“What is a Festschrift?” my youngest asks.
“In German it means ‘festive writing,'” I say, “I’m going to an academic conference to honor a doctor.”
The idea of voluntary learning makes his teenage sister roll his eyes: “I can’t say I understand.”
An eminent surgeon retires after fifty years of public service. All too often we let such contributors disappear without notice, so the recognition arranged by one of his colleagues is notable.
How do you celebrate a man whose career spans half a century, hundreds of publications, groundbreaking textbooks, an eponymous operation, military deployments, aid to developing countries, international acclaim, prolific musicianship, education, training and mentorship? The same way you eat an elephant: piece by piece.
Intellectual contributions are mixed with personal memories. One speaker remembers an era when everyone smoked, but the surgeon kept aloof. A female colleague calls on his advocacy of the first female surgeons in the South Pacific. Armed Forces surgeons praise his unwavering dedication to service not only to his own country, but also to those plundered by war and poverty.
Each speaker has a story about finding a way through the thicket of surgical training. They all succeeded, thanks in no small part to his selfless ideology. More than one surgeon reached greater heights thanks to a soothing voice on the other end of the phone or the operating table. The authenticity of their tribute is as clear as it is moving.
I find the surgical advances attributed to one man astounding in their magnitude. They testify to the way in which one person’s idea can stimulate another’s imagination to make discoveries that ultimately reach the patient. Despite being an intruder at a surgical conference where I don’t understand everything, my spirit soars at the power of collaboration to advance patient care.
Lunch brings conversations that a normal workday simply doesn’t allow. Professional exchanges exist to resolve issues as quickly as possible. Whether it concerns surgery. How to stop bleeding. What to say to a grieving family. How to solve complications.
Surgeons are sometimes seen as superheroes, but in reality they are just as vulnerable and prone to self-doubt as the rest, and I can’t help but think that if these moments of real human connection are therapeutic for doctors, then they must be even better are. for our patients.
The academic exhibit reminds me of the bloodless perception of the public hospital system. The rhythm of the commentary includes overstretched resources, disillusioned staff, intimidation, damage and waiting lists.
But these (justified) concerns overshadow the beating heart of the same system that – despite its ongoing challenges – continues to push the boundaries of excellence. Countless public hospital employees are advancing medicine one study, one project at a time. Their work is done without fanfare, on their own time, fueled by a fundamental desire to do better for patients.
The proof is in a new one Report of the Productivity Commission This shows that healthcare productivity has improved by as much as 3% per year (compared to an improvement of just 0.8% across the market sector). Australia’s healthcare productivity ranks third among high-income countries, behind Iceland and Spain.
The authors say that “quality improvements, not cost savings, have been the big drivers of productivity growth, and the vast majority of this has come from progress in saving lives.”
The giants of medicine may live in ivory towers, but the foot soldiers work in the public hospital system.
Finally, the retiring surgeon rises to speak. My ears perk up at his account of the Rwandan civil war, filled with a litany of heartbreaking decisions: who to save, who to let die; whether it was worth saving a limb only to lose it to sepsis; treating a victim and his attacker side by side.
I’ve lost count of the conferences I’ve attended (and fallen asleep in). Listen to accomplished And humble people are inspiring and intimidating at the same time, leaving one with the dull feeling of having somehow fallen behind in life.
So when asked what advice he might give to other doctors, I brace myself for another mountain I can’t climb. But without hesitation he declares: “The most important word in medicine is kindness.”
Friendliness. The word floats from the desk and lands in our laps. A storied career in medicine could be built on so many words: perseverance, intellect, endurance, courage, charisma. But it’s no coincidence that he chose kindness, and it’s no coincidence that that kindness paid off.
While his other qualities may be hard to match, I can show kindness. We can all do kindness. This is perhaps his finest and most lasting legacy.