Let Us Begin

sur·ger·y

ˈsərj(ə)rē/

noun

noun: surgery; plural noun: surgeries

1. 
the treatment of injuries or disorders of the body by incision or manipulation, especially with instruments.

Every definition available through a twenty second online search will result in some variation of what is spelled out above; it’s the classic medical interpretation right out of a MCAT textbook; it’s what everyone imagines when they hear a term like “scalpel” or phrase such as “going under.” Sure, let Google and Merriam-Webster call it what they please, but beneath that shiny surface of stereotypes and technical terminology, there is a hidden reality that is not always so clear cut.

While I very willingly admit I am not an expert, nor a MD or PhD, I like to think of myself as having a surgeon’s curious hands for the art- a gift that I will flatter myself with by saying is often not simply born merit that runs through everyone’s metacarpals and phalanges. At the age of six, I performed my first surgery- one I will look back on as being my most successful and even more so, most inspirational. At this point, my dissections took place outside on my rural Illinois driveway, not the operating room of a five-star hospital, and my instruments consisted of plastic silverware leftover from a 4^th of July picnic, not exactly polished and sterile metzenbaum scissors or debakey forceps. Regardless, I seemed to manage all too well, perfectly, in fact. My first patient, Mr. Dead Baby Bird, came into my office by coincidence that bright morning at the playground. I stumbled upon him resting in a tall bed of grass on the side of a concrete wall. Being the well-rounded physician I was at the time, I promptly decided I couldn’t simply leave him to nothing; I was too curious to let that happen. It was then that I took him to my workspace via a soon smelly car and fifteen-minute ride home. Sitting in the back seat, with my eyes fixed on his limp body, my veins seemed to tremble with excitement for reasons I cannot thoroughly put into words; it was a feeling and state of being, nothing more, nothing less. (I know, by this point you’re thinking “wow, um... not exactly your typical childhood hobby”, but at the end of the day, everything starts somewhere, and trust me, I do have a point.) Laying the patient down on the concrete with my parents hiding out inside, too disgusted to watch the first incision, was for the first time I can recall, when I felt truly freed and completely at peace. A zone of silence hovered over my soul as if I was meant to stay here for years, making what I thought were technical, precise movements through cutting, poking, inspecting, and dissecting to understand the anatomy of this bird. It was not only empowering, but also humbling, to have a life, even if it was already taken, largely under my control. Throughout the operation, I blindly whisked through Mr. Bird’s organs, harvesting them in a clear plastic bug container for later inspection and letting nothing go to waste. As if as a six-year-old child I had some miraculous deed to carryout and no time to focus on what my world was crumbling into, everything felt simple; everything except a blanket of complete contentment vanished and rinsed my mind free of the anxiety prone toxins sleeping in the corner of my thoughts reeking of arguing parents, a divorce, only a few friends to call my own, and unidentified loneliness. To be cliché, it was at that exact moment of realization that I knew this was a passion I not only wanted to pursue in order to experience such a release and serenity over and over again, but one that teamed with energy from my superior vena cava, through my atriums and ventricles, then out my aorta. Mr. Dead Baby Bird was enough for me to make a discovery that would influence the direction of the rest of my life and purpose here on Earth.

As your future surgeon, writer, and friend, I am not here to convince you or anyone else to relish in the joy and hardships of the medical field, let alone surgery. The “guts and the gore” are part of what it means to practice such a field and appreciating that is innate for some, takes time for others, and is simply impossible for most; obviously, I discovered at a young age that I conveniently fall into the first category. On the other hand, you may already know where you stand, or you may not. Regardless, I invite you to take a seat and do more with me than discuss anatomy and surgical techniques because ultimately, the art of surgery means less of that and more of practicing meaningful medicine with a steady mind, steady heart, and steady hands.