👏🙏 On Sat, 27 Dec 2025 at 15:08, Narayanaswamy Sekar <[email protected]> wrote:
> > ---------- Forwarded message --------- > From: N Sekar <[email protected]> > Date: Sat, Dec 27, 2025, 1:38 PM > Subject: Fwd- When I read this in W app, I felt I was witnessing the > operation, what a Narration? > To: Kerala Iyer <[email protected]>, Narayanaswamy Sekar < > [email protected]>, Suryanarayana Ambadipudi <[email protected]>, > Rangarajan T.N.C. <[email protected]>, Chittanandam V. R. < > [email protected]>, Mathangi K. Kumar <[email protected]>, > Mani APS <[email protected]>, Rama (Iyer 123 Group) <[email protected]>, > Srinivasan Sridharan <[email protected]>, Surendra Varma < > [email protected]> > > > Fwd: This post is worth reading million times. To prove that beyond > science everything is the God. The real reason of life & beyond is 'God'. > > Those who read & ignore my posts can share it too🤪 > > ********************* > I looked at the MRI scan and felt a chill go down my spine that had > nothing to do with the hospital air conditioning. It was a death sentence, > printed in black and white. > > They call me a legend in this hospital. I’m Dr. Saravanan , retired Chief > of Vascular Surgery. I’ve spent forty years inside the human body. I know > the map of our arteries better than I know the streets of Chennai. I’ve > held beating hearts in my palms and clamped bleeders that were spraying the > ceiling. But looking at that scan, for the first time in decades, I didn't > feel like a surgeon. I felt like a fraud. > > The patient was Gowri. She was twenty-six years old, a single mother > working double shifts at a diner just to keep the lights on. She had > collapsed while pouring coffee. The aneurysm in her brain wasn't just big; > it was a monster. It was wrapped around the most delicate structures of her > brain stem like a constrictor snake. > > "It’s inoperable, Varadhan," the Chief of Neurology told me, shaking his > head. "You go in there, she bleeds out on the table. You leave it, it > bursts within 48 hours. She’s dead either way." > > In the medical system, we are trained to weigh risks. We worry about > liability, about success rates. Logic said: Do not touch this. Walk away. > Let nature take its course. > > But then I met Gowri’s eyes. And I saw her little girl, barely four years > old, coloring in a book in the waiting room, wearing worn-out sneakers. If > Gowri dies, that little girl went into the system. She would be alone. > > I told the administration to schedule the OR. I told them I was taking the > case. They looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was. > > The night before the surgery, I sat in my office with the lights off. The > city skyline was glowing outside, indifferent to the life hanging in the > balance inside. I was terrified. My hands, usually steady as stone, were > trembling slightly. I looked at the scans one last time. There was no clear > path. No angle of attack. It was a suicide mission. > > I am a man of science. I believe in scalpels, sutures, and blood pressure. > But on my desk, hidden behind piles of medical journals, I keep a small, > laminated old laminated card of Lord Vaitheeswara — My grandmother gave it > to me when I started med school. She said, " remember medicine treats the > body, but God heals the person." > > I picked up the card. I didn't recite a formal prayer. I just placed my > hand on Gowri’s file, looked at the image of the Lord, and spoke into the > darkness. > > "Hey Prabho," I whispered, my voice cracking. "My hands aren't enough for > this one. I’m just a mechanic down here. Tomorrow morning, you need to > scrub in. I’ll lend you my hands, but you have to bring the wisdom. You > have to be the Surgeon." > > The next morning, the operating room was freezing. The air was thick with > tension. The nurses moved quietly; the anesthesiologist wouldn't meet my > eyes. Everyone knew we were likely walking into a massacre. > > We opened. > > It was worse than the scans showed. The vessel wall was paper-thin, > pulsing angrily. One wrong breath, one microscopic tremor, and it would > rupture. > > I reached for the micro-scissors. This was the moment. The "Widowmaker" > moment. > > And then, it happened. > > The room seemed to go silent. Not just quiet, but a total, vacuum silence. > The beeping of the monitors faded into the background. A strange warmth > washed over my shoulders, flowing down my arms and into my fingertips. It > wasn't adrenaline. I know adrenaline—it’s jagged and fast. This was... > peace. Absolute, heavy peace. > > My hands started moving very fast. > > I want to be clear: I wasn't moving them. I was watching them move. > > I performed maneuvers I had never practiced. My fingers danced with a > speed and precision that a seventy-year-old man simply does not possess. I > was dissecting tissue millimeters from the brain stem without a singular > hesitation. I placed clips in blind spots I couldn't even fully see, guided > by an instinct that wasn't mine. > > "BP is stable," the anesthesiologist whispered, sounding shocked. > > I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was in a trance. It felt like someone was > standing directly behind me, guiding my elbows, steadying my wrists. I felt > a presence so strong, so commanding, that for a moment, I thought another > doctor had actually stepped up to the table. > > Forty-five minutes later, I dropped the final instrument into the tray. > > "The aneurysm is gone," I said. My voice sounded far away. "Close her up." > > The room erupted. Nurses were crying. The residents were staring at the > monitors in disbelief. We hadn't lost a drop of blood. It was impossibly > perfect. > > I stripped off my gown and walked out to the scrub sink. I looked in the > mirror. Usually, after a surgery like that, I am exhausted, drenched in > sweat, my back aching. > > I was dry. I was calm. I wasn't tired at all. > > I looked at my hands—my wrinkled, aging hands. They had saved a mother > today. They had saved a little girl from becoming an orphan. But I knew the > truth. > > I walked back to my office, picked up the little card of Vaitheeswara, and > put it back in my pocket. > > I signed the discharge papers a week later. Gowri walked out holding her > daughter's hand. She thanked me, tears streaming down her face, calling me > a hero or Kadavul. > > I smiled and shook my head. "I didn't do it alone," I told her. > > She thought I meant the team of nurses. But I knew who the lead surgeon > was that day. > > Science can explain the 'how.' It can explain the blood flow and the nerve > endings. But it can never explain the 'why.' It can never explain how a > man, facing the impossible, can suddenly find a way where there is no way. > > Sometimes, you have to admit that you are just the instrument. And on that > Tuesday, in operating room 4, the Great Physician was on call. > > Never lose hope. Even when the scan is dark, even when the world says it’s > over. Miracles don't always come with lightning and thunder. Sometimes, > they just come with a pair of steady hands and a silent prayer. > > Jai Vaitheeswara. > > Yahoo Mail: Search, Organize, Conquer > <https://mail.onelink.me/107872968?pid=nativeplacement&c=US_Acquisition_YMktg_315_SearchOrgConquer_EmailSignature&af_sub1=Acquisition&af_sub2=US_YMktg&af_sub3=&af_sub4=100002039&af_sub5=C01_Email_Static_&af_ios_store_cpp=0c38e4b0-a27e-40f9-a211-f4e2de32ab91&af_android_url=https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com.yahoo.mobile.client.android.mail&listing=search_organize_conquer> > > -- > You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups > "Thatha_Patty" group. > To unsubscribe from this group and stop receiving emails from it, send an > email to [email protected]. > To view this discussion visit > https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CABC81ZdeeqWAqTYiGzeWQ1AyB3sEZSw1Ag8fQTXvXwYbbfgX6g%40mail.gmail.com > <https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/thatha_patty/CABC81ZdeeqWAqTYiGzeWQ1AyB3sEZSw1Ag8fQTXvXwYbbfgX6g%40mail.gmail.com?utm_medium=email&utm_source=footer> > . > -- You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "Thatha_Patty" group. 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