This project I am working on has just been assigned a product manager. He visited last week, trying to get exposure to neurosurgery, sniff out market potential, etc.

Everyone who visits always say they want to see everything. The end results is that we always get there too early, because surgery never starts right on time in the morning. This week we arrived so early that the patient is still awake and being briefed by the surgeon. It was still dark outside at 730 and the OR was quiet, we were all standing outside the room. The patient was joking about the anaesthetic he had last time that gave him a flaming crotch when I glanced over to his wife, who chuckled half-heartedly. It was difficult to ignore the worry on her face. I noticed her left hand was a tight fist and her right hand kept rubbing over it. I had the urge to say something comforting but instead I just watched her silently. Almostly helplessly. He had 4 tumours, and it was his 7th operation in 12 years. He was only in his late forties. It felt... heavy.

As the patient was rolled into the OR, his wife left. I know it sounds like a cliche but as I was sitting there watching the surgery it suddenly occured to me that someone out there is worried sick about what was going on. It's not just a case to them, nor a cool procedure. It was anything but. I walk in and out of the room many times now, but it was the first time that I consciously thought about the absence of family members in there. The surgery went on for 9 hours. I can't imagine the agony if I were waiting that long outside the OR. I would probably rather watch, no matter how nerve wrecking that might be.

The neurosurgeon told me he would be alright. Maybe some weakness in his legs. The tumours will come back and they will operate again when it does. There are too many things to be grateful for in life... ironically Adele is singing as I type this.