Surgery

Kids and uteruses

When my brain reaches its limit and enters its dead-end of existential thinking, wishing, and therapizing, when I’ve walked enough steps and ran enough miles (up to 2-3) for the day, once I cannot possibly hear the sound of my voice lamenting and going on and on and on to my friends, I turn to chatGPT (she/her). Our biggest conversations as of late she titled “tretinoin for dark spots,” and “pediatric surgeon training.”

I really want to move in silence. I want to be the g in lasagna, I want to be focused and deliberately hidden from anyone outside my circle. I used to think that the more I told people something, the less it would happen because I was somehow accepting karmic punishment by thinking I deserved something good that made me happy. (I know now these were just one of my many intrusive thoughts that are part of my OCD, and also my CPTSD). My roommate (thanks Jess) without hesitation said to me once that she feels the exact opposite — saying something out loud speaks it into existence. I believe her now, and while I still want to keep relatively hush about my goals and my dreams, I deserve to talk about them. It just gets really hard to keep things to myself when I feel like I overshare the more anxious I become.

My first week of pediatric surgery was a whirlwind. From the emergencies of appendectomies, to the routine outpatient circumcisions, to a Ladd’s procedure for duodenal atresia, to post-op visits where 3, 7, and 12 year olds were all back to their active, youthful, and remarkable selves. All these babies and kids, with so much promise in the world, so much love for life and so deserving of a life that is actually theirs, truly getting to be kids again. After getting various surgeries their parents were not prepared for— how could they be? How can any parent be. I did not realize I had this type of love inside of me — this swelling of love I feel around these tiny humans, both before, after, and in the operating room. It feels like a mix of butterflies, gut tightening, and bliss. Their bodies are truly resilient, and I feel like overnight I discovered a world of child advocacy, health and wellness that I wanted to be involved in. On my second week, I was sitting in a grand rounds lecture and instantly was overcome with a revelation — what if I become a pediatric surgeon?

This thought, this feeling, has been met with excitement, ease, stress, doubt, grief, and a little mistrust of myself. This is why clinical rotations are so important, you get exposed to so many parts of medicine and sometimes it gives you the shock of clarity you didn’t know you needed. I give OB/GYN, I know that. I cultivated a life for myself since 2016 centered on healthcare, advocacy, intimate partner and domestic violence awareness, reproductive rights, obstetrics, and LGBTQ+ equality. I worked for three years in OB/GYN; in most of the deliveries I assisted in I always teared up under my mask after witnessing the most beautiful thing eyes can see. The strength of pregnant patients is unmatched, but unlike most healthcare providers who fear pregnant patients, it has been a pleasure and privilege treating them. I’ll never forget at Cornell when I was rotating in the ED, the providers organized simulations for the students where we had to lead various codes. Once we finished treating our first fake cardiac arrest patient, we were asked to apply the same scenario as they changed the dummy to a pregnant one. The answers? The algorithms? Essentially, the same. I was appalled at how this fake patient was othered, but amazed when I realized the point. It can be intimidating caring for a party of 2+ at once, but it is sometimes necessary, and always empowering. One time, a new father almost fainted at the sight of his child being born vaginally, to which the annoyed PA said “the only men I know how to treat are baby boys, not grown men.” I laughed when I heard this, and I hate to admit that I used to also agree. I only knew how, and I only wanted to, treat pregnant patients and those assigned female at birth. And let’s get one thing straight, OB/GYNs are surgeons and when anyone tells me or you differently again, or acts like they do not belong under the umbrella of surgery, or glosses over cesarean sections as major abdominal surgeries, I may lose my voice from screaming. For good.

I will never say that I don’t want to treat these patients ever again. My call to healthcare is universal; the stories I’ve shared on this blog are just glimmers of the various patients I have treated who have changed my life for the better. They are of all ages, genders, political views, backgrounds, and health statuses. I have the problem of not being able to pick easily, I cannot decide when I feel that my futures are bright for me no matter where I land. I chase drama, I chase intensity, I chase quick and rational decision making. I chase surgery; I crave the scalpel, the bovie, the localization of anatomy and the visualization of pathologies in realtime. The moment the team is gowned and gloved and the surgeon does a time out and readies the room is electric. This must be what BadBunny feels like before a show. It feels life affirming, it feels right. I love suturing; the night before my sister’s wedding without ever hand sewing clothes before, I ran subcuticular stitches on the back of a friend’s designer dress that had come undone. The durability of my technique spoke for itself, she went on for hours enjoying the night with no more malfunctions.

But, I also lead with love. I care with my heart; I judge my compatibility with specialities like I do with men: how do I feel with them/the speciality, when I’m not with them, can I grow with them, will I still be me, what will our life look like? What life do I want?

This last month went by in a flash. I was smiling everyday, learning constantly, running around the hospital, scrubbing in and out of ORs, and being 24/7 around the cutest babies, kids, and teens whose sides I never wanted to leave. Seeing jaundice babies leave the hospital 3 days after a Ladds procedure and going home in the arms of the relieved and elated parents, who can finally bask in their lives as newborn parents in the comfort of their homes, is an electric feeling. When you take an appendix out all a child may know beforehand is agonizing pain, nausea, loss of appetite, and fever. But after its out? All they can focus on is being themselves again. I feel like I am curing patients before my eyes, and I know I cannot cure them all, but their bodies and their resilience is a witness of art. I want to do anything to keep these kids healthy, happy, and safe.

On my train home my ticket landed me across from a 6-month old, whose chunk and bright eyes are so perfect and beautiful this world almost doesn’t deserve her. I caught her eye and she stared at me for minutes while we played peek-a-boo and I made funny faces. Today was an unrelenting day of anxiety stemming from this big decision I have to make, and looking at her felt like someone had hit a reset and undo button on my crash out.

I do keep flipflopping, and I probably will, but I have made a prediction for myself, and one that I am pretty confident in. However, going forward, like my peace, I want to protect this decision.

Lasagna.