24/05/2025
Sisters and brothers in the Surgical Theater
The Anesthesiologist and the Drummer: The Soul That Holds the Rhythm
This thought has lived within me for years, like a melody that never fades, a whisper that keeps returning. I’ve shared it in fragments—between surgeries, in late-night notes, through social media—but it deserves to be expressed fully, as one expresses the things one truly feels.
In the way I understand life, music, and surgery—which are, at their core, three expressions of the same language—there’s a parallel that pulses clear and strong:
The anesthesiologist is the drummer of our surgical symphony.
And I don’t say that as a metaphor. I say it with reverence—for the one who keeps time, who holds the pulse, who, from the quiet of the background, makes creation possible.
A good drummer doesn’t seek applause. They don’t need flashy solos or the spotlight. They remain in the shadows, but their presence is absolute. If they falter, everything collapses. If they are steady, everything flows.
That’s how the anesthesiologists I’ve had the privilege of working with are: consistent, calm, precise. They set the invisible tempo of life. When one of them tells me, “The patient is stable, doctor,” I know I can fly. I can explore with accuracy, with artistry. I can reconstruct beauty, restore dignity, reshape form—because I know someone is holding the rhythm behind me, someone who won’t let go.
But a drummer alone isn’t enough. A full band is needed. And in the OR, that ensemble is made of hands that don’t just perform—they care. Hands—most often women’s hands—that have learned to read your intent before you speak, who know when silence is sacred and when a quiet gaze can hold you up.
An assistant doesn’t merely “follow” the procedure—she must intuit it with you, understand your pauses, your gestures, your breathing. And often, they do so with a grace and firmness born of true commitment to life.
The scrub nurse—the one with the scalpel ready before you ask—is not simply a technical operator. She is a partner on stage, someone who knows the choreography even if it was never written. Her precision is music. Her gentleness is part of the aesthetic we are shaping.
And the circulating nurse, always in motion, is like air itself: entering and exiting without disruption, anticipating what will be needed, listening even to what is left unsaid.
In all of them, there is a presence that transcends the technical. Without them, there is no symphony. Without their care, their silent intelligence, their love for what they do, surgical beauty would not be possible.
And then there is the stage.
Because it’s not the same to play in a room with poor acoustics as it is in the perfect reverberation of La Scala. A surgeon cannot perform at the highest level in a limited OR. Some procedures, some reconstructions, demand not only skill—they demand space, light, technology. Plastic and reconstructive surgery, as I understand them, require the surgical equivalent of world-class venues—Paul McCartney’s stadiums, Dua Lipa’s productions, Taylor Swift’s arenas.
Not out of vanity, but out of respect for the human body, out of love for form, out of devotion to the patient.
For me, entering the OR is stepping onto a stage. I suit up like someone who honors their craft. I tune my instruments. I prepare my hands and my heart. I trust my team. I look to the anesthesiologist—and when they are steady, I know I can create.
And what we create, though it may not be heard or seen, is a symphony made of flesh, of time, of hands and love.
A symphony born of silence, that remains forever within the body of someone else.
