When girlfriends attack.

Well, not so much attack but appropriate the remote control, which to an alpha clicker feels like nothing less than a full on gator roll. My girlfriend, Becky, doesn't watch a lot of TV. I do. But today she got the remote early (during a weak moment, when I was printing pictures on my computer) and wouldn't give it up.

The result? Nearly six hours of medical miracles, malignancies and malpractices courtesy of the Discovery Health Channel. Turns out she's fascinated by elephantine tumors, exploding cysts and third-degree burn victims.

But this isn't about exploring the wonders of modern medicine. I can hear her oohing, awing and ewwing as I surf around on the Internet in my bedroom.

"Look, honey!" she shouts, and I walk in and watch as a group of surgeons cuts a 200 lb benign tumor from a 120 lb woman. The tumor encases the woman like a giant nut sack. It contains, we learn, enough blood to fill five normal adults. Two surgeons slice it away, cauterizing the ropy arteries that connect the mass to her body, then flip her over to finish the job in just under 18 hours. She is a filleted, inert husk wearing an oxygen mask, and will now require, explains the narrator, "several skin grafts" to cover the 40 percent of her that is exposed and oozing. The group wrestles the tumor off the table.

"Gross," Becky says.

I agree and return to my computer, feeling weak.

Next up: Terrifying disfigurement. Becky calls for me again. "Brian, you have to see this." I press pause on my keyboard and the little animated guy in my flash game hangs in midair. I peek around the corner.

"Jesus, what the hell is that?"

The TV explains: A young girl from Afghanistan was pouring lamp oil into a stove when her robe caught on fire.

Ye Gods. The flames turned her skin into something like candle wax, which melted down her ears and face, fusing her chin to her chest and her left arm to her side. When they first show the girl she looks like a monster. Thick scar tissue pulls on her face such that her eyes and lips are stretched downward. For a year after the accident, she couldn't close her eyes to sleep. Her right ear looks like a fist. Afghan doctors wrote her off, but her story got out to an American surgeon, who flew her to the States and is now explaining the procedure.

I'm committed. I have to see the little girl get better. I can't live the rest of my life with that image.

The surgeon goes to work. First he cuts a line straight across the mass of scar tissue under her face, releasing the trapped chin. Next, a dozen skin grafts, reconstructive surgery on her ear and more skin grafts. Then, more skin grafts. I'm amazed at how brave the little girl is. She makes friends with everyone at the hospital and begins learning English.

After a year of painful procedures she looks like a little girl again. I'm relieved. She's staying with the surgeon and his wife and has begun going to school. There is some initial awkwardness as the new students look her over, but soon they accept her and she makes more friends than I ever had at that age.

The surgeon and his wife briefly consider adopting her, but realize she has a family waiting for her back in Afghanistan. So they take her back. The little girl's parents cry when they see how much their daughter has improved. The surgeon hugs her goodbye and boards the plane for home. It's a beautiful, bittersweet story. Roll credits.

"Ugh," says Becky. "After all that, she has to go back to Afghanistan, where women are oppressed and she'll live in poverty."

"She wanted to go back, remember?"

"No, she wanted to see her family. But she looked miserable in those video clips in the village."

"But now she knows English and has people in the US who love her." I'm getting desperate. "Maybe she'll move there to go to college or something."

"Yeah," Becky says skeptically.

It's like we just watched a movie and are arguing over it's genre. I want it to be an inspiring story about the triumph of the human spirit. Becky's going the horror route, one of those movies where everything seems to resolve itself before revealing a final, tragic "Whah-Whah."

I leave to get some shopping done and pick up dinner.

"You're gonna like this next one," Becky promises as I put the takeout bags on the coffee table. She's cuddled up in my Ikea chair. I should have brought her some popcorn and a Coke.

The title comes up on the screen: "When surgical tools are left behind."

Becky laughs. "Don't go by the title."

I'm halfway through my chicken korma when a laconic Hispanic woman begins telling her story. (Bored Hispanic accent): "The doctors, they opened my breast to check for a tumor. It was benign, but later that night my breast grew the size of my head. And the breast, it was purple. I went to the doctor and when he removed the bandages it just exploded." I lower my fork as she clarifies: "The stuff was thick and red, like red Jello. The doctor, he gave me an antibiotic and told me it would be OK. But I awoke that night covered in a thick slime, you know? Like a slimy slime all over my body."

"Alright, turn the channel!" I yell.

Becky fumbles with the remote, giggling.

"C'mon, turn it to anything, I don't care, just turn it. Please. Hurry."

She turns it to a shopping channel. Fine, that's a safe home base. We can watch a platinum-blonde woman hocking fake jewlery in the right-hand corner of the screen while Becky hunts for more appetizing fare.

After dinner, I go back to my room. There is more: Children who age prematurely, a guy whose grapefruit-sized scrotum leaks a "cup to a cup-and-a-half" of pus every day. A fifteen year old girl who screams as she gives birth to her first child. I'm not going back in there, but I can hear it all from my room.

Later, Becky emerges from the living room. "Forget that Freddy Kruger stuff," she says. "Medical procedures -- now that's real horror."