
As my surgery rotation came to an end over a week ago, I think it is only appropriate that I reflect on the highs (and lows) of that arduous 8 weeks of my life.
I am not a natural in the OR.
Blood, guts, pee, poop: nothing bothers me anymore. Except for the noise that people make when they are about to vomit.
I'm too nice to be a surgeon. I'm not arrogant, I don't drink 83 cups of coffee per day, and I avoid cutting into people if at all possible. I also do not enjoy calling 23 year old girls "medical student" because I enjoy the old school way of medical education.
Surgeons made me more comfortable looking at, and commenting on, people's junk.
Smiling goes a long way when everyone is tired, grumpy, and being yelled at by their superior.
Interns can be a blessing or a curse.
I do not do well being yelled at...I'm a crier, people.
Stapling a person's abdomen shut was one of my favorite things to do.
Epocrates is a God-send. Simply nod first, and look it up later.
Breast implantation is a nasty, bloody procedure. Not pretty.
And finally, the most rewarding experience I have had to date took place during my last night of long call during surgery. I actually had a role in saving a person's life. Well, we attempted to save his life. He ended up dying on the operating room table from several gunshot wounds...but not for lack of effort. Having my arm elbow-deep in a man's chest, keeping the blood flowing to his heart, and desperately hoping for the heart to start beating on its own...scary and empowering at the same time. Maybe trauma is my calling after all? Doubtful, but I am now (almost) positive that I can handle anything that comes my way. I may cry after telling a patient's family that he bled to death at age 22, after they realize that his blood is covering my shoes and that his girlfriend will have to raise his infant son on her own. But I don't think crying is necessarily a bad thing because it reminds me that I'm human...although I still go to sleep at night hoping I'll be perfect when I wake up.
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