A Master Appears
by Mike Litrel, M.D.

incision made by the midwife. Reaching inside the mother, he made a deft maneuver and pulled out an arm. The baby instantly delivered. Quickly the pediatricians began their resuscitation.

It had seemed an eternity, but only a minute had passed since Dr. Ahn had entered the room. We stood back, watching the efforts of the pediatricians. The baby, unconscious or possibly dead just moments before, began to turn pink.

The midwife arrived at the doorway, holding the stool Dr. Ahn had requested. Her mouth was agape. The baby was now crying.

"Baby is OK," Dr. Ahn said to the midwife. Then very deliberately, he removed his gloves and gown. "Give stool to Dr. Litrel."

Our faces betrayed our confusion.

"It easier to fix episiotomy sitting on stool with wheels," he explained with a smile.

There is a Zen Buddhist expression: "When the student is ready, the Master appears."

I was fortunate to train under Dr. Ahn. You could learn more about the art of surgery just watching him wash his hands at the scrub sink than you could in a dozen operations with surgeons less skilled. Dr. Ahn didn't like to talk about something, he liked to show you. But the one point I remember him repeating, scalpel in hand, was this:

"When you operate, always keep knife in good control."

It didn't seem like profound advice at the time. Don't wave a razor sharp scalpel around like an idiot — pay attention to what you are doing. But as the years passed, I have come to better understand what he meant. Don't just keep the scalpel under good control — keep yourself in good control.

Out of the hundred or so surgeons who were my teachers, Dr. Ahn was the best. Although I'm glad my formal training is over, I am sorry I no longer operate with "the Master."

Yet I am fortunate to have found another.

I bow when I enter the training room at Yong-In Martial Arts Academy in Woodstock. Master Yong Jeong, sixth degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, smiles broadly. Here his lessons are essentially the same ones I once learned from Dr. Ahn.

"Breathe deeply."

"Stay in control."

"Disciplined action."

On the surface, surgery and martial arts seem very different, but they actually have much in common. Tae Kwon Do is an ancient art. Its lessons have been distilled through the millennia, from a time when the ability to defend yourself and your family meant the difference between life and death. Both surgery and Tae Kwon Do are about preserving life — their underlying motivation, love.

I watch my seven year old Tyler learning to do a flying kick. Laughter fills the school as he and the other children struggle with the difficult maneuvers. They are having too much fun to realize how serious all this is.

Undoubtedly, part of the Master's plan.

Dr. Litrel is in practice at Cherokee Women's OB/GYN in Woodstock and Canton and is a Clinical Assistant Professor at Emory University School of Medicine. He lives in Towne Lake with his wife Ann and their two sons Tyler and Joseph. (Atlantalitrels@CS.com)

Dr. Ahn, a Professor of Medicine at Emory University, was reputed for his skill as a surgeon. Admired by his students, his nickname behind his back was "the Master." In my second month of residency training, I was to learn why.

The emergency page one night was a shoulder dystocia: the baby's head had delivered but its body was stuck, the shoulders too big to deliver. I ran to the delivery room where a midwife and two nurses were struggling to deliver the baby. The nurses were holding back the mother's legs, the midwife pulling on the baby's head. The midwife rolled her eyes at my entrance into the room. I was only an intern in the second month of training, and admittedly, pretty dang useless. "Get an upper level!" she cried. "We're in trouble!"

A wave of panic washed over me. But when I turned to run out of the room, Dr. Ahn was standing at the doorway.

"Oh, thank God!" The midwife's voice cracked. "It's a shoulder, Dr. Ahn!"

Dr. Ahn was a small, muscular middle-aged Korean man, invariably soft-spoken, confident, peaceful. Surveying the situation, Dr. Ahn calmly put on a surgical gown and gloves. "I examine patient," he said in his soft Korean accent. The midwife stumbled out of his way. The fear in the room was dissipating as Dr. Ahn took control of the situation, each of his movements exact and unhurried.

The baby's head was stuck halfway out, just its eyes showing, its shoulders wedged inside the pelvis. The scalp was white, betraying the lack of blood supply to the head. The midwife began an agitated account of the patient's medical history and the past hours' events.

Dr. Ahn interrupted her. "Get me a stool," he calmly said.

She ran to the sink, grabbed a stool. "Here! Here's your stool!"

Dr. Ahn glanced over his shoulder. "No, no," he said deliberately. "Get me stool with wheels."

An expression of incredulity played over her face, but dutifully she ran out of the room to find another stool.

Uncertain of my duties, I made a motion to go help her. Dr. Ahn stopped me. "No, no...you stay," he said with a half smile.

He instructed me as he went to work. Very precisely, pushing the baby's forehead out of the way, he extended the episiotomy