Surgery by Pravin

Surgery by Pravin - October 2016 Scholarship Essay

From a superficial perspective, the man in the pre-op room was completely different from my grandpa; however, there was an uncanny resemblance. His eyes. When my grandma died at the hospital, my grandpa refused to go back to the hospital even when he was sick. During my visits to India, my mother would drag him to the hospital for yearly check ups. Although my mother would assure him everything would be alright, his eyes would show his true fear. Those same anxious eyes that I had seen in my grandpa were now in the sockets of an alcoholic who suffered from multiple heart and lung diseases. He had three kids, all under eighteen, with no mother to care for them. His age seemed to negate all logic and reason —he looked old and frail, the pack of cigarettes per day had ruined his gums and could only create incoherent sentences. As the anesthesiologist gave him instructions for post-surgery, the windows into the man’s soul showed his entrance into a darker and deeper sadness. He was poor. He could not get the water and electrolytes needed to stay healthy. Before we left the room, he kept on repeating one thing, and I'll never forget it, “I have to live, let me live, I have to take care of my children.”
Taking him into the operating, the nurses talked about their daily lives, gossiping about the latest hospital drama. The patient still awake, did not say a word; he just laid on the bed, contemplating life like anyone going into such a risky surgery. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. The patient was out within seconds, passed out into a sweet slumber, snoring. The surgeon walked into the room and started his work. Ten blade. The surgeon commanded the operating room like it was a symphony and he was the conductor. Telling the anesthesiologist to lay off the propofol and asking the nurse to hold the heart higher up, each person in the room responded with a second-nature “yes sir.” Each move was quick and decisive. Each suture was swift and perfect. Each command was strong and without the slightest quiver. The surgeon did everything he could. No steps were skipped. No missteps. No mistakes. Yet, the patient did not a survive that unfaithful day.
My grandpa is 70; never smoked, never drank, and exercised every day; yet his age has slowly withered his life. Senile dementia (Alzheimer's) has slowly degraded my grandpa's memory for the last few months. Although he was different from the patient in every which way, both will have the inevitable fate. This is a reality I must learn to accept. For now, however, I will accept a reality in which no disease unconquerable, no cancer is undefeatable, no life is unsavable. Medicine is not just an interest for me, it is a way for me to give second chances for those in need of it; a way for me to help millions of people to chose their own fate, whether it be life or death. Watching these surgeries for four to five hours, the surgeons have taught me resilience and passion. My decisions to arrive at the hospital at four in the morning, watch surgeries until four in the evening and then volunteer until seven was never forced. There is much for me to learn and study but I know that when the time comes to make that live saving incision, “faith” will not guide me, my passion and experience will.