
A medical student's first surgery is always the strangest. And the most memorable.
Mine is a case of an excision of a
Baker Cyst from a middle-aged Afghan man.

Image from eMedicine.
The anesthesiologist performs flawlessly. The pharmacodynamics are wonderful, an injection into spinal fluid; the blade of the knife, capable of inflicting excruciating pain, is profoundly unnoticed.
Pick-ups demarcate my intended target. I am fixed on the goal. Scalpel handle in hand, I move the blade across the patient's popliteal epidermis in a textbook-perfect, straight line.
No blood. I thought people bleed when they are sliced open.
I try harder, thinking that this patient's skin is more akin to an elephant's hide, or perhaps a well-done steak.
Still nothing.
"For a first-time cutter I suck pretty bad," I thought to myself. The Afghan surgeon points to the skin in desperation, indicating to me in English that I need not be delicate. "The definition of insanity is trying the same thing and expecting different results," I thought to myself.
Enlightenment descends upon us as the blade is examined. The curved side is blunt, the flat side is sharp. How counter-intuitive. Is this some sort of ritual hazing by surgeons?

The Afghan surgeon, one of maybe a handful of Afghan surgeons, guided me through the case. Cut here. Tie this. Cut here. Use scissors like this. Et cetera.
See one. Do one. Teach one. I skipped the first step. I'm not quite ready on that last one.
Surgery. You are given permission from the patient to take a knife and cut into their flesh, prying layers of fascia apart, inserting various metal tools, removing pieces of tissue, and stitching everything back together using thread and needle.
What a bizarre experience.
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