I can't imagine being a surgeon. I have undergone two spinal fusion surgeries over the past three years. My surgeon incised the front of my neck with a scalpel to begin the decompression procedure of my cervical spine. He moved my trachea out of the way and removed damaged bone, relieving my nerves. Bone from another dead cadaver was then placed between two cervical columns in my neck, which was locked in with titanium and screws.
I imagine the surgeon thought of me as a tool to teach his medical assistants while he examined my insides. I imagine that remarks were made about my anatomy that I will never know of due to the anesthetic blanket that coaxed my body into feeling it was ok to be sliced open and exposed. I imagine my surgeon wondered whether or not what he was doing was ethical.
It didn't matter. It was my decision to have the procedure done at the end of the day. I was what he went to school for. My surgeon probably actualized his work in the form of a new material object to reflect the status of being a surgeon. He might have been bald, short, and pretentious, but he was willing to go through the rigors of learning how to cut someone open – a very lucrative skill.
This may seem like I’m demonizing surgeons. My intentions are the exact opposite. I am so grateful for my surgeon. I am grateful for whoever taught him to strive for higher education. I am grateful that he decided to become a neurosurgeon and take the responsibility that all good surgeons must when they are standing over their unconscious patients with a scalpel. Mostly, I am impressed by the untold demons he must face from having been given that power.