When I was having that fatty tumor removed from my forehead a few weeks ago, at first the dermatologist, after slicing through the skin, tried to squeeze it out like popping a pimple. I thought, "I hope this guy knows what he's doing." Then there followed a lot of pulling and clipping as he said, "Your forehead may be numb for a while; we're having to cut through a lot of nerves." There was a piece of paper laid over my face with a hole in it just where the tumor was. That hole went down over my left eye. When the nurse was sewing the wound up after the doctor had gone, I kept opening my eyes and looking up at her. Every time I did, she told me to shut my eyes. Why did she want me to shut my eyes?--I thought. What difference could it make? It was later when I reflected that it must have seemed a little disturbing to be sewing up flesh that was staring up at you with a shimmering little eye, rather than thinking that the flesh you are stitching is that of some cadaver or comatose person. Yes, I thought: it must be disturbing to sew up a face that has a little blue eye staring up at you as you try to concentrate on your work, knowing how very much alive and awake that face is.