09 Mar Trading A Scalpel For A Pen
What do a scalpel and a pen have in common? At first glance, the response would be not very much, but after a moment of reflection, I realise that they are both instruments of creativity. As a surgeon, I used this small straight thin-bladed knife for 35 years to help patients. As part of my practice, I had published medical journals, medical texts, administrative reports, and innumerable planning documents, yet I never thought that this involved an ounce of creativity. Instead, I thought of what I was doing to contribute to innovation, research, and leadership in my profession. All those years, I believed that creativity was an abstract talent needed in the arts, such as painting, design, and music.
Then serendipitous circumstances brought about by the confinement of Covid-19, I entered a new venture when I became acquainted with writer Karen Olsen, and we joined our talents and skills in a new creative writing project.
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As a writer, I have used a pen for the last ten years to touch my readers’ imagination. From my perspective, I wondered, “How does a writer approach the story of a surgeon?” Then, it dawned on me. First, I had to listen closely to the raconteur’s voice without judgment. I had to let his candidness and generosity guide me. Many of the anecdotes he shared were light-hearted and full of details about a culture I knew well since I grew up in a similar environment in Québec. Other parts of the story were deadly serious, and I had to find the delicate balance between both. I chose words to paint an accurate but colourful picture of a boy who initially dreamt of running away to live grand adventures as a sea captain. In university, he studied architecture to follow in his father’s footsteps. In the end, medicine chose him to become the man who would dedicate his life to saving children with congenital heart disease.
In late February 2020, the coronavirus pandemic caught us all off guard. Worry crept into our lives, and fear became a constant companion in our daily routines.
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With the dramatic alteration of our everyday lives with social distancing orders, curfews, quarantines, lockdowns, and more, this confinement came in the disguise of a gift. For many years, I worked on a project to examine a surgeon’s soul. Then, it seemed I had arrived at an impasse. I worried that all this work would be for not. Thankfully through a mutual friend, Karen accepted to read the manuscript that sat collecting dust on a shelf in my office. She proposed to look at the project from a fresh perspective, with the idea of rewrite it in French. I agreed that it would be an exciting challenge, but I was uncertain that my French language control was up to the task. I had left Quebec in 1979. An editing project morphed into a structured biography exploring my childhood, my training to become a surgeon while examining my growth as a human being.
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During our initial meeting, I could feel that Jacques was skeptical when I presented the idea of a rewrite. He asked why we should do it this way. My response was, “Why not?”. Intuitively, I knew that his story’s telling would come more naturally in his mother tongue because of the connection to both his soul and his language. We had time at our disposal, and the ideas were ready to be put to paper. The title, À Coeur Ouvert: la foi d’un chirurgien, was coined, and a table of contents drafted. Later, we came up with exciting and intriguing titles for each chapter, and the story slowly took shape.
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Over countless Facetime calls and emails, the thread of my life story evolved in record time. The wonder of technology gave us a chance to work at a safe distance. With little to distract us from the writing process, we had a completed manuscript within eleven months. The whole exercise was enlightening. We seem to have tapped into a good measure of synergy and mutual trust during the work session. Et voilà, that is the story of how the scalpel met the pen, and the creativity of two people unfolded into a flow of words, sentences, imagery, raw emotions, and peals of laughter echoing during our many conversations and exchanges.
The completed manuscript is now in the hands of publishers. All we can do now is wait for the verdict of the reading committees to come down. What a learning experience and a delight this whole experience has been! My metaphoric scalpel helped me dissect memories and reclaim my long-forgotten French skills. As Karen sharpened her pen to bring to life the story. I pondered the question of the surgeon’s soul and the source of his creativity.
Bringing together these two sides of my being has brought me great pleasure and a deeper understanding of myself. Please enjoy this moment of our collaboration. The following text is in my first language because, in translation, it would lose some of the essence and richness of its meaning.
<Mes premiers cours en architecture étaient plutôt théoriques : matériaux et charpentes, dessin et figuration graphique, exploration en maquette, l’habitabilité et poésie de l’espace, l’architecture de la Renaissance à 1945 et j’en passe. J’avais plutôt envie de créer, de me retrousser les manches. Malheureusement, j’avais l’impression d’avancer, dans cette discipline, à la vitesse d’un escargot. Pour me distraire, j’ai d’abord joint le club de ski de l’université. Je n’ai jamais eu le corps d’un grand sportif, mais comme tout ce que j’entreprenais, je m’y engageais pleinement. Les départs de grand matin pour le Mont-Saint Anne, le froid et les bottes de ski comme des étaux ont vite fait de me convaincre que le water-polo serait une activité plus agréable, même si j’avais à faire vingt-quatre longueurs (soit presque 2km) dans la piscine comme exercice de réchauffement avant la pratique de jeu. J’ai participé à ce sport pendant deux ans. Ce qui m’a permis de faire la connaissance d’étudiants qui venait de toutes les facultés de notre campus. Je garde de cette camaraderie un souvenir inoubliable.
À la fin de cette première année universitaire, c’était l’impasse. Je savais que l’architecture n’arriverait pas à combler mon désir de faire quelque chose qui dépasserait les attentes de mon père. Je me sentais comme un navire sans gouvernail. De retour au travail, à Rimouski, dans l’usine de papa, je ne voyais pas comment m’en sortir. Si je ne reprenais pas mes cours, il ne restait plus qu’à travailler pour lui ou aller me trouver un boulot ailleurs.
L’univers a toujours semblé conspirer pour me procurer exactement ce dont j’avais besoin et quelle direction prendre. Ce coup de pouce, allait se manifester dans un livre aux tranches irrégulières que j’ai trouvé ni dans les rayons de ma bibliothèque ni dans le kiosque à journaux d’une gare. Je n’ai encore moins le souvenir du nom de l’auteur et du titre de ce bouquin, sauf les caractères en rouge de la couverture. Sans illustrations, ce livre, aux pages de parchemin, avait des bords non rognés. Je devais séparer certaines feuilles avec un coupe-papier. Dans ce volume, non massicoté, j’ouvrais les pages, au fil de l’épée, pour y découvrir les secrets cachés dans ces mots. Dans cet ouvrage, l’auteur me révélait la détresse de la souffrance qui existait dans le monde. Le sujet de ce livre me passionnait et l’intérêt pour la médecine a jailli pour remplacer mon dada pour Le Corbusier.
Je ne pouvais changer de faculté sans en parler à mon père, puisque c’était lui qui payait pour mes études. Prenant mon courage à deux pour aborder le sujet, j’ai pendant des heures préparer et répéter les arguments contre des points qu’il pourrait soulever. J’ai commencé par le convaincre que cette première année en architecture n’était pas gaspillée, car la faculté de médecine était disposée à créditer certains de mes cours. Je lui ai dit que je prendrais les bouchés doubles, en prenant des cours supplémentaires l’année suivante pour rattraper le temps perdu. Il a finalement donné sa bénédiction parce que dans son esprit. Je continuais mes études, même s’il ne comprenait pas tout à fait le choix que je venais de faire. Sans perdre une minute, j’ai modifié mon curriculum vitae pour que la faculté de médecine accepte ma demande. Après quelques négociations, avec le personnel du bureau du registraire, quelques-uns de mes cours de ma première année ont été reconnus et j’ai pu changer de faculté. Sans vraiment m’en rendre compte, je façonnais ma nouvelle carrière. >