I stand right behind Dr. Catalane as he threads the stent-graft through the patient's iliac artery. I watch it slither up the aorta and to the sight of the aneurysm. His stoic manner belies the true emergency before us. The patient's aneurysm could rupture at any moment. Even in a hospital, even in an operating room with the best vascular surgeons in the world, a ruptured aorta is impossible to reverse. The room is dark, unlike any surgeries I had before seen. I tiptoe around in a heavy, pink lead vest that wrinkles my scrubs. The radiologist points out the patient's abdominal aneurysm on the angiogram. An EVAR, she calls the procedure - endovascular aneurysm repair. Today, patients can go home within hours after two small incisions are made, whereas in the past "zipper incisions," as they were infamously called, were a foot long and patients were lucky to be discharged within two weeks. The surgeon carefully expands the balloon. The mask over my face is hot and damp. A hush comes over the OR as we watch the blood flow successfully through the bypass. The surgery over and successful, the patient now in recovery, I'm left standing alone in the operating room feeling a mixture of adrenaline, relief, awe, and a knowledge that I have discovered my life's passion.
My childhood conditioned me for a life in healthcare.
My family is finally able to do a Secret Santa gift exchange this year. Nobody in my family ever misses Christmas - even when he or she is dying. Instead of helping my aunt prepare the "seven fishes," when I was six, I found myself running to the basement freezer to get ice chips for Grandma Rose. Her cancer turned all food bitter, and ice was the only thing that didn't taste foul to her. I remember my father carrying her to her last chemotherapy treatment and the profound frailty of her hands. I longed to help, to understand, to even do something to stop what was happening. But all I could do was bring her ice chips.
Last Christmas, my Grandfather was dying of Lou Gehrig's disease. Every day I would lie in bed with him, watch the Price is Right, and eat the organic tangerines he was proud to have purchased at the farmer's market. Toward the end, he really couldn't talk, and I soon had to abandon tangerines for food that he could more easily swallow. Though I had experienced death many times before, it really never becomes easier. However, each time it reinforces the caretaker in me. My reaction when experiencing illness has always been to be with the sick person helping. As I grow older, I feel less helpless to disease. Medicine is my way out. With medicine I can heal.
Healing presents itself in a lot of ways.
It was in my AP Art class that I found the connection between my passion for the structure of the human body and medicine. My skills as an artist could help me not only as a physician, but as a surgeon. The discovery that my creativity could permeate into my scientific pursuits led me to recognize that reconstructive and craniofacial surgery would be a perfect fit for me. The face is the most intimate part of the human body and healing it combines my desire to give immediate and compassionate care with my artist's eye. When my mother fell last year in the lobby of our building, the trauma to her face required multiple sets of stitches. As I watched the plastic surgeon, I realized that there is nothing more powerful than being able to save someone's life - but just as powerful is being able to improve it.
This year I won't have to care for someone, but I have never been more eager to get back into the OR. My childhood conditioned me for a life in healthcare.The essay as a whole is well written, but the first paragraph is a little bland. I would start the essay with "My journey here began with death" so you a hook and work from there. I too am very passionate about medicine and I loved the way you described it. Good luck.
