The Other Side

There was a time when going to medical school with the dream of matching into otolaryngology felt crazy. It still is crazy, but what feels even crazier yet is that I am writing to you, on this side of match day, to share that I have successfully matched into otolaryngology. Otolaryngology, in case you are wondering, is the field of head and neck surgery and is colloquially referred to as ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat). Everything from the shoulders up (save for the eyes and the brain) fall within the scope of this specialty. As you may have pieced together by now, because the ears reside above the shoulders, I get to do ear surgery as part of my training!  

Most days in medical school felt like an inch forward towards this goal, and some days even felt like a backward slide. Yet, in the blink of an eye, it feels like I have catapulted further towards my dream of being able to help others hear better. Even if I never do become a neurotologist (read: ear doctor) specifically, I am always going to be privileged with knowledge and training in these specific procedures, a skill set I once thought would always be out of reach. 

As I have touched on a few times in this blog, I learned very early on that the operating room is not an easy place to be deaf (unless you’re the patient). While otolaryngology is known to be a very competitive specialty, requiring above average board scores and research productivity, I had to tack on the question of my ability to hear and communicate in the OR. In hindsight, having sat through a slew of residency interviews, I realize the person who doubted in my hearing abilities in the OR the most was . . . me. While studying and preparing for cases every day on my various surgical and ENT rotations, I was simultaneously performing a rigorous internal assessment of my own abilities and shortcomings. On an invisible chalkboard, I kept the score: +1 for visual acuity and observational skills, -1 for fatigue affecting my active hearing abilities (it is hard work to constantly strain your ears over the hums, beeps, and chatter in the OR), +1 for my manual agility, -1 for not being able to push in my sweaty ear mold as it was slipping out of my ear under the hot surgical lights without breaking sterile field. 

It would take another few weeks, if not months, to realize that this decision wasn’t a matter of simple addition or subtraction. There were weights to each entry: the skill sets I did have, the assets I did bring to the table, held more weight than the things I perceived to be negatives. It is with deep gratitude to my mentors and friends who pointed this out to me, that I began to see things this way. I realized the things I considered to be “negatives” were not roadblocks, but opportunities to be more creative and find workaround solutions. The brain is a muscle and it gets used to long hours in residency – this is not a muscle I, exclusively, will have to train, because all residents need to make this adjustment. All newly minted residents awkwardly fumble through communication with OR staff until it becomes secondhand nature. Everyone finds their style and stride. I watched many an OR circulating nurse answer pages, texts and calls on behalf of residents, turn their headlamps on/off, or bring them an extra set of gloves if the sterile field was violated. I’ve come to understand that simple things, like disclosing my hearing impairment to staff, makes it a lot less awkward to ask them, mid-case, to push in my slipping ear mold.

Eventually, I tossed the chalkboard aside altogether. Here’s why: surgery is a team sport. If I have the grit, the academic ability, the manual agility and the passion for my work – and most importantly, if I show up for work every day, I will always have a team working alongside me to help me deliver the best care to my patients. My shortcoming was thinking I would have to come up with solutions alone, to make the adjustments alone. We’re all there for each other so we can be there for the patient. Maybe this is a product of being privileged to train at an amazing institution with a culture of support, but I genuinely believe this to be true. It isn’t always a given, but if I can communicate effectively, then I can deliver care effectively. I look forward to the next five years of exercising, revising, and honing all my skills. Before I know it, I hope I will be writing another blog post in the future, on the other side of this exciting, and nerve-wracking, journey.