The one thing this top surgeon is ‘rubbish’ at

I have known Chiu for several years, and predictably, her arrival is on time, to the minute. She flashes a huge smile, proffers a quick kiss and issues an unnecessary apology.

“I’m sorry. I have to take this call. It’s a patient who came into the emergency room.”

Chiu pulls an iPhone out of her big black leather handbag and takes herself off mute. Sliding onto a lush green bench seat, she flips into medical mode. “Any family history of glaucoma? No? Good. Thank you. Well done, bye.”

There’s a second redundant apology. “I’m on call and must leave my phone on the table. I apologise.”

There is no league table-like ranking of doctors. If there were, the ophthalmologist (who is coy about revealing her age) would likely be near the top. An international speaker, sought-after private consultant and public hospital practitioner, she’s in an elite branch of an elite profession.

Within medicine, surgeons’ success is a sore point. Physicians complain about superior pay for “proceduralists”, even in the public health system. After all, oncologists, paediatricians and other specialists merely save lives. Orthopedic surgeons make fortunes out of unnecessary knee jobs. The 3000 ophthalmologists relieve people of the need to wear glasses.

Talking money is a buzz kill, and I’m more interested in the personal life of a top Sydney doctor. Chiu’s 14-year-old son is in Paris on an eight-week student exchange. In return, she’s hosting a 16-year-old Parisian girl who is attending the all-male Sydney Grammar School in his place. (“You should see the text messages.”)

I misunderstood the arrangement and asked if the student is au pairing Chiu’s two younger daughters. She bursts into laughter. “What do you think I am? An employer of child labour?”

A waitress pressures us to order before the kitchen closes but doesn’t realise Chiu has just rushed from attending to an emergency patient at Bankstown Hospital.

Despite 12 years of university studies, including a PhD, Chiu needs to possess the skills to teach children basic maths or English.

Giving back

During the COVID-19 lockdown, Chiu discovered something about herself. Despite 12 years of university studies, including a PhD in forensic pathology awarded by Sydney University (with time at Cambridge and University College, London), she must teach children basic maths or English.

Seeing how children struggled without the social interactions of normal life, Chiu decided she needed to give back more to society. She opened a second practice on the outskirts of Sydney, in Richmond, in addition to working from Macquarie Street in the city’s centre and as a visiting medical officer at the Blue Mountains Hospital in Katoomba, the nearby Springwood Hospital and Bankstown Hospital in Sydney.

From correcting the vision of the affluent inner city, she has shifted geographically, economically and socially to the margins of society.

In private practice, her mainstay is removing cataracts and refractive surgery, eliminating the need to wear glasses. The process can be done by reshaping the cornea using a laser or inserting a new lens. After correcting the vision of thousands of patients, a process that can take less than 15 minutes, she is still impressed by medical advances.

“You can put plastic lenses in people’s eyes where they unfold,” she says. “The technology is amazing and constantly improving.”

One patient sticks in her mind: a man sent blind by untreated cataracts. A clouding of the eye is often caused by excessive sun exposure, obesity, diabetes or heavy drinking, and cataracts are common in people over 80.

The patient was in his 30s. He was depressed and suicidal. Last year, she cut through each of his corneas, removed the damaged lenses, replaced them with plastic versions, and sewed up his eyes.

“He was seeing 20/20 overnight,” she says. “It has changed his life. We’re still in touch.”

She describes the operating theatre as her “happy place” and reminds me that when we once met in a personal capacity, we discussed the effect of our jobs.

“You and I spoke a number of years ago,” she says. “You said you have a really small impact on many people. I can make a significant impact on a small number of people.”

For a while, Chiu’s ambition was to become a motor mechanic or racing car driver. She didn’t excel academically until she reached Sydney University, where she transferred to medicine and graduated with first-class honours.

When it comes to her children, she says she’s an “anti-tiger mum” and doesn’t believe in pressuring children too much. Childhood is to be enjoyed.

Outside of medicine, she is competitive in only two fields: fancy dress-ups and baking.

High Attention to Detail

Last year, she won a contest for a lioness costume at the Australasian Society of Cataract and Refractive Surgeons' annual dinner. (She sits on the executive of the NSW branch of the Royal Australian and New Zealand College of Ophthalmologists that governs the industry, which might have helped sway the judges.) At her son’s primary school, she won a similar contest by dressing as Paul Stanley in full Kiss costume and make-up.

She is also a professional-grade cake maker, a skill practised only at her children’s birthday parties. She shows me her work on her phone. An edible Elsa from Frozen in a blue fondant dress stands out.

I’m surprised by how elaborate they are. “Don’t you want your eye surgeon to have a high attention to detail?” she says.

We both know the meal is coming to an end. Chiu has to attend a parent-teacher conference. Yet she is in no rush to leave. She explains that she doesn’t dine out often. The restaurant is empty of diners, and I feel guilty keeping her longer. She leaves, and I pay the bill.