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    #1

    The operation - Part one Short story

    It was a blazing and suffocating summer day when I was on the way to the hospital. I met dozens of people going in the opposite direction, on their way to the beach. There were families with children carrying inflatable animals, beach balls, diving flippers; parents loaded with picnic cases, blankets, towels and sunshades. Men walked dressed only in shorts and sandals, their arms and shoulders covered in tattoos and their pot-bellies swollen with good food and bottles of beer. Their wives swagged in provocative bathing suits, showing their well-trained bodies and newly operated breasts.

    I hated the summer. All my life I had been suffering from the copious perspiration. It had been affecting my way of living and my behaviour. While the others were enjoying their time with the girls and at the parties I stayed at home cursing my bad luck. I knew I had no chance to meet a girl. Women are demanding creatures. They search for the mighty and healthy men who would take care of them and give protection to them and their children. I myself surely did not belong to this category. My body was like a car which radiator had been damaged and needed to cool down every kilometre. Already a small increase of the temperature caused almost boiling of my cells and the final effect was litres of perspiration.

    During the warm days when the majority of the people sat in the open-air cafés or simply strolled through the streets I remained shut in my little flat which I by the way, called "prison" and tried to chill my body.
    I had tried everything to get relieved from this plague. After the ordinary medicine could not help me I turned to the alternative but without success. I drank dozens of different teas and other potions, was pricked with needles and massaged with scented oils, but there was no positive results and I was depressed asking myself wasn't it better to kill myself already now and get rid of suffering for ever.

    However, my hope sparked again one day when a doctor explained to me that there was an operation involving cutting of some nerves who lead from the rest of the body to the brain. The operation was simple but it could also be dangerous and cause many secondary effects. Some persons had died or suffered even worse then before the operation. But I was ready to risk everything, even my own life. I wanted at least for once to sit among the people without thinking of my forehead dripping sweat or drops running down my back. I wanted to hold a girl's hand in my own without feeling ashamed because of my wet palm.

    Since I had came to Sweden I did not stop visiting doctors. One day I broke my leg, anther my thumb, the third a god pneumonia, the fifth I was racked with the excruciating stomach pain. At times, when I lost desire to live and saw my existence meaningless I used to cut my veins and with my own blood painted the walls. After such excesses I was feeling well for weeks especially when I met a psychiatric who tried to persuade me that Sweden was the best country in the world and I an ungrateful refugee who was blaming the others for his own failure. He could never understand that I had felt much better in the war surrounded with people then now sitting lonely in my flat surrounded with machines who look like humans but never tell you one single word.

    To be continued...

  1. Soup's Avatar
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    #2

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    It was a blazing, suffocating summer day as I made my way to the hospital. I met dozens of people going in the opposite direction on their way to the beach. There were families with children carrying inflatable animals, beach balls, diving flippers; parents were loaded with picnic cases, blankets, towels and sunshades; men dressed in shorts and sandals only, their arms and shoulders covered in tattoos and their pot-bellies swollen with good food and beer. Their wives swagged in provocative bathing suits, showing off their well-trained bodies and newly implanted breasts.

    I hate summer. My entire life, I have suffered from a medical conditional called Hyperhidrosis, excessive perspiration. It has affected my way of life and my behaviour. While others were enjoying their time with girls and at the parties, I stayed at home cursing my bad luck. I knew I had no chance of meeting a girl. Women are demanding creatures. They search for the mighty and healthy men who can take care of them and protect them and their children. Personally, I surely did not belong to this category. My body was like a car whose radiator had been damaged and needed to cool down every kilometre. A small increase in the temperature brought me cells to the point of boiling almost; the final effect, litres of perspiration.

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    #3

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    Quote Originally Posted by Bassim View Post
    It was a blazing and suffocating summer day as I made my way to the hospital. I met dozens of people going in the opposite direction on their way to the beach. There were families with children carrying inflatable animals, beach balls, diving flippers. Parents were loaded with picnic cases, blankets, towels and sunshades. Men walked dressed only in shorts and sandals, their arms and shoulders covered with tattoos and their pot-bellies swollen with good food and beer. Their wives swagged in provocative bathing suits, showing their well-toned bodies and newly implanted breasts.

  3. RonBee's Avatar
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    #4

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    Quote Originally Posted by Bassim View Post
    Since I had come to Sweden I did not stop visiting doctors. One day I broke my leg, another my thumb. The third time I had contracted pneumonia. The fifth time I was racked with excruciating stomach pain. At times, when I had lost the desire to live and saw my existence as meaningless I used to cut my veins and with my own blood I painted the walls. After such excesses I felt well for weeks, especially after I met a psychiatrist who tried to persuade me that Sweden was the best country in the world and that I am an ungrateful refugee who was blaming others for his own failures. He could never understand that I had felt much better during the war surrounded with people than sitting lonely in my flat surrounded with machines who look like humans but never say a single word.


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    #5

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    I have made edits and reworded some sentences and corrected some grammar, but tried to keep much to the original text as possible.

    It was a blazing and suffocating summer day. On my way to the hospital, I came across people on their way to the beach: families with children carrying inflatable animals, beach balls, diving flippers; parents loaded with picnic cases, blankets, towels and sunshades; men dressed only in shorts and sandals, their arms and shoulders covered in tattoos, their pot-bellies telling of life filled with good food and beer; their wives swagged in provocative bathing suits, showing off their well-trained bodies and breast implants.

    I hated the summer. I sweat. A lot. All my life I have suffered from copious perspiration, a condition that has affected my way of life. While others were enjoying dating girls and going to the parties, I stayed at home cursing my bad luck. I knew I had no chance of meeting a girl. Women are demanding creatures. They search for mighty and healthy men who will care for them and protect their children. I surely did not belong in this category. OR I clearly was not in this category. I was more like a car with a damaged radiator and needed to cool down every kilometre. Just the smallest increase in the temperature was likely to cause my cells to reach the boiling point. The final effect was litres of perspiration.

    During warm days when the majority of the people sat at the open-air cafés or simply strolled through the streets I remained shut in my little flat which, by the way, I referred to as "prison" and tried to chill my body. I tried everything to get relief from this plague. After treatment with conventional medicine did not work I turned to alternative medicine. This did not work either. I drank dozens of different teas, potions, was pricked with needles and massaged with scented oils, but there were no positive results. I was very depressed and asked myself, "Wouldn't it better to kill myself now and get rid of suffering for ever?"

    My hope was rekindled when a doctor explained to me that there was a surgical procedure involving cutting of some of the nerves that lead from the rest of the body to the brain. The operation was simple but dangerous and could result in many secondary effects. OR It was a simple operation but one that could cause many side effects. Some people died or suffered from even worse symptoms than before the operation. But I was ready to risk everything, even my own life. All I wanted was to sit among people without thinking about my forehead dripping or drops of sweat running down my back. I wanted to hold a girl's hand in my own without feeling ashamed because of wet palms.

    Since I came to Sweden I have not stopped visiting doctors. First, I broke my leg, then my thumb. Yet another time I came down with pneumonia. On a different occasion I was racked with excruciating stomach pains. When I lost my desire to live and saw my own existence as meaningless I cut my veins and painted the walls with my blood.

    I met a psychiatrist who tried to convince me that Sweden was the best country in the world and that I was an ungrateful refugee who was blaming others for his own failure. He would never understand that I felt much better then, in the war surrounded with people than now, sitting alone and lonely in my flat surrounded with machines that look like humans but never say a single word.
    Last edited by Kate; 26-May-2008 at 19:52.

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    #6

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    Dear Kate.

    Thank you very much for your time and your effort to help me.

    Have a nice day!

  4. Soup's Avatar
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    #7

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    During the warm days when the majority of the people sat in the open-air cafés or simply strolled through the streets, I remained shut up in my little flat, which, by the way, I called "prison", and tried to cool my body.

    I had tried everything to get relief from this plague. After the ordinary medicine did not help me, I turned to the alternative but without success. I drank dozens of different teas and other potions, was pricked with needles and massaged with scented oils, but there were no positive results, and I was depressed, asking myself, wasn't it better to kill myself already now and get rid of suffering for ever?

    My hope sparked again one day, however, when a doctor explained to me that there was an operation involving cutting some nerves which lead from the body to the brain. The operation was simple but it could also be dangerous and it had many secondary effects. Some people had died, some had suffered even worse than before the operation. But I was ready to risk everything, even my own life. I wanted at least for once to sit among people without thinking of my forehead dripping sweat or drops running down my back. I wanted to hold a girl's hand in my own without feeling ashamed because of my sweaty palm.

    Since I had came to Sweden, I had not stopped visiting doctors. One time, I broke my leg, another time my thumb, the third time a got pneumonia, the fourth, I was racked with excruciating stomach pain. At times, when I lost the desire to live and saw my existence as meaningless, I would cut my veins and with my own blood paint the walls. After such excesses, I felt well for weeks, especially when I met a psychiatrist who tried to persuade me that Sweden was the best country in the world and that I was an ungrateful refugee who was blaming others for his own failure. He could never understand that I had felt much better in the war surrounded with people then now sitting lonely in my flat surrounded with machines who look like humans but never tell you one single word.

  5. RonBee's Avatar
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    #8

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    Quote Originally Posted by Bassim View Post
    I hated summer. All my life I had been suffering from the copious perspiration. It had been affecting my way of life and my behaviour. While others were enjoying their time with the girls and at the parties I stayed at home cursing my bad luck. I knew I had no chance to meet a girl. Women are demanding creatures. They search for the mighty and healthy men who would take care of them and protect them and their children. I myself surely did not belong to this category. My body was like a car whose radiator had been damaged and needed to cool down every kilometre. Already a small increase in temperature caused considerable perspiration.

    During the warm days when the majority of the people sat in the open-air cafés or simply strolled through the streets I remained shut in my little flat which I by the way, called "prison" and tried to cool myself.
    I had tried everything to get relief from this plague. After ordinary medicine could not help me I turned to alternatives without success. I drank dozens of different teas and other potions, was pricked with needles and massaged with scented oils, but there were no positive results, and I was depressed, asking myself if it wouldn't be better to kill myself now and get rid of suffering forever.

    However, my hope was sparked again one day when a doctor explained to me that there was an operation involving cutting of some nerves that lead from the rest of the body to the brain. The operation would be simple but it could also be dangerous and cause many secondary effects. Some people had died or suffered even worse than before the operation. But I was ready to risk everything, even my own life. I wanted at least for once to sit among the people without thinking of my forehead dripping sweat or drops running down my back. I wanted to hold a girl's hand in my own without feeling ashamed because of my wet palm.

    Since I had come to Sweden I had not stopped visiting doctors. One time, I broke my leg, another time my thumb, the third time a got pneumonia, the fourth, I was racked with excruciating stomach pain. At times, when I lost the desire to live and saw my existence as meaningless, I would cut my veins and with my own blood paint the walls. After such excesses, I felt well for weeks, especially when I met a psychiatrist who tried to persuade me that Sweden was the best country in the world and that I was an ungrateful refugee who was blaming others for his own failure. He could never understand that I had felt much better in the war surrounded with people then now sitting lonely in my flat surrounded with machines who look like humans but never but say a single word.

  6. Soup's Avatar
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    #9

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    Quote Originally Posted by RonBee View Post
    You've got a good eye.

  7. RonBee's Avatar
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    #10

    Re: The operation - Part one Short story

    Quote Originally Posted by Soup View Post
    You've got a good eye.
    Thanks.

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