“When you are born into a family of a rapist and an alcoholic, you have two options on how to deal with your life. Either screw it up, or try and screw it up less,” writes surgeon Tomáš Šebek in the annotation to his new book Objective Findings. In the interview, he explains why writing an open confession was more difficult for him than participating in MSF missions and why he decided to commit media suicide.
People know you as Tomáš Šebek, a tough surgeon and a member of Doctors Without Borders, who fearlessly sets out to save human lives in places where war is raging. At least that’s the impression people get when they google your name. In the book, however, you open a completely different side of yourself to the public, because suddenly you appear before the reader as Tomáš Šebek – a victim. Aren’t you afraid that you’ll lose your tough image?
I never wanted to have such an image and I don’t really care what kind of image I have in the media. From the beginning I say out loud: Please, I am a single-cell surgeon, not a writer or a hero. Just a person who goes to such places because it’s my job. And then when I talk about the missions and highlight the work of my much better colleagues, people think it’s just false modesty.
The book is supposed to prevent this, because although I wrote primarily about myself, I think I also described the story of all of us to a certain extent. I found out that I am far from alone, whom the people around me see as some kind of superman, while the reality is much sadder. For me, an objective finding is a way to tell people: I’m also just a person who makes a lot of mistakes, I’m troubled by the same things as anyone else, and I’m also angry because I screwed up a lot. I think that people hear about other people’s misfortunes.
Do you think that other people’s misfortunes are more fun than success?
I think it’s more about the frustration that people build up on a daily basis when they go through social media. All the Instagrams and LinkedIns feed them the illusion of how the people around God have a life, a career or a partner relationship. Then they ask themselves, “What good am I if I don’t have any of these things, but everyone around me does?” and over time it starts to frustrate them. Anger accumulates in them, which will then be reflected in the elections. Najust then throws the ballot to someone to whom they wouldn’t trust their children even for a minute.
The leitmotif of the entire book is the sentence: What I didn’t tell my children. | Photo: Tereza Šolcová
But since all the “better people” from social networks are already annoying them, they go and do at least that, because they are angry and need to relieve themselves somehow. The book Objective Finding is also such a social experiment. If thanks to her at least one reader realizes that the networks lie and that everyone around them has the same life troubles as them, it made sense for me to open up like this.
But you don’t just let the reader into your privacy. You talk about your parents, your wife, but also your children. How do they feel about it? Have you asked them if you can write about them?
It was a long road to their approval. For a long time I was under pressure to write something, whether it was from the publisher or the readers themselves. I had a lot of time to think about how to possibly ask the people who will be affected. The writing itself was simple, 30 chapters were created in exactly 30 days, and when the book was subsequently edited, I asked my wife, my two adult children and my brother if they would read it. I didn’t ask my parents.
What did your children say to you? If my dad had written a book like that and let me read it, I might have struggled a lot with the feeling of embarrassment. There are simply things we don’t want to know about our parents…
The fact that there are topics that we do not want to talk about or share with our parents is, I think, normal and natural. Fortunately, the situation where children would come to me and say: “Dad, you’re embarrassing, we don’t want you to write about us like this, this is our life,” never happened. I have a family as a taboo, I did not use their names in the text, and in general it is a very intimate matter for me. There were other comments from the children, but they were all positive. In the end, my oldest daughter supported me the most in the fact that it was a good idea to publish a book.
You talk about family being a taboo for you in public, but publishing such a book is exactly the opposite. How did you choose what you wanted to write about?
The leitmotif of the entire book is the sentence: What I didn’t tell my children. In short, I wanted, especially to the two elders, to finally tell them what I hadn’t had time to tell them or couldn’t. I wanted to tell my story full of mistakes and mistakes and show that there is no need to be afraid of them. There are always two positions in the book. The first is about my relationship with my parents, about my childhood and adolescence – and in that I am the victim. In the second position, on the other hand, I am alone in the role of a parent, and the victims are my children and wife. At the same time, when the book was being written, the editor-in-chief was given a clear assignment – if I had a tendency to appear in the text that I was making excuses, looking for an alibi, or playing the role of a liar, he should kindly return the text to me and I would rewrite it.
The Ever Hungry Surgeon
In the book, readers will meet Tomáš Šebek in the role of son, father, husband, but also as a renowned surgeon and doctor. Is it all one and the same person?
Here, above all, it is good to say that Tomas is still human. Our society still suffers a lot from believing in the myth that doctors are not human but infallible robots, and that once they have a degree, they don’t make mistakes. Before, for example, the obligation to wear a white coat really annoyed me. Consider that a patient comes to me sick, and I should further humiliate him by dressing in bright white sterile rags like some god on Olympus. At the same time, I am still a person who is hungry or needs to go to the bathroom. So my favorite icebreaker question is, “Do you have a bun, please?”, because it lifts you from the pointless cloud to the person who came to you for help. Plus, the patients know you’re a perpetually hungry surgeon, and they’ll actually bring you the buns.
In the annotation of the book, it is written that working on it was the most difficult life journey for you, even despite your missions with Doctors Without Borders to Sudan and Afghanistan. Why was writing a book more challenging than operating in a theater where a bomb could fall at any moment?
Probably mainly because it was a completely different mission. In the hall, I am the one who operates, breaks everything down into atoms and then puts it back together again. Here I suddenly had to operate and dismantle myself. I even have an illustration for it, which we ended up not using in the book. I painted myself with my entrails laid out on the operating table.
In contrast, working in the war was not fun at all, but actually somewhat easier. There, you are the one who can save a lot even in a pretty hopeless situation. Maybe even human life. But when your life is laid out in front of you on the operating table as such an objective finding, it is terribly difficult to put it back together so that you don’t bleed out first.
That sounds pretty therapeutic on the other hand. In the sense that if a machine doesn’t work for you, you also take it apart into parts and clean them one by one, oil them and then put them back together again. Did writing work similarly for you?
I think it worked similarly. The main emotion that accompanied me when I started typing the first letter on the keyboard was anger. I entered the first chapter terribly angry with my parents, and I am actually angry with them now. Their influence had a significant effect on how stupid I behaved. Their behavior patterns are still under my skin today, and I will be fifty. After all, such formulas cannot be cut out just like that. Not that they are primarily to blame for everything I messed up. After all, I already write in the prologue of the book that I am to blame for everything and that there is no point in making excuses for the mistakes of parents. However, while writing, I suddenly remembered some nice things. The ones that I locked away with a lot of vanity in an imaginary drawer in my head with the label “damned childhood” and which I never thought I would ever find again.
Childhood in a dysfunctional family marks a person for life. The sooner we realize this, the better chance we have of not repeating our parents’ mistakes, says Tomáš Šebek. | Photo: Tereza Šolcová
Have you forgiven them?
I thought about it a lot while writing it and I still couldn’t grasp it. Finally, in the last chapters, I came to the fact that I don’t need to forgive them at this moment and that I would rather they could forgive themselves mainly. I would like them to be able to come to terms with their own lives, because if they manage to do that, they will somehow have a fulfilled life behind them despite everything. If they don’t, it will only be sad for them.
If you could go back in time and give your younger self one piece of advice or advice, what would it be?
I would tell him to seek professional psychological help immediately at nineteen and start working with and talking about his skeletons in the closet. I would probably devote five hours a day to mental exercises to become a better person instead of endless sports activities. Because now I wouldn’t have to commit media suicide by publishing a book and admit that I am someone completely different from who my closest friends, colleagues at work or patients think I am.
The Unveiling of Tomáš Šebek: A Surgeon’s Confession
Ah, the life of a surgeon. You know, we often imagine them to be tough cookie robots,
curing wounds and saving lives amidst the high-stakes backdrop of war-torn landscapes, right?
Well, let’s take a juicy bite out of what Dr. Tomáš Šebek has served us in his new book,
Objective Findings. This isn’t just your typical memoir; we’re talking about a raw, open confession
that mingles life-saving heroics with deeply personal struggles. Talk about contrast!
The Relatable Hero: Unmasking Vulnerability
In a world where we’re bombarded by the polished lives of social media influencers, Dr. Šebek
bravely decides to strip down these notions and redefine what it means to be ‘successful’.
You see, his childhood wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies; we’re in the murk of family dysfunction,
with a rapist and an alcoholic as a backdrop. Now, if that doesn’t make for a riveting opening act,
I don’t know what does! This guy isn’t just a surgeon; he’s a survivor, navigating the
treacherous waters of life with the finesse of… well, a surgeon!
On the Perils of Image
“A single-cell surgeon, not a writer or a hero,” he insists, yet here he is, baring his soul for
the world. This is where I can’t help but think, “Isn’t that the appeal?” The moment you think
you’re invincible, life throws a three-legged turkey at you, and you’re left scrambling.
It’s his struggle that draws readers in, not the need to maintain an unrealistic superhero image.
Sure, there will be skeptics, whispering, “He’s just doing this for attention,” but honestly,
who doesn’t feel a wave of relief knowing it’s not just them facing personal demons?
Everyone’s Got a Skeleton… or a Few
The good doctor isn’t shy about societal pressures either; social media, he argues, cultivates
this poisonous envy, making us believe everyone else’s life is a Hollywood blockbuster while ours
resembles a low-budget documentary. It’s like watching your life flash before your eyes at a family
reunion, only to realize you’re the “weird cousin” everyone talks about.
Sharing Secrets: A Family Affair
Wait! Before you think this is all about the good doctor’s sob story, he intricately connects his
personal narrative to broader themes of familial obligation and taboo. That’s right; he puts his
family on display for the world—albeit delicately—and that’s no cakewalk. Can you imagine
asking your kids if you can narrate their childhood traumas? “Uh, Dad, how about a big,
fat no?” would probably ensue! But, as he confesses, it wasn’t as catastrophic as one might expect.
They’ve enjoyed the journey, and kudos to the Šebeks for keeping those conversations largely open.
The Unexpected Therapy of Writing
Writing the book? A therapeutic unraveling of sorts! He likens it to operating on himself,
laying open his emotions for dissection. Now, isn’t that a thought? Instead of just stitching
people up, he’s stitching his own psyche back together—one chapter at a time.
Isn’t that what we all should do? Rather than ignoring the chaos, let’s pull it apart and
figure out what makes us tick—or explode.
The Verdict: Media Suicide or Brave Authenticity?
Dr. Šebek’s literary endeavor may seem like media suicide to some. But has he not crafted something
uniquely authentic in return? He’s challenged the narrative of who we think doctors are: just,
human beings who battle their own inner turmoil while seeking to save others. Isn’t that kind of
beautiful in its own disastrous way? And let’s be real—how can I not respect a man who prefers
a nice bun at work over dressing like a god on Olympus? Bon appétit!
So, here we have it—a surgeon who is, first and foremost, a human. If there’s one takeaway from
his gouging honesty, it’s that while we’re all endowed with our own messy lives, it’s this
beautifully chaotic existence that makes our stories resonate. I mean, how often do we get to
laugh and cry at the same time? Dr. Šebek reminds us that beneath those scrubs, there’s a heart
beating with just as much confusion, anger, and resilience as we all possess. Now, pass the popcorn!
In his new book, *Objective Findings*, surgeon Tomáš Šebek muses, “When you are born into a family of a rapist and an alcoholic, you have two options on how to deal with your life. Either screw it up, or try and screw it up less.” Through a candid interview, he reveals the immense challenge of penning an open confession, a task he found more daunting than the perilous missions with Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders), leading him to speculate if he engaged in what he calls “media suicide” with his revelations.
People know you as Tomáš Šebek, a tough surgeon and a member of Doctors Without Borders, who fearlessly sets out to save human lives in places where war is raging. At least that’s the impression people get when they google your name. In the book, however, you open a completely different side of yourself to the public, because suddenly you appear before the reader as Tomáš Šebek – a victim. Aren’t you afraid that you’ll lose your tough image?
I never sought to cultivate that tough image and my concern for my portrayal in the media is minimal. From the outset, I’ve been vocal about my true identity: I am a single-cell surgeon, not aspiring to be a writer or a hero. I simply go to these challenging environments because it is my profession. My constant emphasis on the missions I undertake and my efforts to spotlight the extraordinary work of my colleagues often leads to perceptions of false humility, a notion I strive to dispel.
The essence of my book aims to bridge that gap, as I detail my personal journey while simultaneously echoing the shared experiences of many. Writing about myself has uncovered a universal truth—we are all flawed and mismanaged to some degree. I intend for *Objective Findings* to convey that I am just another human, grappling with the same struggles and frustrations that permeate our lives. This connection fosters an understanding that we all endure life’s myriad challenges.
Do you think that other people’s misfortunes are more fun than success?
My perspective is that the issue may stem from a widespread discontent slowly festering as individuals scroll through their social media feeds. Platforms like Instagram and LinkedIn perpetuate an illusion that the people around us are leading flawless lives filled with rewarding careers and ideal relationships. This trend compels many to question their self-worth, asking themselves, “What is my value if I lack such accomplishments?” Over time, this frustration culminates in a sense of anger, which is ultimately reflected in societal reactions, like voting for leaders they wouldn’t trust with their children’s safety.
Amidst the dissatisfaction with lofty portrayals found on social media, many individuals ultimately rebel against this narrative, often taking action driven by their frustrations. *Objective Findings* serves as a social experiment that seeks to unveil the underlying truth—if just one reader realizes that social networks distort reality and that everyone grapples with their difficulties, my decision to publicly share my story finds purpose.
But you don’t just let the reader into your privacy. You talk about your parents, your wife, but also your children. How do they feel about it? Have you asked them if you can write about them?
Securing their approval was not an instantaneous endeavor. I faced considerable pressure, both from my publisher and readers, pushing me to produce something tangible. I utilized that time for introspection on how best to approach the conversations with my family who would be involved. The actual writing process flowed swiftly; I crafted 30 chapters in just 30 days. Once the manuscript reached the editing phase, I sought feedback from my wife, my two adult children, and my brother, though I chose not to approach my parents.
What did your children say to you? If my dad had written a book like that and let me read it, I might have struggled a lot with the feeling of embarrassment. There are simply things we don’t want to know about our parents…
It is undoubtedly human to shy away from discussing certain topics with our parents. Fortunately, my children never approached me with comments like, “Dad, you’re embarrassing us; we wish you’d kept our lives private.” I approached family narratives as sensitive territory—I refrained from using their names in my writing and treated those references with the utmost intimacy. My children responded positively overall, with my oldest daughter providing the most encouragement, affirming that publishing the book was a beneficial and necessary choice.
You talk about family being a taboo for you in public, but publishing such a book is exactly the opposite. How did you choose what you wanted to write about?
The guiding theme throughout the book is encapsulated in the phrase: What I didn’t tell my children. My goal was to articulate, especially to my older kids, the insights and experiences I hadn’t shared or had the chance to impart previously. I delve into my story filled with flaws to illustrate that there is no reason to fear imperfections. The book is structured with dual perspectives: the first recounts my childhood and relationship with my parents, placing me as a victim, while the second portrays me as a parent, where my children and wife are the ones affected by my actions. During the writing process, I instructed my editor-in-chief to reject any sections where I might appear to deflect responsibility or cast blame; I was committed to sincerity.
In the book, readers will meet Tomáš Šebek in the role of son, father, husband, but also as a renowned surgeon and doctor. Is it all one and the same person?
It’s essential to recognize that despite my roles, I am still fundamentally human. Society tends to uphold the misleading notion that doctors are infallible and devoid of human flaws. The expectation to wear a pristine white coat, for instance, has always grated on me. Patients arrive seeking help, and they shouldn’t feel belittled by my unconventional attire; I want to connect as a fellow human. In that light, I often ask for a small bite to eat, humorously breaking the ice with patients who are now aware that I am a surgeon who’s often in need of nourishment, and they readily offer me food.
In the annotation of the book, it is written that working on it was the most difficult life journey for you, even despite your missions with Doctors Without Borders to Sudan and Afghanistan. Why was writing a book more challenging than operating in a theater where a bomb could fall at any moment?
The primary reason lies in the striking difference in the nature of the task. During surgeries, I am the one in control, dissecting and reassembling life. When writing, I had to scrutinize and disassemble my own existence, forcing me to confront my innermost self. I originally intended to include an illustration of myself with my insides carefully laid out before me on an operating table, as a metaphor, but we ultimately decided against it for the book’s final version.
While working in war zones is fraught with peril, there exists a profound sense of purpose in saving lives, even in bleak circumstances. Nonetheless, laying oneself bare in a narrative feels infinitely more daunting, akin to dissecting my own essence and figuring out how to piece everything back together without losing myself in the process.
That sounds pretty therapeutic on the other hand. In the sense that if a machine doesn’t work for you, you also take it apart into parts and clean them one by one, oil them and then put them back together again. Did writing work similarly for you?
Indeed, the therapeutic potential of writing mirrored that of repairing a malfunctioning machine. My initial emotions upon typing the first words were steeped in anger. I began the first chapter in a state of fury directed at my parents, and even now, that anger lingers. Their behaviors undoubtedly influenced the poor choices I made in my life; these patterns are deeply ingrained and persist even as I approach fifty. These tendencies cannot simply be excised at will. I acknowledge that while they certainly contributed to my mistakes, I also emphasize in the book’s prologue that I ultimately bear the responsibility for my shortcomings, negating the urge to use my upbringing as a scapegoat. However, the process of writing unearthed memories of happier times, details I had long locked away in a mental box labeled “damned childhood,” and I never anticipated the chance to revisit them.
Have you forgiven them?
This aspect weighed heavily on my mind while I was writing, and I still grapple with the concept of forgiveness. By the conclusion of the book, I realized that the focus should not be on seeking forgiveness for myself but on fostering that capacity for self-forgiveness within my parents. Ideally, they will find a way to reconcile their own life experiences, granting them a sense of fulfillment despite past challenges. Should that reconciliation elude them, it will undoubtedly lead to a profound sadness in their future.
If you could go back in time and give your younger self one piece of advice or advice, what would it be?
I would urge him to pursue professional psychological assistance right away at the age of nineteen and to begin addressing and confronting the skeletons hiding in his closet. In hindsight, I would dedicate substantial time to mental exercises aimed at personal growth rather than the endless pursuit of physical fitness. Had I undertaken this preparatory work earlier, I wouldn’t have felt the need to “commit media suicide” by publishing a book that reveals my true self, a stark contrast to the personas that my closest friends, colleagues, and patients perceive.
Emotional healing traduction
His process of articulating those feelings offered a route to understanding and, ultimately, healing. Just like fixing a machine, I disassembled the pieces of my experiences and emotions, examined the mechanisms that led to my struggles, and sought to reassemble them in a way that made sense.
As I navigated through the writing, my anger transformed into a more nuanced reflection on my upbringing and my parents’ shortcomings. By documenting my experiences, I was able to critique not just their actions but also the broader circumstances that shaped our family dynamic. This examination was both cathartic and revealing; it opened doors to conversations I had long avoided and provided a path toward reconciliation with my past.
When I finally stepped back from the manuscript, I realized the extent to which this exploration had allowed me to confront my demons. In sharing my story, I hoped to foster a connection with readers who might resonate with the struggle of grappling with a flawed family background. My goal was not only to illustrate my own journey but to underscore the universality of human experiences—how we all contend with our imperfections and the weight of our legacies.
Through this lens, writing became less of a chore and more of an important dialogue with myself, one that I believe continues to help me grow. This process of dissection and reflection is a testament to the resilience we all harbor within us, the capacity to rewrite our narratives even when faced with the most daunting of challenges.
