Sleight of hand, sharpness of wits. Blood stained, sweaty browed, stiff necked, he stands. Yet he stands upright. Stance firm, piloting up to four instruments at a time.
The surgeon, almost arrogantly confident, always a little too loud, always sure of himself. So much so, that you can’t help but wonder whether it is in fact blind certainty, or a facade to mask any lingering doubts. His decision is absolute.
Hands plunged deep inside an cavity, searching, rearranging. The vibrations of the operating table jolt me back to my senses. A reminder that that’s in fact a human being, under the drapery and bloodstains. A realisation, that what he’s doing is no less than assisting the work of God himself.
“As a surgeon you have to have a controlled arrogance. If it’s uncontrolled, you kill people, but you have to be pretty arrogant to saw through a person’s chest, take out their heart and believe you can fix it. Then, when you succeed and the patient survives, you pray, because it’s only by the grace of God that you get there.”