“Do you think we'll be able to see?” I whispered to Jessica as we watched the nurses and other hospital staff busily prep the operating room. Jessica and I were interns assigned to watch this surgery, having traveled with eighteen other students to Greece to observe medical procedures and shadow doctors. “I'm not sure,” Jessica responded. “But I think I can kind of see from here.” For many of us, this trip to Greece started as a chance to explore a beautiful country and dip our toes into the world of medicine. But in that operating room something shifted. We weren’t just visitors anymore. We were witnesses to the weight and wonder of what it truly means to care for another human being.
We continued to watch as the surgeons crowded around the operating table, working to make a difficult incision through the rib cage of the patient. Both of us were barely over five feet, so seeing past the throng of medical staff was challenging.
One thing that I was pleasantly surprised by was the fact that the doctors often let their personalities and beliefs shine through their work. Even as the head surgeon operated, he quietly sang a traditional folk song to himself. Other doctors we had shadowed often sang or hummed as they operated, even playing music out loud while they worked. Besides music, faith was another essential tenet of the Greek identity. Every hospital that we shadowed at in Greece had pictures of Jesus and other imagery based on Greek Orthodox Christianity. I was moved by how devoted and sincere they were to display their faith in the places where it was needed most.
I had often struggled with my faith, specifically with believing in myself and in my ability to achieve my dreams. Taking the leap of faith to switch from majoring in linguistics to public health, with the goal of practicing medicine either as a PA or participating in preventative medical research, was not easy. I loved the material that I learned in public health, but the fast-paced nature of some of my courses made me wonder if I had made the right choice in trying to pursue medicine. Yet I have always felt a strong drive to care for and comfort people who were sick and injured, not feeling particularly shy or squeamish when trying to help. I love understanding how the body works, and I treasure the opportunity to teach others how they can achieve an optimal quality of life. These passions have helped me to stick it out even when things got hard. Taking time to see and understand the needs of people and then serving them makes me feel like my truest self.
“Here, come this way.” Jessica and I looked away from the small crowd surrounding the operating table to find a surprising sight: the anesthesiologist inviting us to come to his station at the head of the table. At well over six feet, talking to him was like talking to a giant in stature and status. We were astonished as he asked our names and then proceeded to breakdown the surgery for us as it happened. Standing next to him, we had a perfect view. The doctor expertly narrated as the operating team extracted a portion of the saphenous vein that would later be grafted to save the patient’s life. His part of the operation relied heavily on the measurements and readings from the machines that surrounded us, and he explained to us what each reading on these machines meant.
Suddenly, he entered a side room and returned with a short, wide stool. To my complete and utter shock, he placed the stool at the base of the table, by the head of the patient, and told Jessica and I to take a look. I was filled with awe as I stepped onto the stool and looked directly down at the heart of the patient. The heart-lung bypass machine, developed by President Russell M. Nelson, stilled the heart so that the surgeons could sew the portion of the saphenous vein onto it, thereby saving the patient’s life via coronary bypass. Moved by the kindness of the anesthesiologist and by the miracle of a broken heart being mended before me, it took all I had to hold my tears back.
As the surgeons stitched up the patient at the end of the surgery, the anesthesiologist pulled Jessica and I aside again. He looked at us with the type of sincerity and encouragement that every student hopes they can find in a mentor. “I can see it in you both; you are going to help a lot of people,” he said softly. “Doctors make mistakes when they don’t take time to truly care for their patients. That is something that Hippocrates taught. I can tell you understand that and that you will be excellent doctors.”
Something stirred inside me as he spoke. This man had taken time to teach and inspire two interns during a surgery, breaking a language barrier with unmistakable kindness and professional mentorship. Although I had not expected to be so profoundly changed by watching open-heart surgery and listening to the words of an anesthesiologist, the impact it left on me has lingered, reminding me that the light of the Savior can shine from anyone in the most unexpected moments, silencing the distractions of a busy world and reconnecting us with the truest form of our divine nature.
Those who pursue the work of their truest self will always reflect the Savior in some way. From a doctor who takes the time to understand a patient’s needs to the teachers that ignite a passion for learning, I’ve learned that our capability to trust in the abilities that God gave us so that we can emulate Him starts when we trust ourselves. Our opportunities and gifts may vary widely, but our calling to use those gifts to heal broken hearts and inspire God’s children to do good can overcome any fear or doubt we may face. When we trust in Him—and the divine potential within ourselves—we become instruments of healing and hope.