e soft clinking of instruments, and muffled
words behind masks, were as familiar as a ticking
clock. A senior resident in surgery, Jackson was
being even more meticulous than usual. is
patient had a severe case of HIV.
Pausing for a moment, Jackson took a deep
breath. He wished the attending physician would
stop rushing him. He didn't rush surgery on
anyone. Certainly not on a patient suffering from
an often-fatal communicable disease.
Jackson felt as comfortable in surgery as most
people feel having a cup of coffee at breakfast.
Surgeon was the profession he had chosen. Or
rather, it was the profession chosen for him. He'd
been a child in first grade when his grandmother
suffered a stroke. Asking what was wrong with
her, he was told that there was a problem with her
brain.
Desperately wanting to help his grandmother,
young Avery had prayed, "God, show me how to
help people with brain problems."
A year later, when Avery was in second grade,
God spoke to him.
You're going to be a neurosurgeon.
As an 8-year-old, Avery had never heard the
word neurosurgeon. When he looked it up in the
dictionary, he quickly decided, OK, I'll do that.
One day at school, Avery proudly told his
teachers: "I'm going to be a neurosurgeon when
I grow up."
B V O V
:
1 3
AN
APOSTLE
TO
PHYSICIANS
A
Dr. Avery Jackson
adjusted the bright light illuminating the
surgical site. Peering into the wound,
he stitched careful sutures.
by Melanie Hemry