Please listen

I wake, eyes fluttering open

from an anesthesia-induced slumber

Across from me in the post-anesthesia care unit

I hear machines beeping, coarse breathing, gasping,

wheezing and fear

A man nearby sounds like he is drowning

in his own secretions

An exacerbation of congestive heart failure

my own post-craniotomy brain tells me

I am a physician, but today I am a patient

This is a new role for me. In many ways,

it is much harder

I hear the nurse page anesthesia overhead

Respiratory assistance needed stat, bed two

In bed three, I open my lips and whisper

He needs diuretics, positive pressure ventilation

I can help. Let me help

I try to get someone's attention

But I am a patient, lying alone in a bed

with a bandage on my skull and blood on my cheek

Yesterday, I worked in this hospital

now I am a patient, unable to assist

My autonomy is gone, expertise unknown

My badge removed and stuffed in a bag

with my belongings and my voice

The nurse finally sees me

Are you in pain? He asks

I try to say no, but my words slur and disappear

I feel vulnerable and alone,

thrust to the other side, where I am seen as patient

and nothing more

Do all of my patients feel this way? I wonder

I hear the team arrive to help bed two

What happened? A resident asks, panic in her voice

I am an internist. I can help him

Please listen.

Diuretics, positive airway pressure, elevate his head

the man in bed two. That is what he needs. I whisper again

The team sees a postoperative patient mumbling words

Why won't they listen?

My identity is reduced to the patient in bed three

My words go unheard

Is this what it feels like to be a patient?

I must never forget this

When my patients speak, I promise to listen

The author declares no conflicts of interest.