When the surgeon becomes the patient: lessons from the brink of death

Abstract

There are moments when life violently strips away one’s identity as a physician and redefines it, without consent, as that of a critically ill patient. That is exactly what happened to me, at the peak of physical health, in the beginning of my surgical career.

I was a young, healthy cardiovascular surgeon, passionate about my work and committed to athletic pursuits. One day, I suddenly experienced abrupt and severe chest pain, accompanied by shortness of breath and high fever. I dismissed these symptoms at first, convincing myself it was benign. Later that day, I even collapsed in my own bathroom where I experienced the classic signs of cardiogenic shock: a sudden drop in blood pressure, a creeping veil of black over my vision, marbling of skin, a disturbing clouding of consciousness. Endogenous adrenaline flooded my system; my mouth went dry, my pupils dilated. Despite recognizing these red flags, I stubbornly refused to face the truth and forbade my wife from calling emergency medical services. It wasn’t until she phoned a close friend, a pediatric surgery chief, who gently but firmly insisted we head to the nearest hospital (where I operated) that I finally agreed to get help.

Within hours of my admission, I was whisked into the ICU, beginning a five-day struggle for survival. Electrocardiography revealed worsening biventricular function. Dobutamine doses were increased to the maximum. Facing fulminant cardiogenic shock, the surgical team seriously discussed the need for mechanical circulatory support with venoarterial extracorporeal membrane oxygenation (VA-ECMO). The prospect of cardiac transplantation was also raised during those crucial hours. The first night, I called my surgical mentor and whispered, “I don’t think I’m going to make it. Yesterday I was trail-running, today I’m close to needing ECMO and a transplant.” His answer was calm and immediate: “We’re preparing for it right now.” The beeping of monitors and alarms from unstable vitals filled my nights. I was haunted by vivid hallucinations—visions so intense they seemed more real than the ICU itself. At times, they felt like a release, a floating detachment from pain and urgency, a kind of inner quiet I had never known. But that stillness was deceptive. I could feel myself being slowly pulled away from reality, drifting toward a zone where choices vanished and identity dissolved. The tunnel of light wasn’t metaphorical—it was real, and it was beautiful in a way that terrified me. It took everything in me to resist surrendering to it. What pulled me back was not a drug or a machine, but people. The ICU staff saved me with acts of care. They refused to let me vanish. I remember a nurse firmly insisting I sit up, helping me to wash, bringing me breakfast I had no strength to eat but was gently encouraged to try. They fought not only for my life, but for my dignity. They treated me like someone who still mattered, when I no longer believed I did.

Everything changed the moment I was laid on the ICU bed and lost control over my own care. In the operating room, I was always the one making the decisions. Now, those decisions were no longer mine. My chest tightened with panic as machines monitored every failure of my struggling heart. I felt powerless, suspended between life and uncertainty. And yet, in the midst of that fear, something unexpected happened: I felt a strange sense of relief. Letting go of control was like shedding heavy armor I didn’t know I had been carrying. Despite being weak and barely able to speak, I remained involved in conversations about my care—conversations I was used to leading for others. My colleagues, with respect and care, gently invited me to contribute when I was lucid enough. These invitations became small but vital beacons of reassurance. Meanwhile, without my knowing, the same friend who had convinced me to go to the hospital also reached out to my father—12,000 km away—and urged him to fly in immediately.When I learned about it later, it left a deeper emotional impact than any clinical result ever could. In those days, I wasn’t a surgeon or a doctor. I was a vulnerable patient, dependent on the humanity of others (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1

My ICU battleground, overseen by an overly chatty monitor that won’t stop beeping day and night

Full size image

Amid this medical storm, it wasn’t just the treatments or the expertise that kept me going, it was the kindness. ICU caregivers became my anchors. A nurse gently pulling up my blanket, a soft word of encouragement, a reassuring glance, those gestures were as healing as any drug. Their presence gave me back a sense of safety when everything else felt lost. My wife was by my side through it all. Her presence, her voice, her eyes—they reminded me why I had to fight. In the depths of my weakness, love itself became a therapy. Over time, my cardiac function improved and I was discharged from the ICU. But what followed wasn’t just physical recovery, it was a deep emotional awakening. My wife had watched me drift in and out of consciousness, powerless and afraid. Each ICU alarm echoed through her as well. We spoke about everything, including the possibility that I might not survive. I told her what to do if that happened: to respect my care limits, to take medical decisions for me, and even to complete our planned one-year world tour without me. That experience created a bond between us that no words can describe. In that moment, she was stronger than both of us. She did not break down, nor did she dissolve into sterile sadness or anger. She acted—lucid, calm, and unshakable. Later, I realized how deeply I owe her not only for her presence, but for her clarity when mine had failed. Since then, I’ve made it a rule: families must be involved in every care decision. They are not visitors—they are part of the treatment.

My confrontation with death did not make me reckless, it made me clear. The fear that had once accompanied every risky surgical procedure disappeared. I stopped seeing danger as something to avoid and started seeing it as a reminder that we are alive. I began climbing solo without ropes, riding motorcycles at high speeds—not out of denial, but because I needed to reclaim mastery over my body and destiny. But the biggest shift happened in my operating room. I am still the same precise surgeon, but now I carry something more: a deep, lived understanding of what it means to be a patient. I see their fear because I’ve felt it. I hear their silence because I’ve lived in it. Before, I focused on efficiency. Now, I make space to talk, to explain, to listen. I don’t see compassion as a bonus anymore, it’s part of the treatment plan. When patients tremble, I remember how it felt to lie in that ICU bed. And I respond with the voice I once needed to hear. Yet I never turned my back on the technical side of my work, far from it. One of my greatest sources of pride since that experience has been to personally implant the majority of ECMO in my current department, often stepping in for colleagues who were officially on call. I’ve developed a particular affinity for those placed in extreme urgency, on fully conscious patients crashing from acute right heart failure due to severe pulmonary embolism or decompensated pulmonary hypertension. Each time, I see myself in their place. Sometimes they’re shockingly young, and in their panic, I recognize my own. That moment, the stillness just before cannulation and the start of the pump, feels like a sacred act, especially when the patient has brushed against death through cardiac arrest only seconds earlier. It’s no longer just a procedure, it’s a form of resurrection. Although I never ended up needing ECMO myself, I came terrifyingly close: dobutamine at near-maximum doses, mean arterial pressure hovering at 50 mmHg… I know with certainty that it would have saved me. That knowledge gives each procedure a visceral clarity. I’m not just placing cannulas; I’m honoring the very intervention that could have been my lifeline.

Returning to the ICU after this experience was one of the most humbling experiences of my life. Despite knowing the treatments, I had to set my knowledge aside and trust the teams. Even when their decisions challenged my instincts, I learned to follow them. That trust, that collaboration, is not weakness. It’s strength. Medicine is not a solo performance: it’s a collective act of responsibility, humility, and shared hope. When I returned to the unit weeks later, this time standing and dressed in scrubs, I crossed paths with the same nurses and aides who had kept me afloat. They looked at me differently, but I looked at them differently too. I saw in their eyes the memory of my vulnerability, and I felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude. I took the time to thank them, I shook the hand of the anesthesiologist who had placed my femoral line and central catheter at admission. I remember telling him simply, “Thank you for keeping me alive that night.” He nodded, quietly, but the moment stayed with me. No textbook teaches you how to hold back tears when thanking the people who gave you another chance at life. The gratitude I felt was immense: pure, silent, almost too heavy to carry. It redefined my relationship with every person working in that hospital. From that day on, I never saw any act of care, no matter how small, as ordinary. This experience taught me what textbooks never could: that the ICU is not just a battlefield of physiology, but also a sacred space of human resilience, dignity, and emotional fragility. To every caregiver who enters a patient’s room, I now see your presence not as incidental, but as potentially life-saving.

To all those who saved my life — this is for you.

No datasets were generated or analysed during the current study.

I wish to express my deepest gratitude to my wife, whose presence sustained me through the most vulnerable days of my life; to my friends, to the ICU physicians whose care was both precise and compassionate, and to my mentor, Pr. Eric Braunberger, whose calm support gave me strength when I feared I had none left. And last but not least, to every caregiver who stood at my bedside—nurse, aide, or physician—thank you. You were not just doing your job; you were giving me the chance to return. I would also like to extend special thanks to Dr. Hugo Clermidy, who offered invaluable help during the writing of this manuscript and who persistently encouraged me to share this story.

No funding was received for this work.

Authors and Affiliations

1. Hôpital Marie Lannelongue, Chirurgie Thoracique,133 Avenue de la Résistance, Le Plessis Robinson, 92350, France

   Florent Porez

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1. Florent PorezView author publications

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FP had personally conceived, written, edited, and finalized the entire manuscript, without external contribution. All content, structure, and reflections originate entirely from the author’s experience and writing.

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Correspondence to Florent Porez.

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Porez, F. When the surgeon becomes the patient: lessons from the brink of death. Crit Care 29, 346 (2025). https://doi.org/10.1186/s13054-025-05580-8

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• Received: 11 June 2025

• Accepted: 20 July 2025

• Published: 05 August 2025

• DOI: https://doi.org/10.1186/s13054-025-05580-8

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