I’ve been thinking about Rome more than I expected.
Not the postcard version. Not the monuments or the light or the curated history. What keeps coming back to me are the halls of Fondazione Policlinico Universitario Agostino Gemelli IRCCS, the cadence of the operating rooms, and the simple, humbling fact that a room full of accomplished surgeons can still become learners when the doors close and the case starts.
The 181st meeting of the Society of Clinical Surgery was one of those rare professional experiences that doesn’t hit you all at once. It settles in. I didn’t walk out thinking, “That was impressive.” I walked out thinking, “That mattered.” Those are not the same thing.
Part of that was the setting. The Society doesn’t often meet outside North America, and convening in Italy carried a weight that was hard to ignore. I found myself thinking about the Society’s origins as a travel club for young surgeons, with charter members like Harvey Cushing, George Crile, and Charles Frazier. The premise was disarmingly simple: you go, you watch, you learn, and you bring something home that makes your hands and your judgment better.
Modern surgery has a way of complicating that simple idea. We have more data than we can easily sort through. We have more devices than we can reasonably master. And we have more noise than ever. That’s why the Society’s traditional format still works. Real-time observation strips away the noise. You’re not watching an edited highlight reel. You’re watching decisions being made under time pressure, with uncertainty, on patients who don’t yet have the benefit of hindsight.
What lingers for me is not a single case, but how the best teams moved. The program leaned heavily into robotics and advanced minimally invasive approaches, and I did pay attention to the technology. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. Robotic platforms are not novel anymore, and the depth of integration there was obvious.
But the real lesson wasn’t the robot. The real lesson was the people.
The most effective rooms were quiet, steady rooms. Communication was crisp. You could see the planning expressed in small details. Instruments were where they needed to be. The sequence of steps felt deliberate. When something unexpected appeared, nobody panicked and nobody grandstanded. They adjusted, recalibrated, and moved on.
Most of my career has been in trauma, where conditions are rarely ideal. Trauma forces you to respect time, physiology, and the limits of what a patient can tolerate. So I naturally gravitated toward cases and techniques that spoke to that world, even when the schedule didn’t label them as “trauma” cases.
I keep coming back to endoscopic ultrasound–guided cholecystostomy as a stabilization tool for patients who are too sick for a bigger operation in that moment. That concept translates directly. In trauma and critical care, we’re constantly looking for the safest bridge to tomorrow. Any approach that can meaningfully reduce physiologic stress while still addressing the problem is worth our attention.
The neuromonitoring discussions stayed with me for a different reason. Trauma surgeons live in a cycle of rapid assessment, rapid intervention, and rapid reassessment. The goal has always been real-time monitoring that actually informs decisions, not just numbers on a screen. Watching how other specialties integrate neuromonitoring into their intraoperative judgment made me think carefully about what we might adopt—and what we should leave alone.
This trip also landed at a transition point for me personally.
After more than a decade leading trauma, critical care, and acute care surgery at Oregon Health & Science University, stepping out of that role has changed my daily life in ways I’m still sorting out. I don’t miss the pager. I do miss the immediacy. I miss the sense that every process improvement you fight for might matter to a patient you haven’t met yet.
At the same time, my work with Uniformed Services University and my ongoing involvement in military medicine have pulled me toward a different kind of urgency. It’s less about what happens in one room at 2 a.m. and more about what becomes standard practice in many rooms, across many systems, over years.
I’ve spent years pushing trauma care forward in hemorrhage control and resuscitation, including the return of whole blood in civilian systems. That work has reinforced a lesson I keep relearning: progress isn’t always about new. Sometimes progress means recovering something that works, proving it rigorously, and then making it scalable.
In that sense, the Rome meeting felt like a mirror.
There was plenty of new technology some of it very impressive but that wasn’t the real value. The value was watching thoughtful surgeons adopt tools without losing sight of core principles. The value was seeing how systems either support or undermine good decisions. The value was being reminded that “better” usually comes from a thousand small choices, executed consistently.
When I think back on that meeting now, I don’t think about being photographed in an operating room. I think about standing in the back, quietly watching a team at work, and feeling that familiar pull to refine my own craft. That impulse doesn’t seem to fade, even after decades in this field.
If anything, it gets sharper.
I didn’t come home from Rome with grand declarations. What I brought back was more practical. I brought back questions. I brought back ideas that deserve to be tested. I brought back a renewed respect for fundamentals, and a clearer view of where some parts of surgery appear to be heading.
Most of all, I brought back a reminder I didn’t realize I needed:
The best surgeons never outgrow the willingness to learn in someone else’s operating room.