Maestro

“Every surgeon is a maestro, and his surgery, a performance.”

In that small town, there was a famous butcher whom the town folk loved. He would cut the best slices of meat for his customers, and he knew his way around the parts of meat and what dishes it cooked best with. Old folks often wondered how it was that such a fine and intelligent young man would squander his future in the market, and the younger chaps would question his weird habit of soaking his butcher knives in alcohol after cleaning them many times round.

But what no one saw was, after the market closed and went deserted, he would slowly draw out a leather bag, untie the knots and pull out small blades that dimmed – not even flickered – under the light. Then, whatever leftovers of meat he had from the day, he would slice gracefully, the blades gliding across the demarcations and patterns of dried skin and meat, until the very last vein, nerve and flesh was peeled apart from the bones.

Every swirl of his blade reminded him of a painful past, of a crime he never forgot, of a mistake he paid so dearly for—with his career. And after performing his surgery of sorts in that deserted marketplace, he would clean up with only one thought in mind,

“Are my wrongs already atoned for?”

Until one day. One fine day, as he was about to pull down the market shutters, he heard a loud bang. A black Mercedes swerved to avoid a cat, hit a tree and turned top first into the huge monsoon drain. Instincts taking over, he grabbed his leather bag – not even knowing why – and ran out to check. The driver’s door flew open, and a man’s hand waved frantically in the air for something to cling on to.

Jumping into the drain to pull the man out, his breath escaped his lungs like a full blown balloon released at the mouth, when he saw the driver.

“Sam!” the driver said. That was the voice he had been running away from, the voice he tried so hard in vain to forget during the loneliest and longest nights, despite the many pints and glasses.

It had been six long years, but he realized that the voice still, just as real as his memory recalled it, could never escape him.

It was a fine day like this, six years ago, when Sam got a call from his best friend. “My daughter needs a bypass, Sam,” Hawk explained slowly, unspeakable anxiety bearing down in his tone. “You’re the best surgeon around.”

“First a friend,” he replied, “then a surgeon. I’ll do the surgery Hawk, it should be easy. I’ve done so many. Don’t worry!” Before they knew it he was prepping for surgery.

Perhaps being a young yet highly-acclaimed cardiothoracic surgeon had its way of inflating Sam’s ego, and while he may have performed bypasses over and over again, he failed to remember that he was still predisposed to mistakes and flaws. Carelessness that could have been rectified had he listened to his surgical nurse reporting that there was massive bleeding in the right leg, second chances he could’ve gained had he not ignored the anesthetist reporting a gradual decline in blood pressure and oxygen saturation.

Try, he did. Fight, he did too. But still, in the operating theatre, mistakes are costly, lives can be lost. Worse still, if that life belonged to a friend. A best friend. Hawk.

“Sam!” the painful shriek, choked with tears. The surgical staff, a burly man, had to grab him by the arms to stop him from falling in agony upon hearing the news. That very night, Sam walked out of the hospital, vowing never to return. He simply disappeared, knowing that news of his ego and ill-fated error would have reached every nook and corner of the hospital even before the night was over.

The paramedics arrived on the scene to find a butcher with a brown leather bag stuffed into his trouser pocket, hands stained with blood pressing on the right femur. “10mg morphine,” he commanded. They obeyed, knowing the request was in line with standard medical procedure, but questioning in their hearts how this butcher knew all this.

And at the entrance of the Accident and Emergency ward, his best friend, face half covered with a gas mask, grabbed him by his stained butcher’s gown. “Don’t go,” he begged. His grip loosened as the staff wheeled him into the ward, prepping him for surgery. Sam turned to leave, only to see the Head of Staff standing at the entrance, seemingly blocking his exit, a warm smile on his face.

“Dr Samuel,” HS bowed respectfully. I’m no more a doctor, Brian. Now please excuse me, I’ve got a stall to clear up in the market.

“Sam,” HS stopped him by gently grabbing his arm. Brian was once his junior, and Sam would yell at him in the OT when he couldn’t answer his questions. Always the favourite target for a spike, he never showed defiance or fought back despite all the insults hurled at him. He learned procedures fast, yet remained teachable at all times. Now he was Head of Staff.

I’ve lost my honour, Brian. I screwed up, and I’ve condemned myself. “I think six years of condemnation is enough. More than enough,” HS reassured softly. “At this point of time, your best friend is in need of the best surgeon around.” Sam looked away, ashamed. The guilt of his nightmare of a mistake still haunted him.

First a friend, then a surgeon. Their surgical team’s motto rang in his ears, just like in the good old times.

“Sam, Hawk spent years looking for you in hospitals all over the country. He even called in special favours from our colleagues, hoping that one day he would see you again. And today, when one of the walk-in patients told us about a young man who gracefully slices pork meat instead of butchering it in the market downtown, he wiped out his surgeries for the day to find you.” He has late stage heart failure, Sam. He’s dying. All he wants is just a friend, a friend who knows him inside out, to make sure he’s fine. And you’re that friend he needs.

HS Brian handed him a vacuum sealed bag as he was washing up. “While you were away, we developed a pretty useless technology of cleaning non-disposable surgical gowns.” He tore the vacuum bag, opened up a long white robe with the cursive words Samuel Chan emblazoned on the right top. Memories of his glorious past flashed before his moist eyes.

“I’m not sure whether I’m ready,” Sam said, beneath his breath. With tears of guilt welling in his eyes, just like every night for the last six years, his gaze fell to the ground.

Brian’s hand rested on his shoulder. “For that same reason, now we all know you’re ready.”

Sam walked into the OT slowly, with Brian trailing behind. From behind the operating table, a smile slowly curved beneath Brian’s surgical mask. He knew that the six lonely years of slicing kept his hands steady and graceful. Those surgeries performed behind rolled down shutters, where no one passed him the scalpels, where he had no juniors to yell at, and where no students or colleagues watching his performances from the observatory—they had humbled him. And as Brian noticed, for the first time ever, Sam actually thanked the nurses who passed him the scalpel from the brown leather bag. Brian sensed forgiveness for his own self rising deep beneath Sam’s ashes, and that surgery was the redemption he so badly needed.