Prof. M.D. Akin Sabanci

My 82-year-old mother, Ayşe, developed a sudden, severe tremor in her left hand that progressed to weakness. Local clinics dismissed it as age-related. Dr. Sabanci at Acibadem Taksim was our last hope. He didn't just look at the scans; he spent an hour asking her about her garden, her recipes, noticing how the tremor changed when she spoke of her roses. He suspected a very specific, benign compression near her motor cortex, not the Parkinson's others assumed. His minimally invasive procedure was like watching a sculptor at work—through a tiny incision. Two days later, she was threading a needle to mend my shirt. He treated her like a person with a life to return to, not a collection of symptoms. We call him 'the gardener' because he helped her bloom again.

Our 8-year-old son, Deniz, took a bad fall off his bicycle. The ER scan showed a small, unusual shadow near his brainstem—'probably nothing,' they said. Dr. Sabanci reviewed the images remotely and called us at midnight, his voice calm but urgent: 'Bring him in now. It's not nothing.' It was a rare, slow-growing cyst that could have caused sudden neurological decline if left. The way he explained it to Deniz using a jelly-filled balloon analogy was genius—no fear, just understanding. The surgery required navigating a maze of critical nerves. Post-op, Dr. Sabanci didn't just check vitals; he brought Deniz a model brain to paint and quizzed him on soccer stats to test his cognition. Our boy is back on his bike, thanks to a doctor who sees both the anomaly and the child.

I'm a 45-year-old marathon runner with what I thought was chronic, stubborn neck pain. After years of physio, a new MRI revealed a complex spinal instability at C1-C2—a 'hangman's fracture' from a forgotten childhood accident, now degenerating. Dr. Sabanci presented me with a breathtakingly detailed 3D-printed model of my own vertebrae, showing the precise millimeter of slippage. His plan wasn't just fusion; it was a custom-engineered motion-preserving reconstruction. The surgery felt like a coordinated dance between advanced robotics and his steady hands. At my six-month follow-up, he had me do neck rotations while comparing pre- and post-op biomechanical graphs. The man is a biomechanical engineer, an artist, and a compassionate guide. I'm not just pain-free; I understand the architecture of my own recovery.

My husband, a 60-year-old architect, had a sudden, catastrophic brain bleed while on a business trip in Istanbul. Rushed to Acibadem Taksim, he was unconscious. Dr. Sabanci met me in the ICU waiting room, his explanation a stark, clear blueprint: 'The vessel has burst here. Pressure is building here. We have a 90-minute window. This is the procedure, these are the risks.' No false hope, just formidable competence. The emergency craniotomy lasted seven hours. What followed was a masterclass in vigilant, post-op care—twice-daily, detailed neurological mapping, adjusting treatments in real-time based on the slightest pupil response or finger twitch. He saved his life, then meticulously shepherded his mind back. My husband now calls it 'The Sabanci Retrofit'—the most critical, flawless renovation of his life. Dr. Sabanci commands the storm with absolute calm.