What happens when the person giving medical advice, suddenly has to follow it
There are few experiences more humbling for a doctor than becoming a patient himself. Recently, I found myself needing a surgical procedure at my own hospital. Normally, I am the one moving briskly through corridors, discussing cases, making decisions, and reassuring others with quiet confidence that there is “nothing much to worry about.” This time, I was on the receiving end of that reassurance – and discovered how different it sounds when you are the one lying in the bed.
Fortunately, I could not have asked for a better setting. The surgeon was highly skilled and professional. The anaesthesia team was familiar, warm, and quietly competent. Being in my own hospital removed much of the anxiety that comes with unfamiliar environments. The care was excellent – attentive nursing, good food, and a level of comfort that felt closer to a home than a ward.
Fortunately, the procedure went smoothly, the problem was resolved without complication, and I am now well on my way to recovery. Thanks for checking!
But something else also happened during those days in hospital. I had time. For someone used to the constant rhythm of clinical work, time is a rare luxury. A hospital bed enforces a pause that ordinary life rarely allows. There are no meetings, no waiting patients, no urgent emails, no calls that begin with “just one small thing” and somehow consume half an hour. You are simply there. A little uncomfortable, slightly vulnerable, and more reflective than usual.
Illness strips life down to essentials. Concerns about status, appearance, and professional identity quickly lose weight. Priorities narrow. Whether a meeting starts at 10 or 10:15 matters far less than whether discomfort has eased.
It is in that stillness that thought deepens. The mind drifts through life, health, ageing, relationships, work, and the fragility of human existence. The hospital bed becomes not just a place of recovery, but an unexpected space for reflection. And because nothing is required of you, reflection comes easily.
And that is precisely what I indulged in.
The Strange Wisdom of Being a Patient
One of the clearest lessons I learnt was about patience – what it truly means to be patient when you are a patient. Not surprisingly, the two words are actually linked. Both come from the Latin pati, meaning “to suffer” or “to endure.” From this comes patiens, one who bears suffering, and eventually the modern word patient, also describing someone who can endure difficulty without agitation.
Note that there is a quiet symmetry here. To be a patient is, quite literally, to be called to patience.
And hospitals are where both meanings are tested.
As a patient, you wait constantly – for doctors, nurses, medications, investigations, reports, procedures, meals, and discharge papers. If waiting were a specialty, most patients would graduate with distinction.
The irony is that while doctors often advise patience, they struggle to embody it themselves. We are trained to act quickly, decide quickly, and move on. Becoming a patient reverses that entirely. You quickly realise the hospital does not follow your timetable. And that is the lesson. Patience is not passive waiting. It is the ability to sit with uncertainty, without letting it turn into unnecessary distress.
A Hospital Is Not a Hotel
This was the second important lesson that I learnt.
Even the best hospital should not be mistaken for a hotel. The difference is fundamental. A hotel exists for comfort, leisure, and choice. You arrive willingly, expecting rest or enjoyment. A hospital is different. No one plans a stay by saying, “A few nights in hospital would be ideal.” A hospital exists for care, treatment, monitoring, and recovery. Its purpose is clinical, not recreational. Yet this fundamental distinction can blur when we think about comfort.
At home, everything is familiar – switches, routines, habits. In hospital, even simple things can feel unfamiliar.There are alarms, wires, interruptions, strange timings, restricted diets, and constant movement in and out of the room.
So, the goal while admitted in a hospital is not hotel-like luxury, but hospital-appropriate comfort – a safe, respectful environment designed for healing. The best hospital is not one that makes you forget you are ill. It is one that makes illness feel less frightening.
The Patient Did Not Choose to Be Here
The final and fundamental truth that becomes obvious only when you are in the bed (rather than beside it) is that a patient is not in hospital by choice. He is there because illness, pain, injury, or fear has placed him there.
For healthcare workers, this is easy to forget. The hospital is familiar territory. We know the systems, routines, protocols and expectations. We know what comes next. For the patient, none of this is familiar. What is routine for us may be entirely new and intimidating for them. A procedure performed dozens of times a day may be a first-time experience for the person receiving it.
This gap in perspective matters deeply. A healthcare deliverers’ responsibility therefore extends beyond treating disease. It includes reducing the anxiety that accompanies it – the fear of uncertainty, unfamiliar environments, and loss of control.
And sometimes the most powerful reassurance is not a detailed explanation. It is simply asking them not to worry and that they will be explained everything as the healthcare journey goes along. This small sentence restores a sense of control in a situation where much of it has been taken away.
What being in the Bed Taught the Doctor
This experience has changed how I interpret the small, everyday behaviours of patients.
I have always known that patients can be anxious. But from my recent experience of lying on that bed, that anxiety feels different – heavier and more immediate.
A repeated question asked by a patient is not forgetfulness – it is worry. “Is this normal?” is not a challenge; it is a search for grounding. Questions about timing of procedures are not impatience; they are attempts to regain control.
And what appears as impatience may, in fact, be a need for reassurance. That may be the most important lesson of all. When we ask patients to trust us, we are often the ones that should make that trust easier to give. I hope I do not need another surgical experience anytime soon. Illness is not something I would wish on anyone, no matter how good the care. But being a patient in my own hospital, surrounded by familiar people and excellent support, was a powerful reminder of what medicine truly involves.
It is not only about treating disease successfully. It is about understanding what it means to surrender yourself to someone else’s care.
And perhaps the simplest lesson I carry back is this – learn to be patient when you are a patient. These simple words contain their own wisdom. And now I understand it from the inside.
Prof Hemant Madan is an Interventional Cardiologist and Programme Head, Cardiac Sciences for Narayana Health.
