The Nameless Surgeon

I used to work for a mid-sized American company, at their London offices. Every so often, they liked to drag you into a glass-walled conference room for training sessions, team building and such like. I'm sure you all know the kind of thing.

On this particular occasion, I believe lateral thinking was part of the schtick. The trainer, a charming individual as it happens, related the following story to us.

A young boy is in a terrible car accident. He's very badly injured. The ambulance rushes him to the hospital. He is taken straight into an operating theatre. But as soon as he gets there, the surgeon says "I can't operate on this boy. This boy is my son." But the surgeon is not the boy's father. How come?

I had heard this so-called riddle before, which I immediately avowed, and was determined thereafter to maintain the magnanimous silence befitting one who had an unfair advantage.

I looked around. Blank faces. A hint of panic. Then the first tentative suggestions began. We ran the gamut. Explanations began on the mundane side, and swiftly and with increasing confusion began to wax more and more exotic. We had adoption. Fostering. Separation at birth. Test tube babies. Cloning. Complex scenarios involving incest and abduction by aliens.

It seemed that to the people in that room, most of whom were male but a couple of whom were female, mistaken-identity sperm-stealing extraterrestrials were more obvious, more likely to spring to mind at a pinch, than the concept of a woman being a doctor.

I could feel my blood pressure rising. I caught the trainer's eye a couple of times. I think I lasted a good long time, given the circumstances.

Finally I cried out, probably nearly shouting, "How many biological parents does a child HAVE?"

Two, came the sheepish answer.

"And the one that's not the father is called the.........?"

Mother, came the sheepish answer.

Looks of embarrassment all round. At least the people in that room knew enough to be embarassed. There are many people who probably wouldn't be. Every single individual sitting around that overpriced fuckety-foo conference table had a university degree. Most spoke multiple languages.

I'll be a post-feminist in the post-patriarchy.