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The Surgeon — CORTEX COLLECTIVE

cortexmagazine.com · 6,910 words · saved by 1 readers

When I was eight, I curled up on a metal stool in the corner of an operating room to watch my mother return to her patients the ability to think. Armored in pale blue scrubs, hair combed into a tight bun, she directed the phalanx of nurses that surrounded the operating table and handled the variety of instruments with stiff dedication to the task at hand. Her solemnity stayed with me. I learned the names of the different tools by listening to her call them out; I memorized the words used to describe the brain in the same way. On Christmas morning, she treated me to a cup of hot chocolate from an upscale coffee store on the nicer side of town. I warmed my fingers on its thick, Styrofoam shelling, treasuring the richness of the drink, as she drove into the hospital’s parking lot. My mother guided me past the waiting room and patiently explained to me that today I would be allowed to watch her work. An unconscious, middle-aged man lay unconscious, face concealed under a filmy blanket. As

The Surgeon written by sarah feng illustrated by emily cai music played by ilana zaks When I was eight, I curled up on a metal stool in the corner of an operating room to watch my mother return to her patients the ability to think. Armored in pale blue scrubs, hair combed into a tight bun, she directed the phalanx of nurses that surrounded the operating table and handled the variety of instruments with stiff dedication to the task at hand. Her solemnity stayed with me. I learned the names of the different tools by listening to her call them out; I memorized the words used to describe the brain

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