Best 47 quotes in «surgery quotes» category

Since I had my gastric bypass surgery in 1998, I eat like a bird. Unfortunately, that bird is a California condor.

Plastic surgery is a postmodern veil.

After tomorrow, I'll see a different face staring back at me from the mirror - at first, a swollen face, but then one with a smaller jaw and a straighter smile. This is what I've wanted for years, but standing on the edge of all this change, I feel like I want to pause time and remember exactly what if feels like to be here now - in the before.

Soccer isn't brain surgery, have fun.

The act of love strongly resembles torture or surgery.

A clown makes you laugh it doesn't mean he knows how to perform a surgery.

There's the whole myth about rocket science. It's really not that hard. It's not brain surgery.

The shoulder surgery was a success. The lobotomy failed.

A good doctor should not avoid performing surgery or prescribing a bitter pill if it is in the interest of the patient. Similarly, a wise person must not avoid taking unpleasant and difficult decisions, if they are in the interest of the people and the organisation.

As good surgical doctor works on a patient in the theater with varied kinds of surgical instruments, so a true leader also needs a clean bag of leadership characters that vary from task to task. One-way leaders are obvious failures!

And, for the first few months after her surgeries, Holly had felt, horribly, as if she'd been turned into a machine, an unkillable robot. She had terrible dreams in which she was searching for her body parts on shelves lined with thousands of other body parts, floating in thousands of jars. In the dreams, Holly was convinced that her soul had been located in one of those body parts, and now her soul was trapped for eternity in formaldehyde and glass.

Break free from the binding robes of passion that feels like a lump in your heart, perform that surgery today, and you'll be set free forever.

I made the mistake of using my earned sick time at the W. M. Keck Observatory for essential surgery. When I returned to work the management team demanded my resignation numerous times, citing my essential surgery as a reason. The W. M. Keck Observatory taught me that using earned sick time in the USA may put your future employment at significant risk.

From the point that I returned to work from essential surgery to the point of being terminated, it was clear that the toxic W. M. Keck Observatory had declared war on me.

His most famous (and possibly apocryphal) mishap involved an operation during which he worked so rapidly that he took off three of his assistant's fingers and, while switching blades, slashed a spectator's coat. Both the assistant and the patient died later of gangrene, and the unfortunate bystander expired on the spot from fright. It is the only surgery in history said to have had a 300 percent fatality rate.

He walked across the room and flicked a switch. A spotlight turned on, illuminating a laminated poster of a woman on his wall. He took a crayon from his pocket and began drawing on it. I could see smudges from past demonstrations. [. . .] His dashed lines crisscrossed the woman's chest as if he were planning a military maneuver on undulating terrain.

Hundreds of men crowded the yard, and not a one among them was whole. They covered the ground thick as maggots on a week old carcass, the dirt itself hardly anywhere visible. No one could move without all feeling it and thus rising together in a hellish contortion of agony. Everywhere men moaned, shouting for water and praying for God to end their suffering. They screamed and groaned in an unending litany, calling for mothers and wives and fathers and sisters. The predominant color was blue, though nauseations of red intruded throughout. Men lay half naked, piled on top of one another in scenes to pitiful to imagine. Bloodied heads rested on shoulders and laps, broken feet upon arms. Tired hands held in torn guts and torsos twisted every which way. Dirty shirts dressed the bleeding bodies and not enough material existed in all the world to sop up the spilled blood. A boy clad in gray, perhaps the only rebel among them, lay quietly in one corner, raised arm rigid with a finger extended, as if pointing to the heavens. His face was a singular portrait of contentment among the misery. Broken bones, dirty white and soiled with the passing of hours since injury, were everywhere abundant. All manner of devices splinted the damaged and battered limbs: muskets, branches, bayonets, lengths of wood or iron from barns and carts. One individual had bone splinted with bone: the dried femur of a horse was lashed to his busted shin. A blind man, his eyes subtracted by the minié ball that had enfiladed him, moaned over and over “I’m kilt, I’m kilt! Oh Gawd, I’m kilt!” Others lay limp, in shock. These last were mostly quiet, their color unnaturally pale. It was agonizingly humid in the still air of the yard. The stink of blood mixed with human waste produced a potent and offensive odor not unlike that of a hog farm in the high heat of a South Carolina summer. Swarms of fat, green blowflies everywhere harassed the soldiers to the point of insanity, biting at their wounds. Their steady buzz was a noise straight out of hell itself, a distress to the ears.

In the course of an extended investigation into the nature of inflammation, and the healthy and morbid conditions of the blood in relation to it, I arrived several years ago at the conclusion that the essential cause of suppuration in wounds is decomposition brought about by the influence of the atmosphere upon blood or serum retained within them, and, in the case of contused wounds, upon portions of tissue destroyed by the violence of the injury. To prevent the occurrence of suppuration with all its attendant risks was an object manifestly desirable, but till lately apparently unattainable, since it seemed hopeless to attempt to exclude the oxygen which was universally regarded as the agent by which putrefaction was effected. But when it had been shown by the researches of Pasteur that the septic properties of the atmosphere depended not on the oxygen, or any gaseous constituent, but on minute organisms suspended in it, which owed their energy to their vitality, it occurred to me that decomposition in the injured part might be avoided without excluding the air, by applying as a dressing some material capable of destroying the life of the floating particles.

No matter who you were in sixteenth-century Europe, you could be sure of two things: you would be lucky to reach fifty years of age, and you could expect a life of discomfort and pain. Old age tires the body by thirty-five, Erasmus lamented, but half the population did not live beyond the age of twenty. There were doctors and there was medicine, but there does not seem to have been a great deal of healing. Anyone who could afford to seek a doctor's aid did so eagerly, but the doctor was as likely to maim or kill as to cure. His potions were usually noxious and sometimes fatal—but they could not have been as terrible and traumatic as the contemporary surgical methods. The surgeon and the Inquisitor differed only in their motivation: otherwise, their batteries of knives, saws, and tongs for slicing, piercing, burning, and amputating were barely distinguishable. Without any anesthetic other than strong liquor, an operation was as bad as the torments of hell.

It was clear to me that using your earned sick time for essential surgery would put a target on your back at the toxic W. M. Keck Observatory.

I used to think how dangerous the world would have been if these ants were the size of dogs. They would have cut the humans in two halves just by a single strike of their flippers.

Medication, surgery, and radiation are the weapons with which conventional medicine foolishly shoots the messengers called symptoms.

I peered around the corner into the main recovery ward. All I could see were surgeons. Surgeons filling out those incessant forms. Surgeons bringing cups of tea and little sandwich triangles to patients. Surgeons laying in a lethargic stupor, recovering from eye surgery.

No one has the right to demand that your body be something other than what it is.

Remove your obesity and get younger look in a snap with Houston tummy tuck at a nominal price with advanced methods.

Scars are simply modern battle wounds. Sometimes the enemy happens to be inside us.

(Britney Spears) went in for knee surgery and came out a little top heavy.

Then the long nights, that were also days, in the hospital. And the long blanks, that were also nights. Needles, and angled glass rods to suck water through. Needles, and curious enamel wedges slid under your middle. Needles, and - needles and needles and needles. Like swarms of persistent mosquitoes with unbreakable drills. The way a pincushion feels, if it could feel. Or the target of a porcupine. Or a case of not just momentary but permanently endured static electricity after you scuff across a woolen rug and then put your finger on a light switch. Even food was a needle - a jab into a vein... ("For The Rest Of Her Life")

When push comes to shove we can afford to lose an arm or a leg, but I am operating on peoples thoughts and feelings... and if something goes wrong I can destroy that persons character... forever.

You go in through the front door of the hospital and depending on how successful your treatment is determines whether you leave through the front door or in a box out of the back door.

Brain surgery is not like politics and vice versa.

Tears wet my eyes. I’m a surgeon. I like solving things. But how do I solve this?

Whenever they are condemning weaves or breast implants, some people speak so passionately that their false teeth almost fall out.

God gave us intestines for a reason. I'm not keen on surgery. It's too extreme. All it took was one of those plastic surgery shows to see how violent it is.

Committing unnecessary surgeries is very, very rare. And it's very wrong.

I have a new found respect for women who have been through breast cancer and this surgery.

I'd never say no to surgery in the future, because I feel like, as I get older, I'm going to face temptation more.

I had surgery to repair the ACL in February 2010 and was back in the gym by June, but rushed things too quickly and ended up re-tearing my MCL in September.

I'm happy to tell you that having been through surgery and chemotherapy and radiation, breast cancer is officially behind me. I feel absolutely great and I am raring to go.

I heard that I have three ribs, that I have more surgeries than Cher - whatever they say, they say; I know who I am.

I'm here instead of having shoulder surgery. But I'm not sure which is more painful.

Instead of plastic surgery, I'd rather have a height enhancement surgery.

I think when you have surgery on any part of your body, it's never going to be the same.

It is all about rehab. Most doctors can make you 100 percent well physically. I would tell you that it is 25 percent about the surgery and 75 percent about the rehab.

Joan Collins told a reporter that she hasn't had plastic surgery; come on... she's had more tucks than a motel bedsheet!

It's tricky to say 'never,' but I will never have plastic surgery.

I've had lots of setbacks. mainly injuries and undergoing surgery, but I just have to knuckle down and get on with it.