Yes, I still maintain that Surgery is an old boyfriend that I am extremely fond of, but was never passionately in love with.
In my opinion, the world of Medicine can be divided into the country of Surgeons and the country of Non-Surgeons.
There are those who straddle those 2 countries — call them “people with dual citizenships”. To this group belongs (among others) ophthalmologists, otorhinolaryngologists and dermatologists (who, recently have dared to go beyond injecting botox and have attempted “Aesthetic Surgery”, a current rage in my society).
I can pass as a passable surgeon. The problem with me is I can easily sleep in the OR, which of course, is a no-no.
Despite my aversion to doing pelvic clean-up with lymph node dissection, omentectomy and random peritoneal sampling (believe me, I hated standing up for >3 hours straight and chasing after a rogue spurting artery), I can still say that …
There is Something About The OR Which I Love:
the adrenaline rush, the urgency
the hurriedness, harriedness, the life-and-deathness
the clear-cut white-and-blackness
of it all.
Scalpel slicing supple skin
laid down like sacrifice
amid sterling steel (table, bed, even the lights)
just in case, one never knows
what it might meet on The Other Side.
Am I a butcher or a healer?
The intriguing question runs through and through my mind.
Not during, but after
a procedure — for the mind shuts during a surgery.
The brain functions like a warrior
bent on vanquishing that bleeder,
with as much precision
as technology permits.
Ah, the OR, my battlefield, my theater, my basketball court.
All the mundane that I am is elevated to some degree of greatness
for 30 minutes to an hour.
Deep in that which passes for my heart, though, knows
that I am not a surgeon.
I couldn’t ward off sleep even during CS
(sometimes I doze over hys
or, god forbid,
while attempting pelvic clean-up)
Snoring over a woman with her abdomen open, uterus jutting out.
I zoned out at the blood bank while waiting
for rbc’s to arrive; to reprieve the coming
of that which
comes to us all.
I resented being responsible for a body that was not mine.
And for what compensation?
The bragging rights that one saved a live.
When one doesn’t care, not in her heart of hearts,
not at all.