Putting down my scalpel

Hello, Substack, I'm Louise.

Eleven days ago, in the cold quiet of “Twixtmas”, I picked up a pen and began writing. The algorithm gods had (with uncharacteristic wisdom) led me to Beth Kempton’s Winter Writing Sanctuary. And oh, what sanctuary I found. Yes, it was about the writing, but it was so much more than that. It was about finding inspiration in the simplest spark, it was rediscovering joy.

Until six months ago, I was a surgeon. Technically, I suppose, I still am, or at least still could be. In eighteen years of practising medicine, though, I think I lost myself. I’ve always considered identity an enigmatic concept - it’s knotted strands shaping each of us, inimitable yet constantly in flux. I am beginning the process of untangling my particular knots of surgically-tied thread to find out who is underneath and just which wounds need air to heal.

I am so grateful to Beth, and to the incredible people in her community who I have been fortunate enough to share this profound experience with. And so, on this rainy Tuesday, my first post-sanctuary day, I am taking all my new found courage, picking up my pen, and saying hello to a future filled with possibility. I can’t wait to see who, and what, is waiting for me there.

The poem I share below is titled ‘Putting down my scalpel’

If you’re reading this, please say hello in the comments, I’d love to know what you thought. And if you’re just finding my page through this post, I’d be super grateful if you’d sign up so that you’ll receive the essays that are coming very soon. The first will be a ‘letter to my patients’ explaining more about my path to leaving surgery.

If you enjoyed this poem, please do feel welcome to share it with friends, and if you click the little heart button it helps others to find it too.

Thanks so much for reading!

Louise x

Since publication of this poem, I’ve added an audio reading, and the letter to my patients series of essays have been published, you can find them here if you’re interested to know more.

If you’re interested to explore more of my work, there is an index available here:

Text only version of Putting down my scalpel:

                Putting down my scalpel, 
                              and picking up my pen.
              An empty page is waiting - 
 
        where to?                            
 what next?                                         
                                  and then? -
                           to turn away 
                     from eighteen years of
                                         (literal) 
                              blood 
                            and sweat 
                                               and tears 
 
                                   (so many tears) 

         if not a surgeon, who the fuck am I?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

                        Can I reinvent my-
                                      self? 
 
                          As who, though? 
                                    When
                         all I've ever known 
                              is illness, 
                                        injury, 
                                    shame, 
                    and love               
    and loss                                
                                           and pain.

             The drugs don't always 
                                   work. 
                 Steel doesn't always 
                              heal. 
               Sometimes, there is no cure
                 My knife can't always save 
 your life.                               

                         It did, though. 
                    Many times. These hands 
                                   could move and 
                  s  t  r  e  t  c  h  and 
                           play -
 by daylight - fix your toenail, 
                by night, keep 
                               death 
                               at bay. 
                      (For now, at least.)


       So why leave? Why... waste
                                          all that skill and
                                                 stress 
                                                      and work?!
                  It takes it's toll. 
              No, more… stolen, my toll,
             by culture, expectations, lack of 
                          resource,  

                               time,
                             and sleep, 

fighting daily fires I no longer have 

                     ability to keep
                         my own fire 
                     burning, that flame that 
                              
                             burns 
                                                           with love
                            for the babies, 
                                       for the children, 
                        for my blade, 
                                                my gown, 
                                                           my glove.
               Today, I light this candle: 
                                            send my flame 
                                 out 
                                         to the world.
 
      Let the smoke dissolve my anger, let my 
                               broken 
                                                                  heart, 
                             unfurl'd,
collect my withered wintry soul, shake
                                           ashes from my skin.
                         This heart 
                                   will keep 
                              on beating. 
           These lungs, still breathing 
                                   in.

                  I'm here. 
                              One of the lucky ones. 
                                     Alive
                                              to tell the tale:
                                        to spill 
                                                     words 
                                                               onto                                               
                             paper,
                                                   and lift 
                     the darkened veil
           of this story, 
                                        and then
                                    at last
                                               just 
                                                                  be.

       Let this ink fall where it will. 
                     Let my words, 
                                  and me, 
                                                   
                           be free.