...behind the surgeon’s mask.
Surgeons are used to talking about diagnoses and patients, and we are used to hearing about them purely from a professional standpoint. Surgeons rarely speak about themselves. They don’t talk about the exhaustion from the burden of responsibility or the physical fatigue that sets in when an operation stretches into its fifth or tenth consecutive hour. They’re accustomed to sharing the desire for life and the despair of loss with patients, but the focus always remains on the bodies they’ve operated on, and it’s not customary to ask about the scars left on the surgeons' own souls. Dispassionate and impersonal, with a relentless blade in hand—that’s how they’re perceived. People say about them, "Surgeons just love to cut," or "What dark humor they have…"
The renowned Mykola Amosov was one of the first to dare to speak openly in his books about the thoughts hiding behind a surgeon's mask—what they think about when stepping into the operating room and how they feel when losing a patient.
No one but colleagues understands the "operating room phenomenon"—where you become numb to your own pain, temperature, fatigue, or anxieties. All of that is left outside the OR doors. Inside, there is only the sterility of thoughts, movements, and decisions.
Out of respect for all doctors, admiration for the professional dedication and courage of surgeons, and awe at their daily ability to save lives, this photo project was born—to show the monumental effort and emotional weight that dissolve into the sterility of the operating room.
Here are six stories about six surgeons from MM “Dobrobut.”
All the stories are based on real events, facts, biographies, and habits of the surgeons, because just like the operating room, the camera does not tolerate lies.
- Idea and execution – Communication Agency VARTO (Tetiana Yasinska "Yasya")
- Management and communication – Yevheniia Haiduk, MM Dobrobut
- Photography – Artur Verkhovetskyi
- Makeup – Maryna Sereda
- Texts and interviews – Olha Sluch, Olha Holovina
Vasyl Shmahoi has been operating on patients for over 20 years. He’s an orthopedic surgeon. And he doesn’t care much for jokes about "emotional trauma." Every day, he reminds his patients that the spirit must remain UNBREAKABLE, and everything else can be "stitched back together." He really did manage to reattach a severed finger so well that his patient can now type with it.
Today, as he prepares for surgery, he marvels once again at how Chance loves to test Experience. As soon as you think you can "scan" a fracture with your eyes—there comes a diagnosis with a 1 in 10,000 chance.
He knows these feelings well: everything is as usual, the familiar routine of examination and preparation, and suddenly the young colleague’s words seem TOO relevant. A recheck, tests, another examination… Indeed—it’s THAT rare case.
Over the course of more than twenty years, he’s realized that paradoxes are predictable. Yesterday, it was the "law of paired cases": you operate on a clavicle fracture, and in a few days, another patient with the same injury will surely arrive. Today, an intern makes a "shot in the dark" assumption, and sure enough, it’s this rare diagnosis.
"Fortune favors the young," he repeats in such situations. Without pretension and with complete humility, because after 20 years in medicine, he knows that experience isn’t about years; it’s about the daily trials. As an orthopedic surgeon, he has learned to be as flexible as a joint, constantly strengthening the "muscle fibers" of professional skill.
He doesn’t care for decorations. He doesn’t wear a watch. He’s never without his crucifix, especially in the operating room. He doesn’t gesture wildly in the heat of emotion. He’s used to keeping his hands steady. He is a surgeon.
The beauty of hands is perfect. He never tires of marveling at their resilient perfection. Ten swift fingers. A delicate wrist. A broad palm…
The touch of a hand can say more than words. A hand's movement can leave a mark on the heart. A hand extended at the right moment can save a life.
...seconds before surgery, the final preparations—sterile gloves...
If beauty is meant to save the world, then nothing is more beautiful than a surgeon’s hands, he believes.
"With God!" he steps decisively over the threshold of the operating room. "And with Khrystyna," he jokes, but he’s serious too—he can’t imagine an operation without her, the surgical nurse who’s been by his side for years. This team is bonded by sweat, forged in moments of crisis. He can handle a different operating room or assistants, but it’s Khrystyna who must tie his gown and hand him the scalpel. This ritual, equivalent to trust and confidence, is the foundation of reliability.
Scalpel!
To him, it’s not just a blade. It’s a key that unlocks the most perfect machine—our body.
He teaches younger colleagues to leave their emotions at home and take on the role of "auto mechanics." Identify the problem and fix it with precision. A mechanic doesn’t get distracted by the lines of the chassis; they’re focused on the engine. If the engine fails, the leather interior no longer delights the driver.
A surgeon is the mechanic of our body. And he knows for sure that where a scalpel is needed, emotions are unnecessary.
A dispassionate incision. A keen gaze. A lightning-fast assessment. The hand that holds the scalpel has no room for doubt or hesitation.
Doctor, what do you think about when you make an incision?
"You should think BEFORE the surgery. During it, you just do your job flawlessly. The stakes are too high for every second and the smallest mistake."
Exhausted. Sweaty. The surgery has been going on for five hours, but he’ll realize this only when he returns to his office and sees the dusk outside the window.
In the operating room, time moves differently: it beats to the rhythm of the heart. For him, no sound is sweeter than this monotony. It means "life."
As long as the patient’s heart is beating, he doesn’t feel his own. He doesn’t feel pain, fatigue, or sweat. That’s another phenomenon of the operating room—you don’t feel your own body there. The extreme exhaustion and back pain will hit him like a wave later, when he steps out of the prep room. But inside the OR, all earthly sensations lose meaning. It’s another dimension. And the doctor is not sure anyone but surgeons can truly understand it… It’s an addiction, like a drug.
The patient is happy because they woke up after surgery. Because it’s all behind them now. It seems like the worst is over, and relief is just around the corner. The pain hums faintly but doesn’t spread fully, thanks to the anesthetics tricking the body.
The doctor smiles in return. The doctor is happy because the surgery was successful. He praises the fighting spirit—not his own, but the patient’s.
And he tries to encourage the patient because he knows that the hardest part is still ahead—rehabilitation. Although for the young and athletic, it goes by quicker.
The patient weakly squeezes his hand. Awkwardly smiles, like everyone does after anesthesia, and fumbles over words of gratitude.
I want to thank you...
"Yes, the ulnar nerve is working, excellent…" the doctor thinks and habitually interrupts:
To your health!
When they accidentally run into each other a month later, this young man will already be swimming in the pool and trying to jog at the gym. The doctor may not remember his name, but he’ll certainly remember the scar, the surgery protocol, the diagnosis, and even the medications he prescribed. That’s another phenomenon of surgeons.
