The resident and I stood round his mattress in our cerulean scrubs and white coats and watched him smiling. His daughter appeared towards me, the one different male within the room, and paused, razor in hand.
“Would you like me to help?” I provided.
“Oh, would you,” she stated, trying relieved.
She rapidly handed me a foamcup crammed with scorching water and Barbasol, together with the razor. I chuckled to myself as I started working, shaving his face. It was makeshift, however acquainted. The defiant angles, going towards the grain right here, giving in there, and that higher lip, the toughest half. The first European surgeons had been barbers; what an homage. Still, giving a shave on the neurosurgery ward was a primary for me.
I dried his face with a towel. His daughter thanked me. Even with a mind tumor, and the compulsory exams, checks, and coverings that ensue in a hospital, on a regular basis life goes on. He wanted a shave as a result of he all the time has.
In the hallway I caught up with the resident.
“He’s always smiling,” I stated.
“Why do you think that is?” she requested knowingly.
I had had an inkling earlier than, nevertheless it was apparent now. He was smiling as a result of he had no alternative. The tumor, or perhaps the surgical procedure he had undergone to take away it, had robbed him of his expression. He would possibly really feel despair, elation, anger or fright, however now he might solely ever smile. It appeared in some way merciless.