Dr. Venji was a small man of friendly demeanor. No outward manifestation of sadist at all.

Torture is a word trivialized by average, mild-mannered suburban types like Kev. Kev considers it torture to endure a commuter train ride home after a long work day with a bunch of loud kids in the car he’s sitting in. Or to wait more than five minutes in line at the Starbucks for his Tall Blonde in a Grande cup while people in front of him wrestle with terms like Venti, Macchiato, and Latte. Or to listen to his mother-in-law describe in gory detail her recent corn removal.

Torture was never, you know, bamboo-under-the-fingernails, hammer-to-the-toes, healthy-teeth-extraction-without-Novocain torture. At worst, it was usually self-inflicted psychological stress.

It was, that is, until he met Dr. Venji.

Kev’s path to the painful yet futile session with Dr. Venji began with a simple yet fruitless business meeting with Roger Hendricks. More accurately, it began with the end of that meeting.

Kev met with Roger, a prospective business partner, at Roger’s office to discuss a potential venture. After an hour or so, the amicable discussion had led them to conclude that they would not be doing business together. Still it had been a pleasure to meet one another. Some good networking if nothing else, Kev thought.

Roger concluded with the ceremonial handshake, but then dropped the tone of his voice from business-friendly to sotto voce and said, “Would you mind if I ask a personal question?”

“Not at all,” Kev replied, though he wasn’t sure where this was leading.

“I couldn’t help but notice that your right eye droops a bit,” Roger said, as tactfully as possible. “Were you aware of that?”

“I guess I didn’t realize it was that noticeable,” Kev replied with an embarrassed laugh.

“Oh, it isn’t conspicuous,” Roger said apologetically. “I may be more prone to notice it because of a close friend of mine. You see, he also has a drooping eye. He didn’t think anything of it, but upon his next doctor’s visit, discovered that it could be a tell.”

Kev gave him a questioning, not sure what you mean look.

“A sign,” Roger explained. “An outward manifestation of a serious problem.”

“Really?” Kev said. This was not where he thought this was going at all.

Roger took a deep breath. “I’m not trying to scare you,” he said, smiling nervously, “but it could be the sign of a brain or lung tumor.”

Kev didn’t really believe in destiny, though he respected the possibility, just in case. As proof of the wisdom in that precaution, he recalled how that very morning, as he drank his coffee on the train ride into the city, he had been thinking about how lucky he felt, how good his life had been so far. He had a great wife, a beautiful daughter, a nice home, a good job, good health. This was an unusual, though pleasant momentary appreciation of his life. He wasn’t sure what sparked the reflective little moment either. One second he’s sipping his Tall Blonde in a Grande cup, staring out the window at the passing urban scenery; the next, he’s feeling like hey, life’s pretty good!

As if he were tempting Fate. And apparently, Fate took the bait. So you think you appreciate how good you have it, do you? replies Fate. Let’s just see about that…

Of course he’d noticed the drooping eye. But Kev had quickly dismissed it, probably no big deal, buried any concern deep in the recesses of his psyche to dwell and fester until someone like Roger here comes along. Those words, brain or lung tumor skewered through his subconscious like a sucker punch to the gut, releasing the pent up fear.

Kev’s jaw went slack, his mouth hung agape, and the blood drained from his face like a punctured water balloon. Roger’s expression turned quickly to one of concern. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked, reaching his hand out to steady Kev.

Kev muttered something, “No,” perhaps, and clumsily reached out for the table in the conference room where the two had met so pleasantly just moments ago. He planted his palm on the table top in the manner he would anchor his foot to the floor on those nights when he had consumed too much alcohol and that seemed the only way to keep the bed from spinning wildly out of control. The room seemed to warp and the table stretched out before him.

Kev slowly panned to look out the window, a marvelous view of a sunny spring Chicago day from the twenty-third floor of the Loop office building. It faced south, and Kev thought he could see Comiskey, or whatever brand had its name slapped on the White Sox stadium this season. The Sox would be playing now. Cleveland, Kev thought. Maybe KC.

“Would you like a drink?” Roger asked, very concerned by Kev’s reaction.

Kev felt his head slowly shaking a negative response, but heard his detached voice supersede with, “Yes, thanks.” Cold beer sounded good right then. Scotch sounded outstanding. “Some water, maybe?” Kev said. His voice seemed to have re-connected with his body, but the room still undulated in waves unnatural to the universe.

Kev had first noticed that his right eyelid seemed heavy about a year earlier. He chalked it up to a combination of fatigue and work-related stress. It didn’t bother him on a day-to-day basis, but he noticed it in photos. Slight droop in the right eye—more pronounced in recent months. No pain or any other symptoms. But he didn’t like the look of the pictures. No one had mentioned it. Until Roger.

Lung tumor danced through his racing mind. He had an adorable five year old daughter. He and Jess were trying to make her an older sister. Brain tumor. Didn’t things like that show up one day and six weeks later you’re headlining the obits? Kev decided that sitting down might be the best way to enjoy his drink.

“I’m really sorry,” Roger said as he dashed back into the conference room with a plastic cup of water. He set it before Kev, spilling a little on the table. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

No worries, man. Kev tried to say with a slight shake of his head at Roger. I get turned down on business deals with lines like YOU ARE MOST LIKELY DYING all the time, Kev thought.

The prospect of not getting Roger’s business suddenly could not have mattered less. Kev was ashen. Little gray spots exploded like tiny reversed fireworks all around the surging room. He saw the cup of water but did not dare move his hand from its anchor position on the table. He had fainted before. It had been years ago, but that pre-fainting feeling came back to him all at once. Cold sweat covered his brow, his hands tingled, and someone was slowly turning down the giant volume knob on the universe. The blood in his temples kept time with his heart. Gray fireworks continued to burst before his eyes, blacking out the expensive artwork on the wall to his left and the magnificent view to his right. He knew he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

Then a burst of adrenaline surged to his rescue. He realized that, despite his anxiety, he did not want to faint in front of Roger. Lost deal, tumor, death—all would have to take a backseat to avoid the humiliation of fainting in this conference room. Kev closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Uhh, are you okay?” Roger asked, now quite concerned. He had no idea Kev would take his observation so poorly. He thought he’d just pass along a little fair warning, probably nothing, but maybe just check it out advice. But this guy looked like he may be having a heart attack. It might be prudent to call an ambulance.

Kev kept his eyes closed and inhaled deeply a second time. He raised one finger from the table, hoping to signal to Roger his request for a moment to re-compose. After a third breath, he opened his eyes. The world had stopped shifting like a fun house. The air was free of the gray bursts of impending unconsciousness. Kev looked up at Roger, smiled and drained the cup of water in one gulp.

Danger averted. All was back to normal. Yet Kev’s life, it seemed, was irrevocably changed.

After failing to convince Roger that he was fine and glad that he had shared the droopy eye analysis with him, Roger apologized repeatedly and tried to assure Kev that it was quite possibly nothing until the elevator doors in the reception area of his office blessedly shut him out of Kev’s life.

Kev realized that Roger wasn’t the problem, merely the messenger and all. Still, he found himself relieved to be out of Roger’s presence.

Now I know what torture feels like, thought Kev as the elevator descended. But actually, he didn’t.

Not yet.

# # #

Ptosis flashed at Kev from his phone’s screen. “Toe-sis.” 1,832 possible links claimed the results of the Google search. Kev clicked on a few of the links. Many offered benign prognosis. Others confirmed Roger’s assertions; brain tumor. Lung tumor. Not good.

Kev didn’t want to worry his wife, Jess. She managed to worry about things like the wall collapsing on them because of the weight of a picture frame he’d hung over their couch. “Are you sure that will hold?” Jess asked while they sat beneath it watching TV.

“The picture I hung on the wall three years ago?” Kev replied.

“It won’t just work its way loose, right?” Jess asked. She was serious. Kev did not know how to respond to a question that crazy without using heaping helpings of sarcasm and sounding mean. So he just kept quiet and continued watching TV.

Lord knows what she would do with something real to worry about.

So Kev made an appointment with his primary care physician, Doc McBride, just for a check-up. “It’s been a couple of years,” he said to Jess.  She nodded. She had regularly seen her doctor since Becca had been born.  “I might have him check my droopy eye while I’m there,” Kev added as a throw-away afterthought.

“Yeah, I noticed that,” she said, touching the eye in question. This was the first time she had ever mentioned it. So she had noticed, too. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Kev said. “It’s probably just ‘cause I’m tired.”

“You stay up too late,” Jess said. “You’re not in your twenties anymore.”

“Are you saying I need my beauty rest?” Kev asked.

“Check the mirror, Mr. Droopy-Eye,” she said, then kissed him playfully. “You don’t think it’s anything serious?”

“No,” Kev said, trying to assure himself as much as Jess.

“Doc McBride,” she huffed. “Sounds like some wild west character. Combination barber, dentist, doctor and bar-keep.”

“You make him sound like a well-rounded drunk.”

# # #

“It’s probably nothing,” Doc McBride told Kev after the exam a few days later. He said it a little too unconvincingly for Kev. The doc rocked back on the little stool with coasters and rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand as he thumbed through the medical charts with his left.

Kev sat on the exam table opposite him, clad in shorts and a paper gown open in the back. His sweaty thighs stuck uncomfortably to the crinkly, waxy paper stretched over the table. Kev clenched the table’s padding and alternately curled and stretched his exposed toes as they dangled eight inches above the cold, tile floor. Physically, he felt fine. As fine as a slightly overweight, out of shape, late thirties desk jockey could feel. The results from his check-up seemed to confirm that he was fine. But there was hesitancy in the doc’s voice.

“I’m sure it’s just fatigue,” he offered, but not whole-heartedly. Watching him wrestle with the thought of dismissing this outright versus sending Kev off for a battery of specialists and testing reminded Kev of why he liked him: his transparent honesty.

Doc McBride clucked his tongue against the top of his mouth as he read and re-read Kev’s file. “You wear contacts, right?” he asked. He had the old country doctor demeanor, gruff yet charming. Conservative, not alarmist.

“Soft contacts,” Kev replied, “Monthly disposables.” Kev enjoyed his down-to-earth approach to family medicine. He found McBride’s open disdain of the healthcare system and distrust of mega pharmaceutical firms refreshingly honest.

Doc stopped flipping through the file and just looked at Kev. He seemed to look through Kev, with the kind of X-ray eyes we all secretly wish our physicians magically possess. Kev didn’t go to the doctor looking for conjecture or theory. He wants him to know instantly exactly what is wrong with him and prescribe exactly what needs to be done to fix him. Doc McBride wished it were that easy, too.

Doc squinted in a pained way and took a deep breath. Kev held his. “Ahhh, it’s most likely nothing,” Doc finally conceded. “But to be certain, you should see a specialist for a second opinion.” He wrote up the paper work and sent Kev on his way.

# # #

After his initial analysis, Dr. Venji, the neurologist, concurred that there was most likely nothing to worry about. But to rule out the worst-case scenario and perhaps make this month’s boat payment, he recommended that Kev take a few blood tests and an EMG.

“Electromyography Nerve Conduction,” seemed to roll naturally off his Indian tongue.

“What’s that, like a shock thing?” Kev asked.

“Yes, nothing to worry about,” he said dismissively. “A few minor electric surges to test your nerves. I conduct the procedure myself.”

No veins. No blood. Sounded fine to Kev. He had a thing about veins and blood. Shock me all you want, Dr. Venji, Kev thought.

Oh, he would.

Kev had assumed that the area of his body to be tested would be the muscles and nerves around the drooping eye.

“No. No. No,” Dr. Venji explained. “I need to test your extremities, to see if any nerve damage is manifested in your arms or your legs. If this proves positive, it would mean a much more severe case, and require different treatment.”

So far, everyone seemed to agree that it was probably nothing. So Kev was fairly relaxed. Sure, while I’m here, let’s just eliminate the remote possibility of something horrible. No harm in that.

Well, maybe a little.

Dr. Venji had Kev lie on his back and hooked three sensors to his right hand.  Then he took a small, handheld cattle prod and jammed it against Kev’s arm. It felt the way Kev imagined it would if he were to lick his finger and run it real fast across an electric outlet. It hurt a little, but then it was gone.  Sure woke him up, though.  He felt his hair standing on end.

Dr. Venji repeated this little shock treatment four more times along various spots on Kev’s arm.  He always stopped just before the experience escalated from irritating to painful.

This isn’t so bad. Kev thought. Annoying, sure, but no veins. No IVs. No problem!

Then Dr. Venji taped together the fingers on Kev’s hand. “I want you to try to stretch them apart,” he said. “I am testing to see how long it takes to fatigue the muscles in your arm.”

Was it Kev’s imagination, or was Dr. Venji enjoying himself?

Kev flexed the bound fingers for a few seconds. “Very good,” said Dr. Venji. “I will now apply the same shock, but for a more prolonged period of time.” He paused. “This will become quite uncomfortable.”  He was right. But before Kev had a chance to think about what that meant, Dr. Venji began.

‘Unbearable’ would have been a better word to describe the experience.  Kev was beginning to get a more clear appreciation for the word torture.

Each shock lasted ten seconds. Ten shocks on the same spot on Kev’s wrist.  Each shock wave cascaded through his entire body, reverberating off his nerves and running into the onslaught of a new wave on the flipside.  Kev thought of the classic image of someone feigning being shocked, writhing spasmodically back and forth.  That was him. For real. By the end, he nearly screamed.

“Stretch your fingers apart as much as you can and hold it for as long as possible,” Dr. Venji said without apology.  Kev did so gladly and quickly. Anything to keep him from turning on the juice again. “Very goood,” Dr. Venji purred, as he studied the readout on the monitor, “Now, I’m going to do that again.”

Before Kev had time to argue, the bastard was zapping his wrist again.

Kev counted along three…four…five…six…  the time it took to get from six to ten was an eternity of pain. You know what keeps you from fainting spells? Dr. Venji and the electric wand of evil.

At the end, Kev again dutifully flexed his fingers and again Dr. Venji seemed pleased with the results. Kev started to relax a bit.

“Now, just one more time,” Dr. Venji said quickly, and again he attacked Kev’s wrist for another ten sessions. Holy shit, did that hurt. Not just the wrist, now his entire body ached from the inside out.

“Okay, all done with that,” Dr. Venji announced as he detached the big prod from the electric plug and set it aside. He attached a smaller prod and began zapping Kev’s fingers individually, though using lesser wattage.

He jotted some notes on the printout, a bunch of squiggly lines detailing the recent displeasure. “We are finished with that part of the test,” Dr. Venji said. Kev didn’t feel any more at ease. Less so as Dr. Venji rolled his chair back and pulled some rubber gloves out of a drawer.

To Kev, rubber gloves meant one of two things: internal exam or blood.  He didn’t much care for either option.  Dr. Venji unwrapped a fresh, sterile needle. The wide end of the needle plugged neatly into his fancy electric shock machine.

“This will hurt a bit,” Dr. Venji said as he jammed the needle into Kev’s shoulder. Then he flipped a switch applying a mild shock.  The poking into the skin actually hurt more than the shock, but neither were as bad as the previous test. Kev started to calm down a bit and actually didn’t mind too much as the good doctor repeated this procedure in different parts of his arm, closer and closer to his hand.

It was interesting, Kev thought, what level of discomfort seems suddenly to be tolerable now that electro-shock treatment has been introduced as the new benchmark for comparison.

Dr. Venji removed the instrument from Kev’s arm and quickly stabbed it into the flesh in the back of Kev’s hand, between the thumb and forefinger. That really hurt, even by the new standard.  It hurt a lot more when Dr. Venji cranked the juice. “Ow!” Kev said, and actually pulled away from the seemingly more and more evil doctor for the first time in the exam. He seriously considered punching the little man.

“Yes, I know, that does hurt a bit,” Dr. Venji admitted.  Kev wondered if he did know. If Dr. Venji actually had first-back-of-the-hand experience. Kev was quite ready and willing to turn the tables and provide it to him. No charge. Well, no fee. Plenty of charge.

Dr. Venji turned Kev’s hand over, palm up, “Okay, the good news is that this next one is the last one. Unfortunately, it is also the most painful.”  And before Kev could react, he thrust the needle into the fatty part of Kev’s palm and flipped the switch.

Well, he wasn’t kidding.  It hurt like hell.  Worst pain, by far. Kev’s palm throbbed long after Dr. Venji was done, had stripped off his gloves and congratulated him on being so tolerant of such a painful procedure. Kev redressed quickly, buttoning up his shirt before Dr. Venji decided to provide an encore performance.

“So, how long until you get the results?” Kev asked, rubbing his abused arm starting with the palm, and working up toward the shoulder.

“Oh, your nerves are fine,” Dr. Venji said. “I still need to see the results of your blood tests. We should have final results for you next week.” The little man shook Kev’s hand with such civility, it was as if he hadn’t just tortured him for the past half hour.

The following week, Dr. Venji looked at the results and asked, “Do you wear contacts?”

“Yes,” Kev said.

“You should see an ophthalmologist,” Dr. Venji said. “You probably just need a different kind of contact lens.”

He was right. Kev went from monthly disposables to bi-weekly disposables and the ptosis went away.

His contacts.

Doc McBride had hinted that that might be the root of the problem. Kev could have avoided a lot of physical and emotional pain had he just tested that theory first. But that path would not have satisfied Fate.

True appreciation only comes through true suffering, through some sacrifice, Kev imagined the voice of Fate lecturing him while he sipped his Tall Blonde in a Grande cup on another sunny morning commute into the city.

I thought I had appreciated my happy, mild-mannered life, Kev admitted to Fate, in his mind’s eye. You saw to it that my appreciation be confirmed through suffering the torture of humiliation in Roger’s office, the weeks of mental anguish dreading the specter of my mortality, and the physical sacrifice of torture from the electric wand of the merciless Dr. Venji.

Thanks, Fate, Kev thought, toasting the great unseen force with a raise of his cup.

In reply, a spasm shot from his shoulder to the palm of his hand and back, as quick as lightning.