This blog is not just about operation, but about the lessons, anxieties, and small victories that make us who we are in the OT and beyond.
Back in my residency days, doing gallbladder surgery was so routine that it almost felt like a warm-up. We would come early, finish it quickly before the major cases of the day. What was once a straightforward, everyday procedure suddenly felt very different when I stood as a consultant on my own.
I still remember the weight of that day — the quiet hum of the OT, the rows of familiar faces that suddenly felt like an audience, and the small list pinned to my pocket that read: “Simple cholecystectomy — young lady.” On paper it was a 20-minute job. In my head it felt like the first transplant.
I had fought for this position — a young GI surgeon joining a corporate setup where many senior colleagues watched every step. The day before the surgery I had rehearsed my plan: port positions, possible adhesions, backup strategy, even the words I would use while explaining things to the family. I wanted to be fast, precise, flawless.
Once I started, everything was textbook — the anatomy clear, the steps familiar, no surprises hidden inside. Yet what should have been a smooth 20-minute dissection stretched to 60, not because of technical difficulty, but because of the pressure I carried on my own shoulders. Every move felt magnified, every decision double-checked, as though the entire hospital was watching through the laparoscope. It wasn’t the adhesions that slowed me down — it was me, fighting between my anxiety and my instinct.
In the end, the operation was clean and smooth. No complications. The patient woke well. When I went to see her that evening, she was already ready to go home — no pain, walking, talking, eating, and joking with the nurses. I had requested one night for observation, but in her mind the surgery was already behind her.
That evening I realized something I carry with me even today: the real measure of speed in surgery is not from incision to closure, but from the operation theater to the patient’s home. Preparation matters more than panic, steady technique matters more than tempo, and outcomes matter far more than the stopwatch. That young lady’s smile reminded me that it is always better to take your time and deliver a perfect result than to rush for numbers.
Even now, I sometimes find myself comparing my operative times with other surgeons — it’s human. But then I remember her walking out without pain, cheerful and ready to move on, and I remind myself of the truth: take your time, deliver perfection, and that’s what truly matters.
