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My medical school experience so far has been a lengthy gestation in the womb of the lecture hall. I have soaked in more words than I ever thought I could. Books and lectures. I have learned anatomy, and physiology, and pathology, and more. I know so much. I know nothing. 2/
My first inkling, of just how vast the distance is from where I am to where I want to be, is in the dissection lab. The second, is with the standardized patient encounters. The dawning realization hits me: that I have been learning to ride a bike by reading about it. 3/
When I get the opportunity to rotate with practicing doctors in the community, I make a decision. They say you should work with docs in a field you’re interested in. But I want to work with the “best” clinicians, no matter what their field. I need to learn the art of this. 4/
And so the old surgeon was recommended to me by almost everyone I spoke to. “A doctor’s doctor,” they tell me, whatever that means. I call him “the old surgeon” because that’s what he calls himself. He’s on the verge of retirement. I am one of his last students. 5/
The first day I meet him, he comes out to the lobby to greet me, and brings me back into his office. He treats me like an old friend he is seeing again after a long time. I’m surprised. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. His smile is contagious. 6/
The office is filled with books, medical and otherwise, and the walls are covered with photographs. Friends, family, patients perhaps? He tells me I am here to learn and he will do his best to teach me. That no question is off limits, and that no answer will be ridiculed. 7/
And then, abruptly, he starts telling me about his daughter’s wedding. He takes off his glasses, leaning back in his chair as he chuckles. His eyebrows are bushy, and seem accentuated by his baldness. Like a giant caterpillar wiggling expressively. I can’t help but smile. 8/
Just like that, I am one of the family. I won’t realize until many years later what a gentle yet powerful gift that little wedding story was. As we get ready to go to the hospital to do some rounding, he tells me that he does have one rule for me to abide by... 9/
“Treat everyone you meet with respect, and kindness. Especially the patients.” He pauses for a moment, looking back at me over his shoulder, as if making sure he didn’t lose me. “Especially them, ok?” “Ok.” I nod, filled with the enthusiastic resolve of the novice. 10/
As the day progresses, I’m starting to realize why the “old surgeon” is regarded so highly. He has a way of making it seem like time is irrelevant when he’s focusing on you. He sits down at the bedsides. He isn’t afraid to hold hands if they’re offered, or accept hugs. 11/
I notice the small details, soaking them in. He knows all the nurse’s names. The clerical staff. The janitors. The security guards. The transport staff. And he greets everyone. He even pronounces “Tabatabai” correctly, on the second try. I realize it’s about respect. 12/
As we round, he teaches me specific things, and also general pearls. His vast experience has given him perspective. I’m impressed with how often he chooses NOT to operate. He senses my surprise and explains simply. “Do no harm.” He understands the words better than I do. 13/
He’s sitting with a patient, talking about an upcoming surgery. The patient is understandably anxious. The old surgeon takes his time, explaining clearly, fielding questions and answering thoughtfully. And then he asks the patient about their dog. 14/
The patient is surprised, and then tells him the dog’s name and how much they love them. The surgeon smiles. “I’ve got two dogs. They’re like my kids. They walk me every day.” He looks across at me. “Got a dog, Sayed?” I shake my head. He grins. “Get one!” 15/
“Alright,” the old surgeon says to the patient. “Let’s get this surgery done, and get you home to your furry friend ASAP. Sound good?” The patient smiles and nods. I don’t know quite what the surgeon has just done, but I know he did something essential. Something kind. 16/
Later on, in the operating room, I realize that the surgeon has a pretty noticeable resting tremor. The scalpel trembles as he grips it. Without realizing I’m doing it, I hold my breath as I watch the shining blade begin to shakily descend. He notices, and grins. “Relax.” 17/
As the surgery progresses, I’m amazed at how the tremor has vanished and how smooth and assured his hands are. He operates with steady precision, and economy of movement. I don’t know much about surgery, but I know enough to appreciate mastery. He explains as he goes. 18/
The surgery is a success. He goes out to the waiting room to inform the family members, and is tearfully hugged. He always introduces me to everyone, and he does so again here. He says I was invaluably helpful, even though I wasn’t at all. I am hugged. It feels ... real. 19/
At the day’s end, he asks me if I have any questions. I have one. “How did you know that patient had a dog?” He smiles. “Doggie bone on the keychain, bedside table. There’s another lesson Sayed: observe!” I laugh as his bushy eyebrows wiggle to accentuate his point. 20/
It’s 2020 and students are rotating with me now. I feel the awesome responsibility of trying to impart something meaningful. I try to draw upon the wisdom of the many incredible teachers I’ve had along the way. The students will learn the science. It’s the art that’s elusive.