Soaring
II.II.IV
SOARING
Coming back from Turkey, I was relieved and somewhat humbled to find out that the department had actually survived my absence.
I guess that’s when I realised that no one in the hospital is indispensable and that business goes on as usual with or without someone – no matter how much responsibility they have. Looking back, I find it absolutely insane that I hadn’t taken a day off in over a year. It wasn’t just that it was almost impossibly hard to do so – having to find someone else to cover for us when we were absent (which is ridiculous and unheard of in most other workplaces). It was also the belief drilled into us that the firm would somehow collapse if junior doctors weren’t around to do the scut work seniors would never even consider doing themselves.
And that’s why it took me reaching my breaking point before I finally decided to take time off. By that point in time, I could hardly care whether the department would fall and crumble. And although the department didn’t, in fact, collapse, that isn’t to say that Jacqueline didn’t have a hard time keeping everything afloat – often having to stay later than usual and rope in the help of other colleagues just to get things sorted.
Right when I was planning my trip to Turkey, I insisted she’d take a week off too. It was only fair, after all. And now it’d be my turn to drown in work.
On my first day back, I could compare myself handling my gargantuan workload to Sisyphus as he pushed that massive rock up the mountain. Much like Jacqueline, I ended up staying overtime more often than not and begged my friends to help out in any way they could. Christa, of course, helped out too – but with her hands full with all kinds of duties, it was still unmanageable for one doctor to carry the weight of all the pending ward work.
By the time Jacqueline came back, I was a ghost of my former self. That said, I had some great news to share with my now well-rested and restored colleague: we’d be getting two new seniors. This, of course, meant our workload would diminish considerably and we’d probably go on to have a decent lifestyle. In fact, I figured I’d be able to take more time off. And so, when my friends asked me to join them for a medical course abroad, it didn’t take much for me to accept the offer.
We’d be going to Glasgow for the Basic Surgical Skills (BSS) – a two-day course designed to instil core surgical skills at the very start of a surgeon’s training by teaching the correct basic techniques.
Having just passed my MRCS Part A, the road for me to apply as a basic specialist trainee in surgery the following year lay wide open. Wanting to perfect some of my surgical techniques before starting formal training, this course would be the ideal addition to my resume, hopefully strengthening my chances to get into such a competitive training programme. Plus, I’d never been to Scotland, so this sounded like nothing short of yet another dream trip. And lemme just say, it really was. Together with four other friends-slash-colleagues, I embarked on a great new adventure.
Getting to Glasgow already felt like the start of something important. There’s a certain buzz that comes with travelling for a course you actually care about, and it only intensified as we made our way through the city to the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons of Glasgow.
The building itself was impossibly grand – a striking blend of historic stonework and quiet authority, standing proudly like it had all those years – witnessing generations of anxious, sleep-deprived doctors passing through its doors. Walking inside, with its high ceilings, polished corridors, and walls lined with portraits of stern-looking predecessors, it was hard not to feel slightly intimidated. It had that unmistakable aura of tradition and expectation, the kind of place that reminded me that I’m just a small part of a very long lineage – and that I’d better live up to it.
We were briefly ushered into a lecture room, where the faculty laid out the structure of the course and what would be expected of us over the next two days. Then, we were ready to begin.
From the moment we stepped into the skills lab, it felt like being let into a slightly secret world. Workstations neatly laid out, instrument trays gleaming under harsh lights, synthetic models and animal tissue waiting to be cut, stitched, and inevitably butchered. The tutors wasted no time – senior surgeons with that unmistakable mix of calm authority and dark humour – breaking techniques down to their fundamentals, drilling into us that precision, economy of movement, and respect for tissue that mattered far more than speed or ego. Here, we’d have time to stop, breathe and think.
We worked our way from the basics – instrument handling, knot tying, and suturing – things I’d practised ad nauseam back in Cambridge and during my time as a house officer – to more advanced skills that hinted at what lay ahead. Bowel and vascular anastomoses, wound management, safe use of diathermy – all performed under watchful eyes that caught every unnecessary movement and every poorly placed stitch. There was something deeply satisfying about it all. About slowing down, focusing, and getting immediate feedback. No bleeps. No ward chaos. Just hands, instruments, and the quiet concentration of trying to get it right. This was so far from what we were used to back in hospital.
The atmosphere was intense but strangely joyful. Everyone there wanted to be there. Between sessions, we swapped stories – where we worked, how we’d ended up in surgery and what had drawn us to this slightly masochistic career path in the first place. There were house officers like me, fresh-faced and slightly terrified, alongside more senior trainees who made everything look effortlessly smooth. Being surrounded by people so openly passionate about surgery was not only energising, but also reassuring. It reminded me why I’d chosen this path to begin with.
By the end of the two days, my hands were sore, my brain was fried, and my confidence was quietly buzzing. It was exhausting, yes – but it was also two full days of pure bliss. The kind of exhaustion that feels earned. The kind that leaves you thinking, Yeah… this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.