“CUT ME, BUT DON’T CHANGE ME”: WHY SURGERY FEELS EASIER THAN SIMPLE LIFESTYLE CHANGES
- Madhukar Dama
- 12 hours ago
- 13 min read
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INTRODUCTION:
Across the world—especially in urban India—it has become common to meet people who would rather remove an organ, take daily pills, or undergo multiple surgeries than change what they eat, when they sleep, or how they live.
This is not because people are lazy or stupid.
It is because they are culturally, emotionally, and systemically trained to believe that pain is a problem to be fixed from the outside, not a message from within.
In this essay, we will explore why people find it easier to undergo risky, expensive, and traumatic surgeries than to make simple lifestyle changes like walking daily, quitting junk food, sleeping on time, or dealing with suppressed emotions.
We will expose the psychological, cultural, and systemic forces that make self-healing feel harder than surrendering to the knife.
And we will reflect on how we can reclaim the courage to change, instead of outsourcing our health to hospitals.
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1. INSTANT ACTION VS. DAILY COMMITMENT
Surgery is fast. It has a date, a time, a discharge summary.
Lifestyle change is slow, uncertain, and takes effort every single day.
In a world addicted to urgency and speed, slow healing feels like punishment.
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2. OUTSOURCED LABOUR VS. PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY
During surgery, the doctor works.
During lifestyle healing, you work—every hour, every day.
Most people would rather lie on a stretcher than stand up to cook real food or wake up for a walk.
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3. PUBLIC DRAMA VS. PRIVATE DISCIPLINE
Surgery brings attention, flowers, sympathy, and applause.
Lifestyle change is invisible. Nobody claps when you say no to sugar or walk barefoot in the grass.
We have been taught to value drama more than discipline.
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4. SOCIAL ACCEPTANCE VS. SOCIAL FRICTION
A person on pills or post-surgery gets support.
A person refusing rice or skipping dinner is mocked, shamed, or attacked.
Choosing a natural path is often a lonely road in modern families.
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5. PAIN IS MORE VALID IF A KNIFE CAUSED IT
Post-surgery pain is seen as noble.
But lifestyle-related suffering is blamed on “not doing enough.”
We believe suffering must come from external causes—not from daily choices.
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6. THE FANTASY OF RESCUE
Surgery feeds the unconscious fantasy that someone will save us.
Lifestyle healing demands that we grow up, take charge, and face our life.
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7. MEDICAL ILLUSION: FIX THE PART, IGNORE THE WHOLE
Most surgeries remove the part that “hurts” instead of asking: why did it get damaged?
The person is rarely told how their lifestyle created it.
No one asks about sleep, food, trauma, or stress.
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8. FAMILIARITY WITH HOSPITALS, DISCOMFORT WITH NATURE
For most urban people, hospitals feel “normal.”
But walking barefoot, cooking from scratch, or resting in silence feels strange.
We are alienated from nature and comfortable with machines.
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9. BLAME IS EASIER THAN RESPONSIBILITY
Surgery lets you say: “I did everything, but this disease is strong.”
Lifestyle change forces you to ask: “How did I create this?”
And that can be deeply uncomfortable.
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10. THE POWER OF SYSTEMIC CONDITIONING
The medical industry profits only when people remain dependent.
It funds education, media, policies, and laws that make lifestyle healing feel unscientific, extreme, or untrustworthy.
Even doctors are taught drugs over diet, surgery over sleep.
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11. CONFRONTING FAMILY, FRIENDS, AND HABITS
A surgery doesn’t challenge your mother’s cooking, your boss’s late calls, your addiction to sugar, or your friends’ drinking habits.
But lifestyle change does.
It often demands social confrontation—not just personal effort.
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12. IDENTITY CRISIS
Healing through lifestyle may require you to give up the identity that caused the illness—
the perfectionist, the achiever, the martyr, the provider, the addict.
Surgery allows you to keep the identity and lose only the organ.
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13. EXTERNAL HERO VS. INTERNAL CHANGE
In the surgery narrative, the doctor is the hero.
In the healing path, you must become your own guide.
Most people are not trained or supported to become their own heroes.
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14. SEDUCTION OF TECHNOLOGY
Machines, robots, high-tech lasers, and smart tools promise precision.
Lifestyle healing looks too “low-tech” or “old-fashioned” in comparison—
even though human biology hasn’t changed in thousands of years.
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15. THE SECRET: MOST PEOPLE DON’T REALLY WANT TO CHANGE
At the deepest level, we don’t want to wake up early, eat raw vegetables, stop watching screens at night, or give up the comforts of our addictions.
We want relief without change.
And surgery promises that lie better than any other industry.
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CONCLUSION: SURGERY CUTS THE BODY, NOT THE ROOT
The root of disease often lies in how we think, feel, eat, sleep, relate, and live.
Surgery might remove the symptom, but the soil remains toxic.
Unless we examine and transform our lifestyle, the disease will return—maybe in another form, in another organ, with another name.
Healing is not easy.
But it is possible—when we stop running from ourselves, and start walking toward truth, one breath, one meal, one day at a time.
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HEALING DIALOGUE
“We Have Cut Ourselves Enough”
A Dialogue between Madhukar the Healer and a Large Family Recovering from the Surgery Trap
Characters:
Madhukar — a wise, grounded healer living simply in the countryside.
Shivappa (72) — grandfather; underwent bypass and prostate surgery.
Lakshmamma (68) — grandmother; hysterectomy, gallbladder removed.
Ramesh (48) — their son; spinal surgery and lifelong acidity pills.
Savitha (44) — daughter-in-law; thyroid removal, PCOD, knee surgery.
Sahana (22) — granddaughter; hormonal issues, already on pills.
Gagan (19) — grandson; overweight, prediabetic, addicted to junk food.
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[Scene: A quiet village home. The family sits cross-legged before Madhukar under a neem tree. A gentle wind moves through the dry leaves. Shivappa begins.]
Shivappa:
Madhukar... I have five holes in my body. Not the ones God gave. But ones made by surgeons. I kept saying yes to them. Each time they said, “This will fix it.”
And it never did.
Now I can't sleep without pills, I can't pee without pain, and I can't walk for long.
But what hurts most... is the shame.
I feel like I gave away my body to machines, not knowing there was another way.
Madhukar:
And what about the first time, Shivappa?
Did you ask why the disease came?
Shivappa:
No.
I only asked, “How soon can it be cut?”
Because I was scared. I was told delay is dangerous.
And to be honest, it felt easier to lie on the table than walk every day or give up my salt.
Lakshmamma:
I too...
When my periods became heavy, I didn’t ask why. They said remove the uterus. I said okay.
Later gallstones came. They said remove gallbladder.
Now digestion is ruined. I burp, bloat, and sit near the toilet like it’s my best friend.
But what’s worse is...
My granddaughter is having the same period problems. And already on hormone pills.
Savitha:
(Silent, then slowly speaks)
I had thyroid removed, PCOD, a D&C, and knee surgery.
And still, I feel tired every day.
Now my daughter Sahana is facing the same...
And I’m scared.
I told her once: “Go to the doctor.”
But now I wonder—was that a curse in disguise?
Madhukar:
You didn't curse her.
You were only repeating what was done to you.
Each surgery felt like saving.
But nobody told you that cutting doesn’t heal the cause.
It removes the message. Not the messenger.
Ramesh:
I did spinal surgery because I couldn’t sit in the office.
Now I still can’t sit.
And I’ve lived on acidity tablets for 20 years.
Sometimes I feel like a plastic man—nothing inside works on its own.
What have we done, Madhukar?
Were we fools?
Madhukar:
No.
You were scared and sincere.
And surrounded by people who profit when you say yes.
Hospitals are temples now. Doctors are priests.
But your body is God.
And you forgot to ask Him.
Sahana (teary-eyed):
They’ve all told me I have “hormonal imbalance.”
Every period is a problem. Acne, mood swings.
They gave me tablets. Now more tablets.
I don’t want to live like this.
I saw what happened to Ammamma and Amma.
But I don’t know the other way.
I’m afraid to stop the medicines.
Madhukar:
You don’t need to stop out of fear.
You stop out of understanding.
Your body is not your enemy.
These imbalances came because your lifestyle is imbalanced.
Can you wake with the sun?
Can you eat real food?
Can you walk barefoot, breathe deep, sweat daily, love gently, sleep early?
Gagan (shrugs):
I eat Maggi, soft drinks, pizzas. I’m overweight.
But honestly, I can’t stop.
I feel trapped. I don’t want to end up like Appa, with back problems or surgery.
Madhukar:
Then change your taste before the knife changes your spine.
You want to be free, but your tongue is your master.
Freedom starts in your plate.
In your pillow.
In your screen habits.
You don’t need to be afraid of surgery—if you stop walking toward it.
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[The family is silent. The air thick with grief and hope.]
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Lakshmamma:
Is it too late for us?
Madhukar:
It’s never too late to stop walking toward the edge.
Even a man with one leg can walk away from the cliff.
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Shivappa:
What should we do now?
Madhukar (calmly):
Sit together.
Make new rules as a family.
No processed foods. No skipping sleep. No screen addiction.
Cook together. Eat early. Walk every morning.
Talk about emotions. Breathe. Stretch. Sit in silence.
Turn your pain into a guide.
And teach your grandchildren:
We are not born to be cut. We are born to be whole.
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Savitha (sobbing):
I never thought healing was possible.
We’ve only seen hospitals.
Madhukar:
Then let your home become your healing place.
Let your kitchen become your clinic.
Let your love become your medicine.
Let your honesty become your diagnosis.
Let your daily habits become your surgery.
And let your grandchildren remember you—not as patients,
but as people who turned around in time.
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[The neem leaves rustle. A new silence descends. The family holds each other’s hands. No shame. No blame. Only the scent of coming rain and a second chance.]
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FOLLOW-UP SCENE
“One Year Later: The Family That Stopped Cutting Itself”
A Quiet Reunion Under the Neem Tree
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[Same setting. Same neem tree. This time, laughter echoes faintly. Fruits from the tree drop gently onto a woven mat. The family looks different—not just in face, but in energy. Softer eyes. Lighter bodies. Deeper presence. Madhukar arrives with a small basket of lemons.]
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Madhukar:
Well... I see a different family.
Shivappa (grinning):
I sleep through the night now.
No pills. No anxiety.
Every morning I walk a full round of the village.
And I’ve started singing again...
My voice had gone quiet after the hospital.
Now, even the crows listen.
Lakshmamma:
My stomach is better, Madhukar.
I stopped drinking tea and eating fried things.
And every night, I soak methi seeds and chew them in the morning.
I don’t feel like a leaking tap anymore.
Ramesh:
The acidity vanished in three months.
I stopped tea, coffee, bakery, and dinner after 7.
Even at the office, I now take a dabba of fruits and millet roti.
People laughed at first.
Now they’re asking for recipes.
Savitha:
No more knee pain. No bloating.
I lost 11 kilos, but I feel I lost 11 years too.
I eat twice a day, do 20 minutes of sunbathing, and sleep at 9:30.
And I stopped shouting. That was the real disease, I think.
Madhukar (smiling gently):
And what about the younger ones?
Sahana:
I haven’t touched hormone pills in 10 months.
I started sun-watching, walking barefoot, and doing deep breathing.
My periods come peacefully now.
Also... I said no to a boy who wanted me to look “modern.”
I said, “I’m healing. Not impressing.”
He left.
My acne also left.
Gagan:
I used to eat chips after every meal. Now I eat guava.
Lost 8 kilos. Started running.
I even helped Amma dig a compost pit.
Last week, I gave a talk in my college:
“Don’t Wait for Surgery to Wake Up.”
[The family laughs. They are not proud—but grounded. Not loud—but alive.]
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Shivappa (turning serious):
We have one wish now, Madhukar.
We want to take this truth to others.
To families who are lining up for surgeries, not knowing there's another road.
Will you help us?
Madhukar:
Yes.
But only if you speak as people who have bled and wept, not as experts.
Speak from your wounds, not your wisdom.
Only then others will hear.
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Sahana:
What do we say first?
Madhukar:
Say this:
"We gave our body to knives. We didn’t know we could offer it to the sun."
Say that.
And you will save many.
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[The neem tree rustles again. A fruit falls into Madhukar’s basket.
He looks at it, smiles, and says:]
“Even trees drop medicine quietly. Learn from them.”
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FIVE YEARS LATER
“The Family That Healed the Village”
A Final Gathering Under the Neem Tree
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[The neem tree is now surrounded by more people. Children, elders, neighbours, even strangers. The mat is bigger. Clay pots of buttermilk sit in a corner. A low hum of calm joy fills the air. Shivappa stands slowly, now looking radiant in his simplicity. He begins to speak to the gathered crowd.]
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Shivappa:
Five years ago, we came to Madhukar with wounds.
Wounds not just in our bodies—but in our beliefs.
We were surgery survivors.
And also truth deniers.
Today, we come with something else:
Experience.
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Lakshmamma:
Back then, we removed our gallbladder, uterus, thyroid, spine bits—
but never removed our addictions.
Now we removed our biscuits, ACs, pressure cookers, phones from bedrooms, and excuses.
[Laughter. Someone claps.]
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Ramesh:
I quit my desk job.
Started a small millet snacks unit.
No sugar, no additives.
My old boss is now my customer.
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Savitha:
I run women’s circles now.
We teach food as medicine, emotions as signals, rest as strength.
No one talks about disease anymore.
They talk about digestion, dreams, and daughters.
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Sahana:
I became a barefoot midwife.
I’ve helped 17 women deliver naturally—
without knives, tubes, injections, or shame.
And each time I hear a baby cry,
I remember the day I said no to pills.
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Gagan:
I planted 60 trees.
I cycle to town.
I make reels too—but not about clothes or jokes—
about how I escaped the chips trap.
One video hit 8 lakh views.
My caption was: “Before You Get Cut, Get Up.”
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[Madhukar arrives silently, smiling, carrying tamarind pods. He sits. The crowd quiets. He looks at the family—now a team.]
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Madhukar:
So, you didn’t just heal.
You became healers.
Shivappa:
No.
We just remembered what healing was.
You showed us how to listen again—
to our poop, our pulse, our pain, our children.
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[An old neighbour speaks up.]
Neighbour (Sarojamma, 70):
Since they changed, our whole street changed.
Less noise. Less illness.
Children play more.
We argue less.
No more ambulance sirens at night.
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Madhukar (quietly):
This is how a nation heals.
Not through plans.
But through families who stop outsourcing their body.
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[He stands up, looks around, and says one final line.]
“May every scar become a seed.
May every surgery become a story that saves someone else.”
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[People bow. Children run barefoot. The neem tree sheds two more fruits.]
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“THE SURGEON WAS A GENTLE MAN”
A Huge Huge Huge Charles Bukowski–Style Poem
(covering the 15 essay truths + full healing journey of the family)
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the surgeon was a gentle man.
he smiled, he nodded, he wore gloves,
and he cut like a lover
who promised you'd feel nothing.
they said, "just a small cut,"
but the scar was bigger than the fear.
they said, "this will fix it,"
but they never fixed what broke you.
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you thought it was the body,
but it was the life.
you thought it was the gallbladder,
but it was your greed for fried lies.
you thought it was the uterus,
but it was the silence of your marriage.
you thought it was the thyroid,
but it was your exhaustion of pretending.
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every surgery was a shortcut
to avoid waking up early,
to avoid saying no at dinner,
to avoid your mother’s voice saying,
"eat more or you’ll fall sick."
so you ate more,
you got sick,
then they cut.
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you never questioned the system—
because pills are easier than people.
because no one mocks you for a bypass,
but they laugh if you say,
"I started eating guava instead of biscuits."
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you walked proudly into the hospital,
thinking you were being brave,
but you were just being
obedient.
you didn’t want healing.
you wanted escape.
you didn’t want truth.
you wanted anesthesia.
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they sold you machines,
they sold you names,
acid reflux, PCOD, spondylosis,
like discount tags
for your own neglect.
you wore each one like medals.
"I’ve done five surgeries,"
you said proudly,
like you were winning a war
you started against your own body.
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then one day—
your granddaughter sat holding a strip of hormone pills.
and you saw your shadow in her slouch.
and your son started forgetting words.
and your grandson started wheezing
when climbing stairs.
and your whole house
smelled like a pharmacy
and tasted like regret.
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you walked into a mud house,
met a man with no stethoscope,
and he said:
"Did you ever ask your pain what it wants to say?"
you didn’t cry.
you drowned.
because for the first time,
someone offered you
a mirror, not a mask.
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you were ashamed.
you were raw.
but most of all,
you were still alive.
so you began.
not with medicine,
but with millet.
not with surgery,
but with sun.
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you walked at dawn like a broken ghost,
saw the sky change color,
felt the birds ignoring your past.
you dropped your acidity pills
like dead skin.
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you stopped biscuits.
you drank lemon water.
you stood under the neem tree and said,
"I'm not a victim. I'm a volunteer."
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you turned your toilet into your guru.
you asked your poop if it was happy.
it said: "try clay pots."
you did.
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you threw your pressure cooker away.
you cooked slowly.
you slept at 9:30.
you started hearing your own breath again.
your knees stopped screaming.
your uterus stopped haunting you.
your back became your ally.
your shame became your teacher.
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and your children
watched you become
human again.
---
no more syringes.
no more tests.
no more “just one small procedure.”
you became the procedure.
you cut out the chaos.
you stitched your days with truth.
you stapled your excuses to the compost.
you removed the tumor of denial.
you amputated the fear.
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and you walked
into the same hospital
five years later—
not as a patient,
but as proof.
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and when someone whispered,
"but isn’t it too late?"
you said,
"even a dying tree gives shade if you stop cutting its roots."
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you had no degree.
but your bones knew.
your gut knew.
your silence knew.
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and now,
when your grandson picks tulsi instead of chips,
when your granddaughter says,
"I will bleed naturally,"
you smile like a tree
that was almost firewood—
but grew again.
---
you were never sick.
you were just misled.
and now you lead.
quietly.
like neem.
like breath.
like the sun that still rises
even after a night
full of scars.
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END
