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Fortunately for my patient, I had recently attended a national medical conference. While there I’d visited a surgical instrument vendor and purchased the highly specialized equipment that allowed me to perform the delicate surgery through which I was currently sweating.

“Dab!” I commanded, but it came out more of a plea than an order. Stacey, one of my surgical nurses, carefully reached around my hunched shoulders and blotted the sweat from my brow, cautious not to dislodge the magnifying headset I was wearing to help me better examine the minuscule parts of my Lilliputian patient.

No heart monitors or ECG units worked on such diminutive creatures, so monitoring the anesthesia was always a difficult and challenging task. You hear doctors joke, “The surgery was a success, but unfortunately the patient died.” I never found that funny.

It’s not uncommon for a patient to lose a small amount of blood during a surgery. Blood transfusions are commonplace in most human procedures, and rarely a problem. However, when your patient weighs barely over an ounce, losing even a few drops of blood can spell disaster.

A light veil of blue smoke wafted up from the tiny incision, forming an ominous, ever-changing ghost dancing over my patient as I used an electronic scalpel to cut through the paper-thin skin. The “blade,” which is actually a radio current that cuts and coagulates the tissue, results in a minimal loss of precious blood. Thankfully, the cutting was done, and the procedure was halfway completed.

“Dr. Mader,” a voice called into the surgical room. I had a steadfast rule that people were not allowed to enter the surgical suite while an operation was in progress.

“What?” I replied, with some irritation.

“We’re running out of food for the ward patients.” Leanne was new. She wanted badly to impress me and I could hardly get mad at her for her compassion, but this really was not the time to be discussing supplies.

“It’ll have to wait, Leanne. I’m a little busy right now.”

“What an idiot!” Stacey smirked.

“C’mon, Stace,” I remarked. “Remember when you were just starting out and all enthusiastic.” I reached for a sterile cotton-tipped swab and dabbed up a dollop of blood just as it started to ooze from the quarter-inch incision. Then, using an iris forceps—a miniature replica of common tweezers that has tiny teeth—I aligned the sides of the wound in order to suture it closed.

“Yeah, I suppose,” she mumbled, turning back toward the counter where she picked up and opened a pack of surgical thread as fine as a human hair. She dropped it onto my tray, being careful not to contaminate any of the instruments. Stacey was a bit rough around the edges. She was one of the ex-cons that I had working for me over the years. Most came and went, but Stacey stayed. For the sake of my patients, I was glad she did. She was competent, smart, and always one step ahead, which made my life in the operating room much easier.

The suture was black, the same color as my patient’s pelage, making it rather difficult to see, even under the harsh surgical lights.

“Stace . . .” I started to speak.

“Yeah, yeah.” She reached over and adjusted the focus on my headset. The binocular lenses allowed me to see even the tiniest thread.

“When are you going to be finished?” Leanne’s voice pierced through the partially opened surgical suite door, interrupting my concentration.

“Get outta here!” Stacey yelled, “And don’t open that door!”

“Hey, you two!” Nothing like playing surgeon and housemother at the same time. Then, to Leanne, “I’ll be finished in about ten minutes, whatever you need will just have to wait.”

“She’s clueless.” Stacey laughed again.

I returned to my task, anxious to finish the procedure and wake up my patient. Amputating an ear does not rank as an overly difficult procedure in most cases; but then again, Mickey was not like most of my patients.