Great to see you again. Sorry for the wait. The last procedure went a little long. How are you feeling? Nervous? Ready to get this over with? Wondering about this hat?
We should be ready to go soon; they’re just turning over the OR. I wanted to come out and say a quick hello before the procedure. Answer any last questions if you have them. And for you to see this hat.
The surgery itself should be quick, maybe forty-five minutes. You will be asleep the whole time. This hat will be on my head. When we’re finished, they’ll wheel you to our post-anesthesia care unit while I continue to wear this hat. I’ll come by and check on you again once you’re awake. I will still be wearing this hat.
Some people want to know what the recovery looks like—what kind of pain to expect and when they can return to work. Others want to know more about this hat—why I’m wearing it and if I can take it off. Most patients are back on their feet in a week. The pain should be minimal, but I’ll order you some meds, just in case. The hat is a longer story, I can get into it if you really want, but know that it will not be coming off.
Does that blank stare mean you’d like to know more? Sorry, I don’t read body language well. I recognize that it is a lot to take in. You may have noticed I wasn’t wearing it when we first met in my office. That is because I wanted you to evaluate me on my bedside manner and qualifications, not on this hat. I have learned that this can be a distraction for some patients. I am sorry if you feel misled.
As far as why I am wearing this hat, I wish I could fully articulate this for you, or myself. What I know is that the circumstances that have led me to wear this hat are fundamentally inextricable from those that have made me the best surgeon in the tri-state area. You cannot have one without the other.
Think about it this way: It takes a lot of confidence to cut into the human body. It also takes a lot of confidence to put on this hat, to say nothing of having to justify its presence many times a day. If you want uncertain hands, hands that second-guess every incision, hands that quiver ever so slightly at the wrong moment, then be my guest. If you want the surest hands in the business, then you want me in this hat.
Or consider this: I know of many patients who have died on the operating table. Not one of their surgeons wore this hat. This isn’t scientific evidence per se, but it is a frightening observation.
Let me ask you a question. Have you ever spent years of your life so focused on one thing that you never got the chance to explore other versions of yourself? Like, what if you were meant to be a concert violinist? Or a guy who wears this hat? Is that a thing that people would pay to see?
Don’t get me wrong, I love being a surgeon. The long hours on my feet. Cutting. Cauterizing. Suctioning blood. Demanding perfection of myself. Crying at my desk. Crying in my car.
Am I a little burned out? Not when I wear this hat, I’m not. It provides me with a sense of purpose. Other than saving lives, of course. It’s what I call my “little muse.” Or my therapist calls a “transitional object.” Or my wife calls a “deal-breaker.”
Anyways, I see the charge nurse heading over. They must be ready for you. Oh, and the chair of surgery. And the hospital president. And several security guards. And my therapist. Looks like they brought an extra stretcher. Are they pointing at you or me? Again, I don’t read body language well. I should go over and sort this out. Then I’ll come back, and we’ll do the surgery. You, me, and this hat.