Thrown Into the Wolves' Den: My First Days in MFU

My first three days in the Maxillofacial Surgery Unit felt like someone pressed fast-forward on life. Day one? Chill. I did nothing for most of the day—just observed, got a feel for the place. Then a child walked in, and I thought, why not? Let me try my hand at an extraction. I’d never worked on a child before, but I figured I had to start somewhere.

First mistake? Letting her see the needle. From that moment on, it was over. She wouldn’t calm down. She cried nonstop. I tried; I really did. But then one of the doctors swooped in, took over like it was nothing, and just handled it. Clean, calm, efficient. I stood there in awe. These doctors? Different breed.

Second day? Tell me whyyyy I was following a doctor to the SCBU (Special Care Baby Unit) to assist in a case I’ll never forget. A newborn, barely a few days old, brought in by panicked parents. The issue? Ignorance. Pure, painful ignorance. They noticed the baby had a uvula—something completely normal—but thought it was abnormal since none of their other kids had one. So, they took her to a traditional home doctor… who accidentally cut her tongue in half.

That baby’s cries are still in my head. My job? Hold her down while the doctor numbed her tongue and tried to stitch it back together. 

I cradled that screaming baby while the doctor stitched what was left of her tongue—each suture tearing through tissue like wet paper.

I was also on suction duty—blood and saliva, nonstop. The tongue was so small, so fragile, bits of tissue just breaking off. By the end, the repair was just… enough. The best that could be done with what was left. It was heavy.

We got back to the clinic after that, and the day was just getting started. The next case? Let’s just say the smell still haunts me.

This next case was when I realized MFU doesn’t just test you—it pushes you. Past your boundaries, past your comfort zone, and way beyond anything you thought you could handle. But the wild part? You survive it. And what doesn’t kill you... really does make you stronger.

The patient had necrotizing fasciitis. Yeah. Flesh-eating bacterial infection. I barely remembered what it was. Had to quickly Google it like, wait, what again? Turns out, it all started from a tooth infection. Yep—a regular dental issue that spiraled into something life-threatening.

This is why dentists are always harping on checkups. It’s not about the money. It’s not about inconveniencing you. It’s about catching something before it becomes catastrophic. Granted, this patient was a drug addict, which might explain how it got so bad—but still.

He came in with massive swelling in his jaw and neck. One of the doctors told me to follow her to another clinic room—just one dental chair, one suction unit. That was my job: suction. Easy enough, I thought. I had no idea what I was walking into.

The doctor started the incision and drainage. She was cutting into his neck—his neck—pulling out pus, removing dead tissue. It was like one of those gory surgery scenes you usually fast-forward through on TV. Except this was real. No pause button, no looking away.

And the whole time I kept thinking: How does she know where to cut? How does she know what to avoid? This is the neck we’re talking about. Packed with vital arteries, veins, nerves—basically a live wire zone. One wrong move and it’s game over.

The procedure went on for almost three hours. At some point I stopped keeping track of time. I just wanted it to end.

And then there was the smell. My God. I discovered a new skill that day: mouth breathing for three straight hours. I didn’t take a single breath through my nose. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Even people in the hallway were complaining about the stench. While we endured the full olfactory assault—decaying flesh, antiseptic, and the metallic tang of blood. 

Survival Mode Activated

I discovered superpowers I never wanted:

• Marathon mouth-breathing (nasal lockdown against the stench of gangrene)

• Selective vision (focusing only on the surgical field, not the bucket of discarded tissue)

• Suction precision (learning to anticipate pus geysers)

When it was finally over, he was admitted for further treatment. And I walked out of there a different person. Rattled, exhausted—but also weirdly proud. Because I made it through.

0 to 100? Try 0 to 1000. MFU didn’t ease you in—it grabbed you by the scrubs and hurled you into the storm.

But with each case, I felt myself changing. Becoming more alert, more confident, more resilient. It wasn’t just about learning procedures—it was about adapting fast, staying calm under pressure, and figuring things out on the fly.

By the end of that week, I knew one thing for sure: MFU doesn’t ease you in—it just grabs you by the collar and throws you straight into the fire. No orientation, no gentle intro. Just blood, screams, and a tray of sharp instruments. One second you’re holding a baby’s tongue together, next thing you know you’re deep in someone’s neck trying not to pass out from the smell. Character development? Yeah. Trauma? Also yeah.

But somehow, I survived. I learned that I could suction pus while holding my breath like I trained with the Navy SEALs. I learned that I can keep a straight face while internally screaming. And most importantly, I learned that MFU is not for the weak—or the weak-stomached.

So here’s to MFU: the rotation that made me question everything, but also lowkey turned me into a warrior (with a side of PTSD).