Surgeons

The thong about Grey's Anatomy is that it makes you believe that the guys and (girls) who cut you up are actually this good-looking. Nope -- not by a long shot :)

The thing about Grey’s Anatomy is that it makes you believe that the guys and (girls) who cut you up are actually this good-looking. Nope — not by a long shot :)

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 love McSteamy more than McDreamy. In my opinion, he's a more dashing surgeon in and out of the OR.

I love McSteamy more than McDreamy. In my opinion, he’s a more dashing surgeon in and out of the OR.

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)

perfectly sterilized

immaculately sanitized,

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,

tumor, adhesion

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.

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