— Paul Wesley (@paulwesley) January 7, 2016
For nearly two years, I’ve been obsessed with medical journals. Volumes of fascinating, disgusting material that could only be described as NSFAnyoneInHerRightMind. But I read them all, equal parts wide-eyed and nauseated. No, I’m not a doctor. I just write about them for TV.
The writing staff of Grey’s Anatomy is fortunate to have countless resources to satiate our curiosity and our desire to accurately portray surgeons at the top of their game: access to top medical professionals, writers with past lives as doctors, and a researcher who’s a walking medical dictionary (and someone I’m convinced could perform an appendectomy if asked nicely). But as someone who was diagnosed with a rare bone cancer in my thirties, I’m in constant pursuit of stories that start the same way mine did: This rarely ever happens, but… The more unexpected the source, the better: distant relatives at Thanksgiving; flight attendants; the heart surgeon I meet while downing Mai Tais on my Hawaiian hiatus from writing on Grey’s.