The Last Light (The Wandering Inn, #5)

by Pirateaba

And yet, therein lay the irony of surgery, of Geneva’s profession. To become a great surgeon, one capable of taking on the hardest challenges, one had to practice. But no one trusted a new surgeon. And yet, a surgeon had to operate, and thus, make mistakes to grow experienced. In short, it always came back to the same contradiction: a surgeon grew from the patients who died under her care. It wasn’t always like that of course. That was a harsh generalization. In another hospital, there would be veterans, older doctors, and other surgeons on standby who could help out in an emergency. But part of Geneva had wondered, idly, while she listened to her professors lecture, whether experience was all a doctor needed. The average surgeon took on many operations each year. Hundreds. But they also followed a strict set of rules, having to clean themselves, create sterile operating environments—all to make sure their patients had the best chance possible. In wars, medicine was not so nice.

Oo