Today in surgery, the implant didn’t sit right 😬. My first reaction? Frustration. I wanted to blame the junior, the tools, anyone but me. My chest was tight, my tone sharper than it should’ve been. I could feel the old pattern rising. But then I remembered — Jesus took my blame at the cross ✝️. If He bore my guilt, how can I not extend grace? By His mercy, I stayed calm, fixed it, and ended in peace. The gospel reframes failure into grace. More on my blog 👉
The Weight of Surgery
There is something profoundly personal about surgery. Prescribing a pain medication carries a certain distance — the patient takes the pill, and if the pain remains, I still feel a sense of detachment. But when I place my hands into the work of surgery, the outcome feels tied to me in a way that is far more direct and heavy.
When the result is not what we hoped for, the weight sits differently on my shoulders.
The Emotions That Follow
Each time this happens, a mixture of emotions floods in.
- Dejection: the disappointment of not achieving the outcome I worked for.
- Sadness: the grief of knowing the patient is still suffering.
- Fear: the anxious voice that whispers, “Am I a failure? Am I an imposter in this uniform?”
These emotions linger, and they push me to ask difficult questions of myself.
What This Struggle Reveals
On reflection, I see that my turmoil often reveals something deeper — pride. Who am I to think I can guarantee a good outcome every time? Surgical results are shaped by countless factors: a patient’s pain threshold, their commitment to rehabilitation, their unique anatomy, their choices after surgery. Even the decisions made during surgery, each in its context, can carry long-term consequences.
And yet, part of me believes I deserve perfect outcomes.
But if anyone can demand flawless results, it is not me — it is God alone.
Where True Comfort Lies
The comfort I need is not found in tallying my successes, nor in shifting blame when results fall short. The common temptation in medicine is to point the finger elsewhere — at patients who don’t comply with rehab, who skip medications, who persist in unhelpful habits. But such self-defence only elevates myself above God, shielding me from scrutiny without addressing my heart.
The truth is this: outcomes do not rest in my hands alone. My identity and worth do not hang on the percentages of success or failure. My safety is in Christ, and my calling is to be faithful with the work He has entrusted to me.
How should the Christian think about this?
— ✂️ CUT FOR SUBSTACK ✂️ —
Beyond Self-Justification
It is humbling to admit that even surgical decisions — my very own judgment calls in the operating theatre — contribute to outcomes that are sometimes less than ideal. Each surgery unfolds differently, each decision carries weight, and each path could lead to variations in recovery.
Owning this reality is uncomfortable. Yet avoiding it by shifting blame only deepens my pride. The only way forward is to look not inward in self-condemnation, nor outward in deflection, but upward — to the cross.
The Anchor at the Cross
The cross reminds me that I am not the saviour of my patients. I am a servant. My work is to apply the skill and wisdom God has given me, but the results are His. Christ Himself bore my failures and insecurities at Calvary. That truth frees me from both arrogance when outcomes are good and despair when they are not.
The gospel reframes the struggle: I am not defined by success rates or surgical outcomes, but by the finished work of Jesus. My identity is secure, and my worth does not rise or fall with the statistics of my practice.
So when surgeries don’t go as planned, I must keep my eyes on the cross. Only there do I find peace, humility, and the courage to continue serving with steady hands.