this time with. The beauty of the human body and how it works. The beauty of healing … the beauty in the colors of Can Tho.
it’s more than that. Their presence is gone. We’ve been a bunch of grapes ripening on a vine together, and now that some have been plucked, we feel somewhat incomplete. The quiet has a weight to it. People are aware that just around the corner, the other world awaits, the ‘real world’, the other side of the looking glass. Just as a child’s excitement is always more intense the day or two before their birthday — the anticipation is often better than the moment — the feeling I have as the reality of leaving these people weighs heavily a few days before hopping on a plane to San Francisco. I know I’ll always have the memories; I know that the generosity, talent, professionalism, and dedication I’ve lived in has impacted me and my daughter and how we will be moving forward — not just from the IEP team, but from everyone, the patients, the Vietnamese doctors and nurses. But that’s not the same — I’ll remember cracking up with Fletcher, the videographer, but that’s not the same as sitting next to him and cracking up. I’ll remember what Nyska, the surgeon from Tel Aviv, told me about surgery, but that’s not the same as standing next to him and watching a master at work. (“They say it will take 90 minutes … me, I’ll do it in 20.”) Fellow surgeon Wing’s caring gentleness, wisdom, and kindness had nestled into my psyche, but that’s not the same as standing next to her while she explains a procedure, not just with her words and expertise, but with her heart. I’ll come home and tell my wife some of surgeon E-Z’s jokes, but they won’t land in my living room as well as they land in the hallway outside the O.R. Experience is sweet; memories are bittersweet. For those of you who know me, you know I have a sweet tooth. R&G
Wednesday, January 10, 2024
“All things must pass away.” — George Harrison
There’s a new found quiet here. Gone is the frenetic energy of the screening days, the endless parade of patients and the spectrum of emotions as patients hear whether or not they can receive a procedure that can dramatically alter their lives. No more nervous energy in the operating rooms and hallways connecting them. The laypeople’s shock at our first view of surgery has tempered if not worn off. Everyone knows the drill. The ping of the heart monitor now seems like a metronome, keeping time as the team moves seamlessly through the halls to their places. The path has been cleared and paved by Jeni and Madison, and all is rolling along. Marathon runners talk about ‘getting in the zone’ somewhere around mile 18. Autopilot kicks in. It’s not complacency or arrogance; not carelessness or apathy. The focus just comes easier now. There aren’t as many questions. “Wheres” and “whats” and “hows” are much more infrequent. Most of those were answered days ago. They have given way to the good natured joking and ribbing that comes out as people become more familiar with each other … as strangers become acquaintances … as acquaintances become friends … as friends become family. Over the weekend some of the team split town for a bit, while others still left for good … for now. The demands of the ‘back home’, jobs, schools, families came knocking on their doors, and that call needed to be answered. Their absence has added to the quiet. Sure, they are missed, but on a deeper level. Sure, the team is down a few players, and others are lifting a heavier load. But
Scan this QR code to watch a seven-minute video about the International Extremity Project’s 2024 Medical Mission to Vietnam.
2024–2025 red & gold | 29
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