Chapter 3
HIDEO
One more appointment, then I get to dash home and rip the clothes off my adorable pocket bear.
It’s going to be hard to concentrate with my mind on my furry armful.
A sex date! It’s been far too long since I had all that luscious man naked on top of me, and his big one inside me.
If I have anything to say about it, when he’s finished with me, I won’t be able to walk for a week.
My last patient has some unwanted growths on his face.
He was vague when he scheduled the appointment with my office manager, but that’s what these consultation appointments are for.
I’m guessing they’ll be simple seborrheic keratoses, and I’ve done more of those than I can count.
We might even be able to take care of them this afternoon.
“He’s in three,” my assistant says, and I put on my most friendly face.
I knock and enter, saying, “Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Genji. It’s nice to meet you.”
He’s wearing a mask, so I take my lead from that and offer him an elbow bump instead of a handshake. Ah, the little rituals we adopted during the pandemic. I’m so glad those days have passed.
My eyes do a quick survey, and he’s remarkable.
Young-ish, maybe mid-thirties, and built like a brick wall.
He’s not exactly athletic, but he’s tall and chunky, very tall.
I imagine he would be imposing if he wasn’t slouching.
He has a fair complexion and the brightest ginger hair I’ve ever seen, but fortunately he’s probably too young for skin cancers.
I’ll watch out just the same. Hopefully, there won’t be any oncology referrals today.
His mask covers a truly prodigious beard, at least what I can see of it peeking around the edges. Damn, Bertie would love him. Bearded men float my own boat, but my BertieBear is the true connoisseur.
I don’t see any visible issues with the exposed areas of his face, so I ask, “Why have you come in today?”
“I’d like you to sit down,” he says, muffled behind the mask.
“I’m fine, but…” I say. It’s such an odd request.
“Please, humor me,” he says, so I roll over the chair and plop down, facing him and giving him my full attention. He has some reservations I don’t yet understand.
“Prepare yourself,” he says. “It can be a shock the first time.”
Now it’s becoming clear. He’s shy, or embarrassed, about his condition.
I should have guessed—it happens all the time, but usually not to this extent.
I’ve seen a lot of unsettling conditions during my days of medical school, internships, and practice, so there shouldn’t be a problem.
After all these years, it takes a lot to knock me off my feet.
I put on my friendliest face and say, “I assure you, I’ll be happy to help with whatever is troubling you.”
He peels off his mask to reveal a beautiful ginger beard, shimmering with an ombré of auburn and bright gold, and perfectly groomed, with a full curve and arching handlebars at the mustache. I can’t help it. I give a little sigh, truly wishing Bertie were here to see this.
Then, a miracle happens.
His entire beard unfurls, or unwinds, or extends…my mind struggles to understand, to classify what’s happening, to fit it into the textbook cases I studied in medical school. There’s nothing. This is something entirely new.
I feel my jaw drop and I stare, but luckily, I catch myself after a shameful moment and snap myself out of it. He’s here for help. He’s watching me with a tired look in his eyes, a look that’s entirely my fault. Could I be more unprofessional, sitting here and gawking?
I take the time to examine, critically, as his doctor.
They’re fingers, narrow, boneless fingers. No, they’re tentacles, extending from around his lips and off his chin. Two dozen, maybe more, each covered with that remarkable ginger fur. And mobile, constantly moving.
“Are they something new, or have you always had them?” My mind is racing, trying to understand and trying to formulate a sensible course of examination. They’re strangely beautiful, the way they wave and curl, and in their own unusual way, they’re completely natural, like they’re meant to be there.
“I’ve had them as long as I can remember, so I guess I was born with them. Funny, I never asked my parents about that. Without the beard, of course—that grew in when I was a teenager.”
“Is there any pain, any discomfort?”
“Not in the least, apart from scaring people.”
A wave of shame floods across my face, and I say, “I apologize for my response. That was unprofessional.”
“Not at all,” he says with a wry grin, and the tentacles on either side of his mouth dance into little curlicues. It’s mesmerizing. “I’m used to it. That’s why I asked you to sit. I’ve had people faint on the spot.”
“Thank you,” I say, deeply impressed by his consideration and unable to imagine what his life has been like. But he’s here for a reason, so I bring us back on track. I have so many questions.
“Let’s continue. So, you’re in no pain, and from what I can see, they have extensive motor function.”
“Yes, often too much.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. The ones on my chin are stronger, but they all move.”
“And you have conscious control of them?”
“Yes. Most of the time, but they have a mind of their own if I’m not paying attention.”
“When you came in, you had them tucked under your chin.”
“Yes, I’ve gotten good at that over the years, out of necessity. As you can imagine.”
He tucks them all back under his chin, and the upper lip tentacles rest in the position of a waxed mustache.
It’s like magic—in seconds, he transforms himself into a ginger hipster, a quite handsome one at that, certainly not anything that would cause panic.
I wonder why he needs the mask, with this level of dexterity.
I never would have suspected anything, seeing him like this on the street.
“That must take a lot of control,” I observe.
He gives a small smile and lets them all unfurl again, and my head goes light. It’s beyond belief, and I have to force myself not to stare.
“You could say that. I can usually hold them in for five or ten minutes. Try this. Contract your tongue as small as you can, and touch backward in your throat. It feels like that.”
I try it…and say, “I see what you mean. That gets old really fast.”
He gives me a real smile at that, one that goes all the way to his eyes.
“So why are you here today?” I ask, unfortunately suspecting where this is going.
“I’d like to remove them, all of them, if that’s possible, but my regular doctor won’t touch them.”
I understand his doctor’s hesitation completely. It’s right there in the Hippocratic Oath—do no harm. I say, “I’m not surprised, because they’re so perfectly functional.”
“That’s almost exactly what she said, and she recommended I try a cosmetic surgeon. So, I’m here.”
My whole being rebels against this. Truly, they’re a miracle…but I’m here to help him, and frankly, I’m completely caught off guard and don’t quite know how to get back on my feet.
“Okay,” I improvise, “here’s how I think we should proceed. Let me do a closer examination today. I’ll need to understand the physiology of the tentacles—do you mind if I call them tentacles?”
“That’s fine,” he says, getting smaller in the chair.
“Do you prefer another term?” His comfort is paramount here, and he’s been living with them his entire life, so we should use his preferred terminology.
“No, that’s fine. They’ve been called a lot of things: deformities, aberrations, abominations. Mom used to call them my TenTens, but I don’t think that’s appropriate here. Let’s call them what they are.”
This stops me in my tracks. This man must have been subjected to so much crap in his life.
It’s no wonder he’s considering radical solutions.
At least it’s good to hear his mother took a gentle approach, and he’ll get the same from me.
It’s time for me to focus on practical solutions and start mapping out potential treatment plans.
“I’ll need to understand the anatomy and physiology of the tentacle attachment, so I can safely remove them. Ideally, we’ll want to leave enough of your beard to cover the scarring. Our goal would be a similar facial profile, perhaps with a beard that’s less full.”
“That sounds great, Doctor.”
The prospect is daunting. Everything about this is new, so I’ll definitely need to do some reading.
As I remember, there’s a literature on vestigial tails, and extensive work on reconstructions of all kinds.
There must be something similar in the archives.
But for today, I’ll need to limit myself to outlining the general parameters, to give myself some place to start.
“These larger ones on your chin. Are they the strongest?”
“Yes.”
“Can you grip my finger?”
“Easily.”
I palpitate one of the largest ones at the center, and he wraps the end around my forefinger.
“Please, as tightly as you can.”
He grips, about as strongly as I could do with my pinkie. Impressive. It’s muscled along the entire length. The dorsal surface is densely covered with hairs, but the ventral surface is fleshy, not moist but not completely dry, like the palm of the hand.
“Thank you. And these ones under your lips?”
“They’re not as strong.”
He again wraps my finger, and the grip is slightly weaker.
The ventral surface is also hairless, and slightly oily.
I shift the light and lean in close. It’s uniformly muscled, thicker at the proximal connection to his face and narrow at the distal end.
The tip twitches constantly, tapping against my finger.
“Nori,” he says. “And wasabi.”
“I apologize,” I say. “I had sushi for lunch. Is my breath giving you problems?”
“No. I can taste it on your finger. And pickled ginger, and maybe some sugar. Did you have dessert?”
“Guilty as charged, although my waistline won’t thank you for noticing. This is remarkable. I washed my hands, but you can still sense that.”
He’s gone all shy at this. Maybe it’s a sensitive subject.
“Yes.”
“Amazing,” I say, and he closes down even more. I don’t understand.
“Can you taste with all of them? This is unprecedented.”
“The ones around my lips are most sensitive.” He pulls away and fumbles with his mask, starting to put it on. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. I think I should go.”
Something I did offended him—the touching during the examination or something I said—but I don’t know what. Everything about this interaction is new, but I can’t give up on him so quickly.
“Mr. Foxhill…Orion, please. I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable. Please stay and talk to me. If I said something off-putting, it wasn’t intended.”
He gives me a hard look, and then takes a seat again.
“I’ve had some bad experiences with doctors.”
“Ah,” I say, beginning to understand. I retreat to the other side of the room and give him plenty of space. “Please tell me.”
“The first time was back when I was a kid. I was having some growing pains and my tentacles were starting to get really active. Our regular doctor referred us to a research hospital, and the doctors there said things like remarkable and unprecedented.”
“And you don’t want to be a research subject. Again.”
He looks up at me and we make a connection…or at least I hope we do.
“No, I don’t.”
“I understand completely,” I say, striving to put him at ease, and reconfirming my own commitment to my unique patient.
“Please know that I’m here for you, and only for you.
I’m not trying to make my career with your case.
I simply want to work with you to find the best way to address your needs. Is this acceptable?”
“Yes,” he says quietly, and I see just a glimmer of hope in his eyes. I ponder again the experiences he must have suffered, but I’m determined: he’s not going to get any crap from me.
“I’ll probably slip and say words like that, but it’s simply because this is a new challenge for me. Please call me on it anytime I make you feel uncomfortable, and I’ll do my best to rein it in. Would you like to stay and continue?”
“Yes. Yes, that will be fine.”
“Good. So, the tentacles surrounding your lips are highly sensitive to taste. That will be an important consideration as we plan your treatment. You will probably lose that ability unless the sensitive regions extend across the entire tentacle and we can retain a portion of the sensory epithelium after the excision. How about touch? Are they sensitive to touch across the entire surface?”