Surgery is an Art
Misconceptions, narrative medicine, and Leonardo da Vinci
A few months ago, I was at a dinner party where I knew almost no one. It was the holidays, and everyone was in a bubbly, shimmering mood, welcoming me into their inner circles just for the night. As usual, within a minute of meeting each person, I was asked what I do —
“I’m a surgery resident,” I responded, prepared for the odd admixture of awe, horror, and misplaced respect that always follows this statement.
One of the guests present seemed to me a kindred spirit — rather than allowing this statement to bring the conversation to a crashing halt (or worse, peppering it with impossible-to-answer questions like “what’s that like?” or “is it hard?”), he probed and asked me about my journey. As few people know, my path to medicine was not straightforward. I told him about my interest in the arts, my undergraduate explorations, and more, and as I started to feel more comfortable in his presence, I started to get into a bit of my own philosophy and worldview.
“Surgery is an art,” I said, sure that this proclamation would be met with interest and agreement.
“An art!” he barked, laughing. Others overheard and started laughing as well.
“Imagine if your surgeon starts carving landscape sceneries on your body!” someone else said, and it turned into a quick dinner party joke.
And immediately, that bubble of acceptance and understanding that I thought I had worked my way into was shattered. I know that his intent wasn’t malicious, but the words certainly felt that way.
The world I live in, and the environment I have grown up in, have constantly told me that the many things I love are in opposition. The fact that I decided to go to medical school meant that I could never become a writer. The fact that I chose to pursue surgery as my 9-to-5, and my 5-to-9, meant that I could never fully live in a world of books.
I am nearly 30 now, and I am only now, finally, starting to recognize that it isn’t me, or my interests, or my choices that are wrong, or incompatible. It is the world around me that doesn’t understand.
This past weekend, I attended a Narrative Medicine workshop at Columbia, and I spent my days surrounded by individuals across all disciplines in healthcare, coming to New York City from around the world. I felt, for the first time, that I was in the company of others who shared my worldview, and who cared about the same things that I cared about.
And, most wonderfully, I got to use my almost-was-an-English-major skills, taking me back to the college English classes that I loved.1
We read a short story about a girl who learns that her father, who deserted her family when she was younger, has come back having contracted AIDS. We watched a movie about a Black woman whose children have been taken from her by the foster care system. We read a poem that, had I read it on my own, I would hardly have understood - but because I spent the time, and exercised my rusty close reading muscles, and discussed it with others, I recognized its discussion of family, love, acceptance, colonialism, violence against Indigenous and Black and Brown peoples, and so much more.
On my way back to the subway on the last day of the conference, I found myself talking to an oncologist about my career and my future goals, lamenting the fact that medicine, and academia in general, is becoming more and more specialized.
“The breadth of general surgery was what drew me to it - the expansive knowledge required of each body part, the medical expertise that goes along with surgical skill - that’s what excited me. But things are getting more and more siloed, especially in academic urban settings.” I said, feeling like a whiny teenager who wasn’t getting her way.
“Though I suppose,” I continued, “if I had pancreatic cancer, I’d want to go to a specialist, not someone who only operated on the pancreas once a year.”
“I’ve always thought that there’s another way to look at it,” she told me, thoughtfully. “Knowledge of other body parts, other systems - and, as we all experienced this weekend, other disciplines - helps us think of things more holistically, with different perspectives.”
And I realized, suddenly, that she was right.
My love for writing, reading, and art is not just something I have to accommodate while also learning to be a surgeon and researching cancer therapies. My affinity for the arts and humanities is not simply an accident of my biology — it is my greatest strength. It allows me to see what others don’t, to think of things in completely different ways.
And so I’ll end here, knowing that I have so much more to say on this topic, with a quote from Leonardo da Vinci2, one of my constant inspirations:
These are the principles for the development of a complete mind: Study the science of art. Study the art of science. Develop your senses — especially learn how to see. Realize that everything connects to everything else.
The other way I’m bringing English class back into my life is through my podcast, The Novel Tea, and its associated newsletter, where Neha and I discuss, analyze, and think about books.
If you are interested in Leonardo da Vinci, and learning more about his many intellectual pursuits, I strongly recommend the biography written by Walter Isaacson (who also wrote biographies of Steve Jobs and Elon Musk, among others), and if you can, try to get a physical print copy so you can appreciate the beautiful paintings, illustrations, and field notes included within the book.