
The inaugural 2024-2025 SAAS Stories Essay Competition was incredibly successful, and we were thoroughly impressed by all 26 submissions!
Please join us in congratulating the winner of the 2024-2025 competition, Dr. Russyan Mark Mabeza from the University of California, San Francisco. Our winner’s incredible essay is published in the Journal of Surgical Research: https://www.journalofsurgicalresearch.com/article/S0022-4804(24)00685-1/fulltext and included here below.
The SAAS Stories Essay competition is designed to provide a national platform for our membership to share their stories, perspectives, and voices, and dig deep into your creative sides. We will be opening the 2025-2026 competition in the next few months, and we look forward to reading your work! If you want to get a head start on your writing, the article should be <500 words and can focus on any theme of your choice! Some suggested topics include stories about mentorship, personal identify, lessons learned, passion/dreams, or free forms (e.g. poems).
Want some inspiration? You can find our final stories from the 2024-2025 competition in this current newsletter as well as other stories here:
https://www.asiansurgeon.org/saas-stories-essay-competition-june-2024/
https://www.asiansurgeon.org/saas-stories-essay-competition-fall-2024/
https://www.asiansurgeon.org/saas-stories-essay-competition/

Dear Tatay
How is it going up there? I miss you a lot.
Remember the pact we made in the Philippines? You said if I decided to pursue medicine, you would pay for my medical school under one condition — that I take care of you once I become a physician. Seven-year-old me agreed.
Ever since then I was your family doctor. Everyday I pricked your and Nanay’s (Grandma’s) fingers, put them toward the strip, and tested your glucose levels with the machine. Every so often, I took your blood pressure with the worn out cuffs we used to have. You were my first patients, the first to trust my “doctoring” care.
In time, I came to realize that you were mostly joking when you proposed that deal. As a farmer, you would not be able to pay for my schooling. You probably thought you would not live long enough to have the chance.
Over 2 decades later, I am now a doctor — a surgeon-in-training, to be exact. I have found a place where I belong. Being in the operating room reminds me of singing in church choir, performing onstage, and directing my original play in college. As in the interplay between actors, lighting, and sound, I am enthralled by the rhythm and synergy between surgical team members, functioning to ensure a safe and smooth operation. Scrubbing in for cases, I feel peaceful focus as caring for the patient takes precedence over concerns outside the room. No matter how small my role, I am grateful for the chance to provide patients with a therapeutic touch in its most concrete form.
Beyond the joy of operating, I have come to treasure the privileged relationship surgeons build with their patients. Each person I care for motivates me to better learn disease processes, indications to operations, and nuances of anatomy. My personal benchmark for understanding procedures is when I can describe them in simple terms, particularly for individuals with no medical background or for whom English is not a first language. I learn daily that my power lies in being an empathetic caregiver who always strives to do what is right. With each interaction, I am challenged to earn the privilege of the trust placed in me — just like how you first believed in me years ago.
You have been long gone, but you ultimately held up your end of the bargain. After all, I went to medical school with a full-ride scholarship. Now, it is my turn to uphold mine: I will train to be the best surgeon I can be, striving to be worthy of the vulnerability offered by my patients. I will fight for justice, seek to understand, and build connections within communities like that from which we come. I will do my best to ensure that health care is not a privilege for some, but a right for people like you, me, and those that have been left in the margins of society.
I love you always.
Your apo (grandson),
Russyan