II.II.V – In
II.II.V
IN
My third year in medicine war right around the corner. Third year – one of the most challenging years in the course if not the most. But it’s also the year I had been most looking forward to. Third year meant finally starting our clinical rotations!
The previous summer, before the whole Manchester saga, I had spent two weeks on a general surgery rotation. Surgery – the very thing that gave me a reason to be alive. I could just taste it. On my first day I remember feeling as if I had finally found a place where I finally belonged. The past two years had been all work and no fun, studying theory without any form of practice.
My passion had by then dwindled down considerably, but now I was going to be running around the hospital learning all kinds of things. I know it doesn’t sound glamourous – at all. Who the hell wants to hang out at a hospital? Isn’t that where people go to get poked and prodded and declared dead? I know. But to me it was so much more than that. To me the hospital was the promised land, heaven on Earth, the place where dreams come true. To me the hospital was where I wanted to be, where I chose to be.
On summer days when I didn’t have to go to work you’d still find me in bed by noon. On the first day of my rotation I was wide awake all throughout the night. I gave up on sleep and got up from my bed at around four in the morning. I pieced together an outfit that would say ‘stylish’ but also ‘professional’ and ‘best damn student you’ve ever taught’ all in just one look. Kind of a lot of pressure to pin down on one outfit, but hey, I needed all the help I could get. I wanted to make a great first impression; this was going to be my very first experience in surgery after all.
“My god, can you believe it? I might actually get to be in an OR. An OR!”. Only we don’t call it an OR here. Here, we call it an operating theatre. A theatre. Oxford dictionary defines a theatre as: “A building or outdoor area in which plays, and other dramatic performances are given.” And that’s quite apt to describe the OR. Surgery is a dramatic performance. It’s just like a show, like a work of art. The live performers are the patients, doctors, the nurses, the orderlies, the students and whoever else needs to be there. I was about to witness the show myself for the first time in vivo; not in vitro through a TV screen. It was privilege.
And so, I made my way to hospital and met my firm for the first time. As soon as they got to know it was my first rotation ever, I was dubbed the “Green Guy” and I automatically turned into a piece of furniture whose role was to look pretty and not get in the way of the grown-ups.
I was fine with that, I could learn simply by observing and that’s exactly what I planned on doing. During ward rounds; marathons around the hospital during which we’d check up on every patient under our care and make decisions regarding their management, I’d stand aside and try and absorb as much information as possible and answer questions to the best of my capabilities when asked. Back then my academic knowledge was mediocre at best so most correct answers were direct quotes from Grey’s Anatomy (reason number 2820910 why it’s the best damn show ever). Also, yes – I am aware that it’s not as medically accurate as Scrubs.
The next day would mark a life-changing moment to me. I got to observe my very first surgery. It was a twenty-seven-year-old woman suffering from ulcerative colitis (an autoimmune condition in which the body attack the colon) who was brought in because of megacolon; you don’t need any medical background to figure out what that means. Medical treatment was ineffective and as such, she required a colectomy – surgical removal of part of the colon to ensure the proper functioning of her remaining, healthy intestines. A colectomy would be the first surgery I’d ever get to witness! Cue fan-girl screaming.
I met the team on the surgical floor. Half-expecting to be told to wait outside, I was simply in disbelief when they told me to scrub in. “Come again? Me? Scrub in? Me?! Are you sure?” I babbled like an idiot.
They talked me through the technique and, holding my scrubbed hands up much like a surgeon in a medical drama, I walked into the OR. One of the nurses came to gown me. Me; a stupid, lowly student, gowned by someone who actually had a purpose in that room other than to observe. Then it suddenly occurred to me. Scrubbing in meant I’d probably be doing more than observing. “That’s not possible though. How could they trust an idiot like me with a patient’s life? Even if it’s the smallest thing I can screw this up in a million and five ways!”.
I dismissed all those thoughts simply cause I was too busy taking it all in. I was in an OR. All around me there was chaos. But not the kind you’d expect. It was organised chaos, a flurry of movements that seemed to be in harmony. Everyone had a purpose and a certain movement; it was just like a dance to me. I stood there, kowtowed by my newfound inferiority complex, awaiting expectantly, trying not to move an inch.
I was told to approach the anaesthetised patient, opposite to the surgeon. “Scalpel!”. And suddenly everything in front of me turned into a haze. It was exactly like how they describe a near-death experience. I could feel myself looking at my own body over my shoulders. There I stood, wearing a scrub cap, a gown, all gloved up and in those horrible crocs they had me wear. I could see my entire future right in front of me as I stood there. Time seemed to stop. And then he made the first incision.
The smell of blood wafted straight into my nostrils and I was back into my senses. He cauterised and the smell of burnt hair filled the room as he raised his head and looked directly into my eyes. “Hold the clamp and don’t move!”. What was probably so inconsequential to him was a milestone in my life. A few minutes before, I was certain I’d have to wait for the surgery to be finished before I could continue shadowing them and now, I was assisting them during said surgery. “What the hell is happening? Am I dreaming? Is this real?” I asked myself over and over. But I didn’t have time to ponder it much longer. He started to barrage me with questions; one after the other. I answered most and demanded an explanation for those I couldn’t. It felt as if I were his equal, like we were colleagues.
“I am a surgeon”. I could feel it. I am a surgeon. I am a surgeon. I am a surgeon.” I was born to be a surgeon. And that realisation came with a relief I didn’t know I needed. It wasn’t all crap after all. It wasn’t an unrealistic idea I had clung onto for the past four years. It wasn’t me trying to be something I wasn’t. I finally had something to back up my claim for the throne.
All throughout, I felt like I was on drugs. Like I was on a high, on a rush. I don’t remember what happened during that surgery, as if I had just flash-forwarded myself through it. What was a routine surgery to anyone in that room was one of the best damn things that had ever happened to me.