The surgical social media dive

@mazdaturel bites the bullet to take time out from surgery and rehab to discover the captivating but dystopian world of social media

You have to join Instagram, ya, Maaz!” my friends have been urging me for years. And I’ve been avoiding it like the bullet that Trump dodged. “I’m too old for these things,” I’ve been retorting. “Arre, Zeenat Aman recently got onto it and she’s killing it,” one of them said, comparing me to someone from that generation. 

“What do you mean by killing it? What do you do there?” I asked like an unattractive fossil.

“People need to know more about you. They need to know the amazing work you are doing. Until I knew you, I thought neurosurgeons only operate on the brain and that the spine is the domain of orthopaedics.”

Being an ardent subscriber to the ideology that your work must speak for itself, I asked a little bit appalled, “So, I’m supposed to tell people on Insta what I do?” 
“You need to put yourself out there. Show the world all the brain tumours you remove from the eye, nose, and ear!” 

“Don’t think of any other orifices!” I cautioned, simultaneously realising that while we’re busy pushing the envelope of science through technology, we must not jeopardise the lives and privacy of patients just to be on Insta. “Show people all these cases you keep talking to us about, where patients were bedridden for months but started walking only hours after surgery,” I was being tutored. “You need to bust myths,” another one of them suggested.

“Like what?” I shot back. 

“I was told all through my pregnancy not to wear high heels,” my cousin interjected. 

“Why, because your baby would come out slanting?” I joked. 

“No, silly; because it’s bad for the back, I thought. But I later found out from some doc on Insta that it’s because of the risk of falling and injuring the baby!” I was amazed that Instagram had replaced common sense. 

“There are so many cool doctors and surgeons on the Gram—that’s what it’s also called, by the way,” I continued to be schooled. “They use it as a tool to reach out to an audience. They show their human side, work-life balance, advances in their chosen field, and even to collaborate with others.” Fascinating. 

“Would you visit a doctor based on what you see of them on Instagram?” I took an opinion poll. 

“It’s the extra research one does outside of Google and Facebook,” Gen Z told me. 

“I’m not even on Facebook,” I rued, putting my head in my hand. 

“I once went to a paediatrician because I saw him speaking on FB about a problem my kid had, and he helped me out with it,” a friend confessed. “Don’t consider it a chore, just be yourself… be fun!” was another piece of advice from one corner of the table. 

“But do be careful: you’ll get so sucked into it, you might end up scrolling for hours and you won’t even realise it,” some veterans told me. “It’s all fake,” someone else played the devil’s advocate. “No one is themselves. Everyone puts on a show. I didn’t even recognise some of my friends, the way they dressed and posed!” 
Someone added, “But if you must get onto it, do it for the humour. There’s some solid fun stuff there!” 

So, I succumbed about a week ago. I didn’t even realise that I had an account made over a decade ago with a single picture of my 98-year-old grand aunt’s hands–wrinkled but healing. God bless her soul. I searched for a cool photo of myself that fit the circle [DP picture] well and wrote a brief bio, filling in whatever else was asked of me to confirm I wasn’t a robot. On a platform where everyone is trying to be someone else, I was asked to affirm that it was me and not an imposter.

I have a question: Is it only on my feed, or Instagram in general, that everyone is scantily clad? People posing in the sun, grazing on gourmet food, exercising in the gym, raising children— all with very few clothes on? Inflating and overestimating the novelty of their ideas. Both provocative and perplexing. Alluring yet agonising. Beautiful yet bizarre. Likes in the shape of red hearts bouncing off reels evaporating into the ether, indicating the brevity of our love. 

Then there are millions of cat videos with a few people who even identify themselves as cats, engaging in silly feline acts and offering relationship advice. 

There are people selling stuff from chaddis to the chand. Dogs are adopted on Instagram but children are let astray. Make up tutorials, life hacks, motivational quotes—there’s something for everyone. There are humans raising a voice, fighting for a cause, and wanting to be heard, but the ones hearing have a different song playing every 30 seconds. Energy is channelled, healing is done, but it all comes with a “tag”. 

I asked a friend if she would help me spread awareness about brain and spine issues on her Instagram handle. Would she help me bust some myths? If she could teach me how to take videos that people might like to see. This was a friend who I used to take pictures for when photography was my hobby and modelling was hers. She had used my pictures to get her first work assignment. We were quite close then but hadn’t been in touch for years. 

“I’m an influencer. I usually charge for stuff like this,” she told me bluntly. “Every day, someone wants to use my audience to promote their work–either launch a book, open a restaurant, or sell a product. I can’t do this without a fee.” My heart sank in search for humanity. 

So this is me @mazdaturel. What do we do next?

The writer is practicing neurosurgeon at Wockhardt Hospitals and Honorary Assistant Professor of Neurosurgery at Grant Medical College and Sir JJ Group of Hospitals mazda.turel@mid-day.com

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