The Surgical Dream

It’s not often that you get to operate on one of the most powerful men in the world.

A few months ago, I got a call from the Vatican. “Hello, this is Alessandra Romano and I’m calling from the office of His Holiness, Pope Francis.”

“Yes?” I answered, both suspicious and surprised, proceeding with a metered “How may I help you?”

“Am I speaking to Dr. Mazda Turel and is this the right time to talk, signore?” he questioned in a thick Italian accent, the kind that someone might overdo while pulling a prank. I tried to quickly identify if it was one of my friends pulling a fast one on me, but we hadn’t done something like that in over two decades now. “Yes, this is Mazda,” I confirmed my identify.

“I am calling regarding a strictly confidential matter,” Alessandra continued in a serious tone, “and we hope you will respect the privacy of His Holiness regarding the same.”

“Please go ahead,” I replied, still suspicious but now also a little serious.

“As you must be aware, our Holy Father hasn’t been keeping well for some time now, which is also why he has reduced his public engagements and appearances. He has been having persisting headaches. The personal physician of the Pope, Dr. Roberto Bernabae, has diagnosed him with a brain tumour after several tests were conducted, and the neurosurgeons here have suggested an operation,” he briefly summarized.

“Okay,” I replied, not knowing what the call to me was for.

“His Holiness Pope Francis wants you to do the operation,” said the reverend, sounding a little confounded himself at the absurdity of this phone call.

“Is this a joke?” I asked, a little impatiently, but then quickly realized my own worth and switched to, “Why me, when he could get anyone in the world?”

“Your name appeared to him in his meditations the previous night, and this is his personal request,” he replied in a formal tone. “If you are willing, we will arrange a formal video consult with his doctors and then make travel arrangements for you and your team to come over at the soonest,” he concluded. During the phone call itself, my email inbox received an official communication from his office along with all the medical reports.

“I would like his Holiness to be on the call before I can make the decision to travel,” I added some meat to the conversation. A few days later, through very official looking communication, I got onto a call with the Pope and his medical team. He was in his ceremonial robe and everyone else wore a crisp suit, while I was in my scrubs sitting in my office. I should have taken this a little more seriously, was my first thought.

The surgeons took me through the case history and examination findings in detail while I sat there a little awestruck. They asked if I had any questions but everything was clear. It was a big but thankfully benign tumour pressing on the Pope’s right frontal lobe. “It’s straightforward and he should be fine,” I said with brevity, maintaining decorum. “Thank you and may God bless you,” were the Pope’s only words before he left the meeting, allowing us to discuss the logistics. I was made to sign a non-disclosure agreement until the Pope could make his first public appearance after the surgery (which is why I can talk about it now).

We organized a 4-member team from the hospital to go to Rome, which included me, my assistant, a nurse, and the anaesthesiologist. On landing, we were escorted to the Vatican in a mini entourage. Our accommodation was arranged in the Apostolic Palace itself, ordinarily the official residence of the Pope, although it is this Pope’s personal choice to live in a guesthouse nearby, I was told. After an official lunch with the Pope’s chief physician and a private tour of the palace along with a briefing of how it functions, we were escorted to meet the Pope.

He sat there in a sombre room devoid of all the grandeur of the palace. It was ethereal to be in a room with a man who millions can see only from afar. There was an indescribable aura around him, but once he started speaking, he seemed like a regular chap going around doing God’s work. He spoke to me in his Italian English, and I briefly asked him a few technical questions, carrying out a quick examination after taking his permission to make physical contact with him. I held both his hands in mine. They were soft and wrinkled. I put them on my head and asked him to bless me. He did so and kissed me on the forehead.

“I do have a confession to make,” I said becoming a little chatty. “Many years ago, when I visited the Vatican as a tourist, I jumped the 3-hour line outside and sneaked in. I seek your forgiveness for that,” I quipped, and we both laughed about it. “Out of curiosity, Your Holiness, why do you want me to do your operation?” I asked just before I left. “That shall be revealed to you when the time is right,” he said, always a man of few words. We then visited the private hospital of the Vatican that caters to all the cardinals and pontiffs. We were shown the equipment; it was all state of the art and I tried hard to not look enamoured.

The next morning, the head of the Catholic Church was under anaesthesia on a table in front of me with no news of this in the world press whatsoever. I have never felt this nervous before an operation. If something were to go wrong, I knew my career was over. “Let’s do this like we would do it for anyone else,” I told the team. Once he was under the drapes and we opened the head, it looked like that of a regular pious 85-year-old. In a synchronised fashion, we removed the tumour effortlessly without a glitch. He was fully awake as we wheeled him off to the ICU within a few hours, a gentle smile on his face. As the ICU was reserved entirely for him, I slept the night on the bed next to him to ensure nothing went wrong. I spent the next three days by his side having some long and interesting conversations that I plan to compile into a book titled Parsi Communions with a man of Christ.

His Holiness was discharged within a few days and resumed some of his work in a week. He even made a brief appearance at the large balcony at the centre of St. Peter’s Basilica to ensure that none of his devotees were concerned about his health. The night before we left, our team was felicitated in an extremely private yet opulent ceremony on the palace lawn. The air was crisp and the atmosphere filled with gratitude. It was such a proud moment for me, my community, and my country.

I looked up into the sky and saw a shooting star whiz past. The harder I looked, the closer it seemed to come towards me. Within a few moments, it had doubled up in size and appeared to crash into the earth. I felt a huge thud on my body. “Wake up daddy, wake up!” said my 20 kg daughter jumping on me. “It’s Sunday! Let’s go out and play!”