Recently, I found myself in need of surgery, a situation I had not faced in many years. The vulnerability I experienced as a patient was more intense than I ever anticipated. Despite my role as a doctor who often considers patients’ emotional well-being, I felt this. This experience brought me face-to-face with the emotional challenges that patients face in a new way. This perspective is crucial for all health care professionals to understand fully.

Being a patient fundamentally alters your perception of yourself. You are no longer in control of your fate or your own body. You lose your sense of invincibility. You often have to hand that control over to busy strangers you have just met. These strangers may or may not take the time to explain things to you. These are people who may or may not present as approachable to you.

I am an easygoing and confident person. For the last two decades, I have been privileged with good health and control over my life. I have an overriding sense of optimism and a belief that everything will be OK if we keep putting forth the effort to do the right thing and make the right decisions.

But now, here I was, being told that something might be seriously wrong with me. This was a new situation wholly out of my control. I could not fix this with a diet or lifestyle change or even through extraordinary effort. I was potentially stuck with a life-altering condition; I could do nothing about it but seek professional treatment.

This shook me to the core. Gone was my sense of being in control of my own life. Suddenly, there was a sense that the doctors whom I spoke to had power over me, that my fate was in their hands, and that they knew things they were not taking the time to explain to me.

When my surgeon came to introduce himself, he had an assistant with him. The surgeon did not think to introduce me to this assistant, and I did not feel comfortable asking who this person was. I did not want the surgeon who was going to operate on me to think that I was questioning his competence or his judgment. I did not want to offend him.

I was so nervous that I could barely understand my anxiety about this unknown person, much less articulate it to someone who was now in a position of power. Yet, in hindsight, I would have felt more comfortable if I knew who this team member was, their qualifications, and how they would be involved in my care.

In a way, my responsibility as a patient was to speak up. Yet, as the person with power in the room, the surgeon played a key role in determining whether I spoke up.

To his credit, the surgeon repeatedly asked me if I had any questions about the procedure. For the first time, I understood those patients who repeatedly said, “No, I have no questions,” while looking at me with clear uncertainty. His repeated questions, while technically fulfilling his duty, also reminded me of my vulnerability and my uncertainty.

The truth was, I did have questions. But I did not want to insult the doctors or be perceived as difficult, particularly during my most vulnerable hour. I could not articulate this reasoning to myself. Yet, I knew I was mentally frozen and deeply uncomfortable. However, I did not have time to figure out why.

Part of the feeling of vulnerability may have been precisely because I am a doctor. I knew exactly what the surgery process would look like and what could go wrong. I had questions that an average patient probably would not have had. For instance, “Which parts of my procedure will the surgeon perform, and which parts will the assistant perform?” I wanted to know specific details about how I would be cared for to compare them to my techniques.

This phenomenon may be the origin of the old adage that doctors make the worst patients. This experience also helped me understand in a brand-new way the position of patients in general when faced with a procedure and the emotions that it may cause, including fear, uncertainty, anxiety, and the inability to communicate their concerns adequately.

Even though I knew many specific technical questions, I did not ask them. My mind was frozen by anxiety. The surgeon did not know how to alleviate that anxiety and may not even have perceived that it existed. He was focused on technical matters, not emotional ones.

The behavior of the other staff may provide a clue to the solution. The nurses, techs, and orderlies showed me genuine kindness and respect. Even though they knew nothing about me, it was clear that my comfort was important to them. Their care for my experience as a human being, not just my medical outcome, was obvious. This underscores the importance of prioritizing patient comfort, a practice that can significantly enhance patient experience and trust in the health care system.

I became more comfortable opening up to them about my questions and concerns than even the surgeon.

My journey as a patient has reignited my passion for compassionate care, a crucial aspect of medicine. It has deepened my understanding of the importance of connecting with patients on an emotional level. This understanding has inspired me to be more attentive to patients’ emotional states and to ask more questions about how they feel physically and emotionally. This approach can foster a deeper connection with patients and make them feel more understood and cared for.

Becoming a patient has changed how I see myself as a doctor. It has made me reflect on our shared experiences with mortality and suffering, reminding me that we all have our vulnerabilities.

Moving forward, I intend to be doubly attentive to patients’ emotional states. I will ask more questions about how they feel physically and emotionally. I hope that if patients see that I want to hear about their emotional state, they will feel that I am open to hearing their fears and anxieties—their real questions—as well. Understanding and addressing patients’ emotional states is not just a part of compassionate care but also a key factor in building trust and fostering a more empathetic patient-doctor relationship.

I am deeply grateful for the exceptional care I received as a patient myself. I am grateful to the surgeons who performed exceptional technical care and the nurses and techs who reminded me of the profound difference made by caring for a patient’s emotional well-being. This experience has reinforced my belief in the importance of a collaborative and patient-centered approach in health care, where every team member plays a crucial role in the patient’s journey.

Francisco M. Torres is an interventional physiatrist specializing in diagnosing and treating patients with spine-related pain syndromes. He is certified by the American Board of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation and the American Board of Pain Medicine and can be reached at Florida Spine Institute and Wellness. 

Dr. Torres was born in Spain and grew up in Puerto Rico. He graduated from the University of Puerto Rico School of Medicine. Dr. Torres performed his physical medicine and rehabilitation residency at the Veterans Administration Hospital in San Juan before completing a musculoskeletal fellowship at Louisiana State University Medical Center in New Orleans. He served three years as a clinical instructor of medicine and assistant professor at LSU before joining Florida Spine Institute in Clearwater, Florida, where he is the medical director of the Wellness Program.

Dr. Torres is an interventional physiatrist specializing in diagnosing and treating patients with spine-related pain syndromes. He is certified by the American Board of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation and the American Board of Pain Medicine. He is a prolific writer and primarily interested in preventative medicine. He works with all of his patients to promote overall wellness.