by Dr. Bevan Choate
At 36 years of age, I was a titan. I was a full-fledged urologist. A urologist is a surgical cyborg and the only surgical specialist mentioned in the Hippocratic Oath (“. . . I will not cut for stone.”) We use lasers to treat stones, robots to yank cancerous prostates, and general irreverence when the going gets tough. Despite this self-adulatory salvo, I wasn’t much like the surgeons you see on television. I drove a beat-up car, paid down student loans, and genuinely loved my patients. It was my calling, my purpose in life.
I was a titan; not a god. We’ve all at one point or another been privy to the fool with a god complex. Icarus taught us how that story ends. According to some in the medical community, “The only difference between God and a surgeon is that God knows he’s not a surgeon.” Be that as it may, I was not going to be some high-falutin surgeon type. I prided myself in my work in the trenches and strived to improve the lives of my patients.
Then, on 12/3/2020, the music stopped. I had suffered a life-threatening stroke. After nearly dying twice, I ultimately underwent three brain surgeries. I walked out of the hospital with an aluminum walker in February of 2021. Within the months of therapy I engaged to improve my coordination and regain strength, I wrote a book titled The Stroke Artist. It’s a no-frills divulgence of the microcosm surrounding brain injury, penned from my perspective as a young surgeon.
After suffering such a catastrophe, I had no desire to write a book. My friend and former colleague tried to convince me to start writing down the humorous and frankly absurd experiences I endured as a doctor turned stroke survivor. I needed a reason. He muttered something about posterity and I refused, stating “I don’t want to remember this shitshow.” Yet, I ultimately agreed citing that the act of typing will be an excellent form of therapy for my feral left hand. After a few paragraphs, the storytelling began to take on its own life. I was no longer a titan and I was now chained to a boulder. Yet, I still had an opportunity to help others by sharing my experiences.
Prometheus gave the world fire and suffered dearly for it. I may have tried giving “fire” to many of my patients. This doesn’t change the fact that I am now a “mortal” bound to a catastrophic brain injury. From this I learned that no matter how high we think we are flying, humility is right around the corner. My error was not in the work I did or my past intentions. My error was in not allowing myself to grow further as a human being. For more years than we can fathom, humans have survived and thrived on community and fellowship. We rely on external constructs like religion, scientific models, and behavioral therapy. These concepts are often strengthened through community and practice. I was blind to this essence because my former brain thought I was achieving this by helping others. Maybe so, but perhaps I could have done it better. After all, our modern-day brains ARE the same ones we had 200,000 years ago.
Is it not a god complex to think you can make yourself whole by treating the many parts of others? Didn’t Dr. Frankenstein try that? Can’t be, right? I was a titan. I mean, come on, I thought I was the most self-aware doctor on the planet.
To say you are the “most” anything pretty well misses the mark for self-awareness. The moniker I gave myself does not matter. I still had a complete blind spot.
I realize now that my true life had been on life-support prior to my stroke. I previously avoided community and fellowship because my poorly evolved brain thought I was getting it in spades on a daily basis in a hospital. My relationships with friends and family suffered throughout my years in medicine. I somehow managed to avoid those that gave me a chance to be vulnerable, self-reflect, and be fulfilled. I was always too tired or too busy. To a brain, simulation is the same as reality. To a heart, it’s a dreadful cancer.
Not to get too elder millennial, but is social media often not but a simulation of community and fellowship? Now, more than ever, we need to come together in a way that our hearts can enjoy. It only took a stroke and writing a book for me. I don’t recommend either, but if your passion is in writing, write from the heart and write when you don’t think you want to.
Dr. Bevan Choate is a urologist, artist, and author of The Stroke Artist, a self-penned story that speaks to all who have, at one time or another, faced and then overcome life’s unplanned obstacles. Just when Dr. Choate had found his stride as a successful surgeon, he suffered a stroke, and the music stopped. Overnight, he went from the ship’s captain to a passenger floating aimlessly at sea. His story is one of grit and the determination to be better—despite the odds. Dr. Choate received his medical doctorate from Texas Tech Health Sciences Center and completed a five-year residency through the University of New Mexico Hospitals. He now lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with his wife and dog Indi and pursues painting, fly fishing, and urology.