The first incision

Winner — Student category

The scalpel sparkled in the dim, cold room. I watched with great anticipation as it was placed onto the thin lifeless arm, and I felt myself draw a sharp, shallow breath as it began to separate the layers of the skin. Pulsating waves of excitement washed over me as I watched the blood ooze rhythmically. It was as if my adventurous spirit had truly returned, unadulterated and overwhelming. The rawness of it all astounded me.

Yesterday was the first time I had been allowed into the operating room; and, apart from the brief frustration of having to account for some missing equipment, it had been an exhilarating injection of variation into my life of unceasing boredom. Medicine had recently become so tedious, a constant battle to meet its academic and emotional demands. I could not remember the last time I had actually enjoyed waking in the morning; every day seemed best spent in bed. It took all of what little strength I had remaining to undertake the long drive to the hospital.

But this moment was so real, I could feel life flowing through me, coursing through my veins. I looked around the room: it was enclosed and stuffy, but I felt unimaginably secure. The silence and darkness had a calming effect, for there was meaning and purpose in this moment. It was unlike the previous weeks, when I had struggled to pay attention to all the chaos and confusion; here I was finally in control.

As I watched the scalpel being placed on the table, some blood dripped onto the floor. My knees weakened and I became queasy, yet I did not speak out. I was surprised: I had not felt this way yesterday; maybe it was because today I had not eaten. Thankfully, over the past few months I had become accustomed to not eating, so I was confident that I could endure this until it was over; and even though my stomach churned, it was an enjoyable sensation, proof of my ability to persist in this task.

It was so difficult to find time for meals during my placement on the wards. Every day was characterised by an all-consuming, harrowing rush. Medical teams seemed to scamper from patient to patient as if the spindly fingers of death were gripping at our heels. No time for rest from a busy day’s work, no time for reflection after telling a patient that they had cancer. Onwards they strove, relentless in their quest to finish their allocated tasks. I often struggled to match their haste, unsure if it was because I was tired or because I was slow.

The serenity of the operating room stood in stark contrast to this, my sanctuary where a transcendent sense of peace met a fervent desire to explore the wonders of the human body. I could enjoy my glorious rest, forever still and quiet.

Pride swelled inside me as I began to reflect upon my life, the hours spent poring over anatomy texts, the exams I had stressed over, the patients I had seen. I could recite the structures of the carpal tunnel in my sleep, and here I was, watching them exposed. Studying medicine had brought me here: in a way, it had changed my life, and I was grateful. I had begun with the wonder of believing I could do anything or be anyone, but now I realised that this was what I truly wanted. A cool, dark, quiet room, where the outside world would not affect me anymore. Pain, pleasure, purpose: they all meant something here. My life would no longer be wasted running after empty hopes and dreams. It was as if my very existence had been fully realised.

I was startled by a loud knocking on the door, and heard a familiar cry. My mother was calling me to come downstairs for dinner. But I was unfazed. I could already see the darkness descending across my vision, I knew she would find the note on my desk after unlocking my door. I looked down to the gathering pool of blood, my life force so visibly displayed and accessible. I glanced over and saw that the blood on the scalpel had begun to coagulate, and I smiled. In the dimness of my life, this beautiful instrument had restored my spark, and I was glad, because it was the first time, in a long time, that I could feel again.

And I had never felt more alive.