Brianna Sluski Facebook ad: “My Scalpel Doesn't Lie”

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Meta Ad Library ID

1087432403661631

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Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network and Threads

Relaunches

4

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Ad text

The day NYU announced its surgical residency matches, my name wasn't on the list. The reason, according to my boyfriend of four years, Logan Santoro, was that my hands shook when I sutured and tied knots during the surgical simulation. And so the spot that should have been mine went to Bianca Moretti, a girl who could barely hold a scalpel steady. I confronted Logan with my near-perfect USMLE scores and my evaluation file. He just looked at me, his tone matter-of-fact. “Being good at exams doesn't make you a surgeon, Mireille.” “You're too cold, too detached from your patients.” “Bianca came up through the foster system. She *needs* this job.” “For her, this isn't just a leg up. It's a lifeline.” “You're different. Your family can support you if you apply again next year.” “There's an animal shelter in the Bronx.” “Go volunteer. Learn some compassion while you're there.” Bianca stood beside him, her voice soft. “Mireille, please don’t blame Logan.” “I know my theory isn't as strong as yours, but I'll work hard. I promise I won't waste this opportunity.” I didn't argue. I just turned, called an Uber, and went to the shelter in the Bronx. The smell of antiseptic hit me the moment I pushed open the door. The surgical suite was dimly lit. A man in glasses was operating on a stray cat, its abdomen torn open. His movements were swift and sure, not a single motion wasted. His level of control was beyond anything I’d ever seen, even in a training video. … Only after he snipped the final suture did he look up at me. His gaze was ice. “Seen enough?” I found my voice. “I want to help. I don’t need to be paid.” “I just need access to instruments and a place to operate.” He clocked the Columbia ID badge on my chest, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “A Columbia med student, all the way out here to learn compassion?” “I don't need some book-smart kid who goes weak at the knees at the sight of an open wound.” I didn’t back down. “That cat has severe ascites and localized splenic ischemia.” “And unless I'm mistaken, you just performed a modified omental wrapping procedure.” “But its coagulation is poor. It's at high risk for a post-op bleed within twelve hours.” The room fell silent for two seconds. The man pushed up his glasses and kicked a tray of bloody instruments toward my feet. “Clean them. Autoclave them—standard protocol. You screw it up, you're out.” I knelt by the sink and began washing the instruments, forcing myself to stomach the coppery smell of blood. Suddenly, a voice called from the doorway. “Mireille Wells? Urgent delivery!” It was a container of bone broth in an insulated bag from a high-end health food restaurant. A note was attached. I knew the handwriting instantly. It was Logan’s. *Mireille, I know not matching hurt you, but the pressure of surgery is just too intense.* *You know it yourself. T......

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My Scalpel Doesn't Lie