We Don't Need Another Hero

by Damon Gambuto     Department: Behind the Scenes

RoboDoc is our segment about the Da Vinci Surgical System, and was selected for the obvious technophilic, Wiredness of it all.  I mean, it's surgery with robots!

I could do the usual rant on the controls (motion scaling, tremor reduction, etc.) and provide a litany of superlatives regarding the robot's accomplishments (smallest patient, youngest patient, et al), but I want to tell you a story about the people involved. Here's what happened right before all that amazing footage of the Da Vinci in action was shot.

I want to say thank you in advance to the folks this entry is about.

The patient: Gus Balconyanis, his wife: Susan Balconyanis and our amazing producer: Dana Millikin.

Thank you.

---

It's 8 AM and Gus is starting to feel tired.  He's been up for three hours already.  Prepping for surgery is a tedious process, but he's kept the mood light despite the seriousness of his impending procedure.

The fear he's expected to have at this moment - the moment before a hulking mass of metal and circuitry sticks its robotic limbs inside his chest - is almost completely absent.  Even he is surprised by how calm he feels.  Maybe the cocktail of sedatives dripping into his arm is the cause.  Maybe this is just what it feels like when you accept that you have no control over whether you live or die.

Gus smiles faintly as the nurses roll him towards the operating room. Susan holds his hand and walks alongside the gurney.   She searches her years of acting training for a brave face.  It won't come in. This is her real life and her worry is transparent.  She and Gus joke that she should be getting the drugs.

It was just a couple of days earlier that Susan got a call from Gus while traveling in Singapore.  He tried to make light of the bad news.

"Guess what?  I need open heart surgery."

Two weeks earlier they decided that Susan should go ahead to the wedding of a friend in Singapore.  Gus' tests weren't supposed to come back with anything too troubling.  Unfortunately, it was worse than everyone had imagined.  Gus needed to get into surgery as soon as possible so that his blockages didn't lead to a full blown heart attack.  Susan caught a plane that landed just in time to be at her husband's side.

The nurses pause before they bring Gus through the automatic, sliding doors that lead to the OR.  Gus and Susan embrace one last time.  He pulls her close and speaks in an almost-whisper.  Susan's eyes moisten with tears as she nods her agreement to what he's just said.  The doors open with a mechanical whoosh and Gus is wheeled inside.

Dana, cleaned and scrubbed, readies herself to follow Gus into surgery.  She's produced numerous like this and knows all-too-well that her attention needs to be on her crew.  She's watched grown men pass out at the sight of blood.  Dana notices that a crew member's surgical mask is askew and heads toward him to fix it.  As she makes
her way across the hall she sees Susan motioning to her.  Dana walks to her and thinks of some words of assurance.  She's seen this before too.  The families often have a harder time than the patient.

Susan's steady voice belies the sadness of what she tells Dana. Susan explains that Gus wants the story to be aired even if the "worst case scenario" happens.  Whether or not he survives the procedure, he wants the world to see the scientific and technical advancements available to all of us.  Then we might become more comfortable with technology and its uses that make for a better world.   Gus wants a better world.

Dana is silent for a moment as she feels her eyes fill with tears.

She meets Susan's gaze.

"Don't do that," Susan says with a gentle tone.

Dana places her arm around Susan and nods.  They pause for a moment and then Dana heads into the OR.  As Susan turns and walks to the waiting room she is overwhelmed with emotion.  The tears arrive like a flood.

---

Post script

I am so happy to tell you that the worst case scenario didn't happen. Gus made it through surgery.  He's feeling great.  Well, almost great. The biochemical response his body had to the trauma of the surgery has exacerbated his diabetes.  All in all, he feels lucky.  He's due back to work this week.  His chest feels great.  Really.  I'm talking to him as I write this.  Literally.  Gus says, "Hi."

I asked Gus if he minds if I call him a hero.  He demurred so I'll refrain from referring to him as one.  What I will say that I wish everyone was as thoughtful, forthright and kind as he.

Then we'd need fewer heroes.

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