By Leah Bode '21
In December 2015, I had my wisdom teeth removed. I had seen my friends go through the surgery, I had spoken with my oral surgeon the month prior, I knew what to expect. I made sure that my mom was ready with her phone in the recovery room so she could record all of the ludicrous things I would surely say under the influence of anesthesia. I was prepared to be the next internet sensation, to rock this surgery like I’d rocked all of the dental and medical procedures I’d endured previously.
This is not what happened. Instead of coming out from under anesthesia cracking jokes, I came out breaking down. All I can remember from my recovery is an overwhelming feeling of fear and lots of crying. The deception lay in my interaction with the oral surgeon beforehand. The month prior, he had plainly asked me if I wanted to “be asleep” during the surgery. “Of course,” I said, “yes.” Pretty straightforward, right? Sure, until I went under the knife and could hear everything my surgeon and his assistants were saying during the surgery. I was sedated, but conscious enough to hear and understand their conversations. It was terrifying.
After my mom was able to calm me down in the recovery room, we of course demanded to know why I had been conscious during my surgery when my surgeon had said that I would be asleep. His response was “Oh yeah, sometimes people don’t go completely under,” but it was fine and I shouldn’t worry about it. This would have been very helpful information to know going into the surgery, as opposed to after it. I had just spent an hour in the chair, terrified that I would begin to have sensation in the surgical field in addition to the other parts of me that were responsive. His retrospective comment was of little comfort to me.
With my father as a physician, I’ve always had a good role model for what practicing compassionate care in medicine looks like. Until my wisdom teeth surgery, I think I took this compassion for granted. Becoming a doctor someday has never been much of a question for me – I’ve always felt that it is my calling. Since that traumatic experience, however, I have realized the importance of practicing compassion in the relationships with each of my patients: to communicate clearly, to be reassuring, and to hold myself accountable to always providing the best care possible. To be a physician more like my dad, and much less like my oral surgeon.
This experience played a large role in inspiring my involvement with the Hillebrand Center, and ultimately in me pursuing the minor in Compassionate Care in Medicine here at Notre Dame. I am grateful for the opportunity to learn the science and spirituality of compassion in the helping professions through this revolutionary program. I hope to be a better doctor to my patients, and for myself, as a result, and to never make any of my patients feel the way I did. I may have lost some wisdom on that fateful day, but all jokes aside, along the way I have and will continue to acquire a greater appreciation for compassion than I thought possible.
In December 2015, I had my wisdom teeth removed. I had seen my friends go through the surgery, I had spoken with my oral surgeon the month prior, I knew what to expect. I made sure that my mom was ready with her phone in the recovery room so she could record all of the ludicrous things I would surely say under the influence of anesthesia. I was prepared to be the next internet sensation, to rock this surgery like I’d rocked all of the dental and medical procedures I’d endured previously.
This is not what happened. Instead of coming out from under anesthesia cracking jokes, I came out breaking down. All I can remember from my recovery is an overwhelming feeling of fear and lots of crying. The deception lay in my interaction with the oral surgeon beforehand. The month prior, he had plainly asked me if I wanted to “be asleep” during the surgery. “Of course,” I said, “yes.” Pretty straightforward, right? Sure, until I went under the knife and could hear everything my surgeon and his assistants were saying during the surgery. I was sedated, but conscious enough to hear and understand their conversations. It was terrifying.
After my mom was able to calm me down in the recovery room, we of course demanded to know why I had been conscious during my surgery when my surgeon had said that I would be asleep. His response was “Oh yeah, sometimes people don’t go completely under,” but it was fine and I shouldn’t worry about it. This would have been very helpful information to know going into the surgery, as opposed to after it. I had just spent an hour in the chair, terrified that I would begin to have sensation in the surgical field in addition to the other parts of me that were responsive. His retrospective comment was of little comfort to me.
With my father as a physician, I’ve always had a good role model for what practicing compassionate care in medicine looks like. Until my wisdom teeth surgery, I think I took this compassion for granted. Becoming a doctor someday has never been much of a question for me – I’ve always felt that it is my calling. Since that traumatic experience, however, I have realized the importance of practicing compassion in the relationships with each of my patients: to communicate clearly, to be reassuring, and to hold myself accountable to always providing the best care possible. To be a physician more like my dad, and much less like my oral surgeon.
This experience played a large role in inspiring my involvement with the Hillebrand Center, and ultimately in me pursuing the minor in Compassionate Care in Medicine here at Notre Dame. I am grateful for the opportunity to learn the science and spirituality of compassion in the helping professions through this revolutionary program. I hope to be a better doctor to my patients, and for myself, as a result, and to never make any of my patients feel the way I did. I may have lost some wisdom on that fateful day, but all jokes aside, along the way I have and will continue to acquire a greater appreciation for compassion than I thought possible.