went in search of Sarah.

I found her in the kitchen, in the process of taking lasagna out of the oven. A pair of forearm crutches was propped against the counter, and she was wearing a gingham apron that looked as if it could have been older than she was. She heel-toed to her left and sat the lasagna on a hot-plate, then closed the oven door and turned it off.

She slipped off a pair of oven mitts, grabbed the crutches and turned. When she saw me, her face lit up and she crutched smoothly over to me. She gave me a slow hug, and then backed up a step.

“Thank you so much for coming, Dr. Owen! I really wanted to do something to thank you for being there for me, but I’m not very talented except when it comes to food, so I made you dinner. Can I get you a beer or something else to drink?”

“What do you have for beer, Sarah? And call me Owen, please,” I asked.

“Well, my personal favorite is Guinness, Owen, but I have other types as well.”

“You can stop right there, Sarah. Guinness is my favorite too, even for pasta.” She went to the refrigerator and grabbed two bottles. She grabbed one in each hand, and sat them on the table, then grabbed an opener from the drawer by the stove and opened them. She moved with such grace that it was hard to believe that she had only been a crutch user for a couple of weeks.

She took off her apron and revealed a tight pink t-shirt with the cartoon silhouette of an eight-woman rowing shell. Underneath the boat was the statement “Daddy’s little girl just kicked your ass!”

“How long did you row, Sarah?” I asked.

“Up until a couple of weeks ago, actually. I belong to a rowing club in Ashland, where I live.”

“Oh,” I said. “I guess I thought you lived at home.” I stated.

“Not for about three years. I got my degree from SOU in stage management last spring, and I work for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival down there. I was on vacation when we met. I still am, I guess, except that I haven’t spent the time quite like I thought I would,” she smiled. As she talked, she continued to bring food to the table, both with her crutches and by using her foot to heel-toe sideways.

Sarah was nearly my height, probably about 5’10”, and thin in an athletic, slightly muscular sort of way. Her hips were wide enough that they were womanly, but not too wide for her body type. Her breasts were quite small, but there was a swelling inside her light bra, hinting of largish nipples/aureolas. Her hair was in a high ponytail, which complimented her athletic body.

I think the most striking think about her, other than the new stump hanging from her right hip, was her skin. Her skin was a creamy white; translucent, but not so thin that you could see the details of her circulatory system, as in some European types. It shone with a remarkable glow, as if illuminated from within. Her stump, unbandaged, moved independently of its former twin, twitching occasionally as it hung limply. The scar on the end was healing nicely, already fading to a dusty pink from its former angry red. The drain incision was a tiny red dot on the lower rear aspect.

“Why do I get the feeling that you are not new to crutches, Sarah?”

“I was in athletics all through school. Everything from softball to gymnastics, and I was kind of a klutz. Rowing was the first sport I have been in where I didn’t break, sprain or strain something. I’ve had these since I was in junior high,” she said, holding up the crutches. “Let’s eat!”

I eryaman escort dug in with relish. The lasagna was the best I’d ever had, and I complimented her on it and the rest of the meal.

After we finished, I helped her clean up, and we stood side by side at the sink, talking easily as we washed and dried. The crutches stood unused in the corner of the granite counter. I had replaced them as support for the duration of the operation, and Sarah leant against me once in a while if she lost her balance as she worked.

Dishes done, she handed me a fresh Guinness and I followed her out to the patio near a lovely horizon pool. She sat down at the edge, letting her foot dangle in to cool water.

“I really miss the pool, Owen. I usually swim every day.”

“How long has it been, Sarah?”

“16 days and a few hours,” she answered.

“Well, quit missing it and get in! It’s been plenty of time!” I said with a smile.

Her head snapped around, and she yelled, “GET. OUT! I can go swimming?”

“Yeah, swimming and bathing is fine after the stitches have been out for a couple of days.

Sarah moved so quickly that she seemed to be a blur. She stood and dropped her jean shorts and panties, then flipped her top and bra over her head and was in the pool before I actually realized she was doing it.

I stood there with my mouth open, watching as she swam and splashed. She was absolutely stunning, and I felt myself wishing I was half my age. I had been right about her breasts. She had very little actual breast tissue, but her aureolas were enormous, sitting high on her chest like halves of ping-pong balls, almost exactly the same color as the surrounding skin. Her nipples were a deep rose color, however, standing proud and puckered, the diameter of my little finger, and deeply creased vertically at the ends. Her pubis was devoid of hair, and as she frolicked, it rose out of the water, no inner labia visible at all. Her navel was pierced, and a gold heart dangled from a matching gold curved barbell of about 8 gauge.

“Why are you still out there?” Sarah asked, wiping the water from her eyes.

“I don’t have a suit,” I stalled.

“Bullshit. You have one like mine.”

“Believe me, Sarah; nobody in this world has one that nice but you.”

“Thanks, Doc. Get in here!” she said, a huge smile on her face.

I don’t know why, but I turned my back to the pool as I undressed. As my boxers came down, I heard, “Nice butt!” from the pool. As I turned to face her, Sarah was standing in the shallow end of the pool, hopping gently to keep her balance. The sun had just gone down, and her skin glowed amber in the twilight. I think at that moment, she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. My cock was semi-hard, the foreskin not quite retracted yet. I dove in, and swam to the deep end.

When I turned around at the end of the pool, Sarah was right next to me. She placed her hands beside me on the edge of the pool, and very slowly trapped me between her body and the end of the pool. Her lovely face was less than six inches from mine, and her green eyes bore into mine with smoldering intensity.

“Umm, Sarah, I don’t think this is appropriate behavior between a doctor and a patient,” I stammered.

“Do you need to treat me any further, Dr. Owen?” she asked, her head tilted a little to one side.

“Ahh…no, I suppose not.”

“Good. You’re fired.” She said quietly, and then her lips were on mine. Her kisses were languid, but insistent, and I responded in kind. She took my lower lip in her teeth and bit gently as she pulled away, her eyes wide open. She hitched her foot up on the pool wall a little and suddenly I felt the most amazing feeling. She was fondling my cock with her stump!

As she rubbed my dick with her soft skin, she asked me, “Tell me, Owen. Have you ever fucked a one-legged woman? I’ve never fucked as a one legged woman, and I have a number of things I’d like to try. Are you interested?”

When Sarah had finished asking her question, I looked down into the clear water between us. Her nipples were hard, wrinkled and enormous. They scrubbed against my chest like fingertips, bending to and fro with Sarah’s movements. Below them, I could see her navel ring’s heart dancing in the water.

Below that, deeper in the water, her amputated thigh was bent almost flat against her rippling stomach, and the motion of her hips was sliding the smooth skin of the back of her thigh over my now-rigid member. My foreskin was fully retracted, and the exquisitely sensitive tip of my cock was reeling from the velvety touch of Sarah’s stump. My breath sucked in all at once, and as we watched the scene together, I came into the warm water. A moment later, Sarah grunted softly, and her hips pulsed in orgasm as well.

“Sweet Jesus!” Sarah exclaimed, panting softly. “I have never seen anything so erotic in my life. Did I do that to you?”

“I believe you did, Sarah,” I said, then kissed her passionately. Sarah waved one hand in the water, moving the ropes of my ejaculate to the filter basket. “Let’s go see how comfy your bed is, OK?” she said, hopping in slow motion toward the shallow end. She waited for me at the steps, and we put our arms around each other. I helped her up the steps by holding her by the waist as she stepped up.

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