About Me — Edward Kuo
Welcome to be a teacher, a mentor, and a coach for a surgical resident.
Hey everyone, my name is Edward.
The funny thing is, nobody calls me Edward in my family. As a Taiwanese who mainly speaks Mandarin, it makes me cringe to be called by Edward in a Mandarin conversation. But most people who grew up in Taiwan get an “English name”, or rather, an “American name” in our childhood for the purpose of English classes or just being cool. It’s typically given by our parents, English teachers, or in some cases, ourselves. I got “Edward” from my mom when I was like 10 years old, and never did I think that I would someday use this name in any meaningful way.
It’s not until the time when I went to the United States for my master’s degree that I found “Edward” to be, well, accommodating. My official name in Mandarin is “世強”, or “Shih-Chiang” as shown on my passport. The truth is, the English version sounds nothing like the Mandarin one. If you copy and paste them for the Google Translator to pronounce, you’d get what I mean. Every time I had to pronounce it when introducing myself, I felt so awkward hearing the sound coming out of my mouth. And through no fault of my English-speaking friends, they most likely had difficulty remembering this name. “Edward”, therefore, came in handy and made everyone’s life easier. Since then, I’ve been comfortable being Edward.
Now who am I?
I am a surgical resident. That is, according to the American College of Surgeons, a medical doctor who is receiving training to be a surgeon. Especially for those who are in their early years like I am, this is a very special, challenging, daunting, rewarding, exhausting, and sometimes confusing phase of our career.
We are responsible, but far from fully responsible for our patients. We are able to prepare you for an upcoming operation, order whatever medication you might need, close the wound at the end of a surgery, and much more. But we are far from capable of “operating” on you.
And just like many other medical specialties, we spend hours and hours learning, reading, practicing, making (hopefully non-serious) mistakes, and growing. Until one day, usually five to six years later, we become capable of taking full responsibility, capable of operating on you.
To simply put, we are more like students, than doctors.
And that means, while approaching 30 years of age, I am very much a rookie in medicine.
I am very new to a common scene in the Emergency Room where ten patients are sent in simultaneously with two of them bleeding out, three of them having horrific broken legs and ribs, and the remaining five yelling at the staff while having minor scratches.
I don’t always know what to do when a nurse pages me about an old lady with a failing liver who can’t catch her breath while bleeding from her abdominal wound.
I can feel my incompetency every single day and wonder how my seniors get to where they are today.
Any sense of improvements are followed by the realization of a seemingly insurmountable knowledge gap.
I try not to have a sense of guilt when I prioritize my own physical and mental health instead of the patients’.
That’s the ugly truth, but at the same time, the beauty of being a surgical resident.
The fear, uncertainty, embarrassment, anxiety, frustration, and loneliness. The joy, inspiration, pride, purpose, hope, and connection. You get all that doing this job.
So, why am I writing?
I don’t think I have the expertise to teach you anything. But I do feel like sharing with you my own struggles and the attempts I make to try to overcome them.
Every medical student is told that patients will always be our best teachers in our career.
Here, I welcome you, to be my best teachers, mentors, and coaches in this ultimate game called life.
