Greg's Journal: Looking Patients in the Eyes

Greg's Journal | Entry No. 7

Every day, I watch people fall asleep.

That's an unusual sentence to write. For me, it's just another day at work. For my patients, it may be one of the most vulnerable moments of their lives.

Most people only remember anesthesia in pieces. They remember arriving at the hospital. Changing into a gown. Meeting a lot of people with name badges. Rolling down a hallway under bright lights.

Then, nothing.

They wake up in recovery wondering if the surgery has even happened.

What they don't remember is often the part I remember most.

Their eyes.

The Last Person They See

Before surgery, there's a moment that happens in every operating room.

We help the patient move onto the operating table. The nurses begin placing monitors. Blood pressure cuff. Heart monitor. Pulse oximeter.

The room is busy, but it isn't chaotic. Everyone knows their job.

I place an oxygen mask over the patient's face.

"Take some nice deep breaths for me."

Sometimes I tell them to breathe all the way down to their toes. It usually gets a smile.

Then I begin giving medication through the IV. But before they drift off, they almost always look directly at me.

Not at the ceiling. Not at the lights. Not at the surgeon. At me.

I don't think that's an accident.

"We're Going to Take Excellent Care of You."

There are a few sentences I've probably spoken tens of thousands of times.

One of them is this.

"We're going to take excellent care of you."

People ask if I ever get tired of saying it.

No. Because every time I say it, I mean it.

Those aren't words I memorized in school. They're a promise. I'm telling another human being,

"You're safe now."

"You don't have to carry this by yourself."

"I'll be here the whole time."

That matters.

Because fear is normal. I expect people to be nervous. If your blood pressure isn't a little higher when you roll into surgery, I'd probably be surprised.

You're about to trust complete strangers. Anyone would feel anxious.

My job isn't just to give medicine. My job is to help replace fear with confidence.

Eyes Tell the Truth

One of the things I love about medicine is that people are honest with you.

Not always with words. With their eyes.

I've learned to recognize fear. Relief. Uncertainty. Hope.

Sometimes people try to be brave for their family. Their words say they're fine. Their eyes tell a different story.

When I look someone directly in the eyes, I'm trying to communicate something that goes beyond conversation.

I'm here. I'm paying attention. You're not alone.

That connection only lasts a few seconds. But I think those few seconds matter.

Calm Is Contagious

People sometimes ask me if I'm ever nervous.

Of course. Anyone who tells you they never feel nervous while caring for another human being probably isn't paying enough attention.

I've had patients with very difficult airways. I've had unexpected situations. I've had moments where I had to think quickly.

Those experiences don't make me panic. They make me prepare.

Preparation creates calm. And calm spreads.

If I stay calm, the nurses stay calm. The patient feels calmer. The entire room benefits.

That's true in the operating room. It's also true in life.

Children notice whether their parents panic. Employees notice whether their leaders panic. Patients notice whether their anesthetist panics.

Calm isn't pretending nothing could go wrong. Calm is knowing you've prepared if something does.

The Responsibility

People sometimes ask what surprises me most about anesthesia.

The answer isn't the medicine. It's the trust.

I usually spend less than ten minutes meeting someone before they place their life in my hands.

Think about that.

In almost every other area of life, trust takes years to build. In healthcare, people often give it to you in minutes.

That's a responsibility I never take lightly.

I've taken care of Olympians. Doctors. Teachers. Farmers. Business owners. People experiencing homelessness. Children. Grandparents.

Once they're my patient, none of those labels matter anymore.

Everyone deserves the same care. Everyone deserves the same attention. Everyone deserves someone who prepared.

The Same Philosophy

People sometimes ask why I became so particular when Marion and I started Bloomfield.

Why I insisted on using laboratory beakers instead of kitchen measuring cups. Why I wanted everything measured precisely. Why I kept adjusting Silent Night until the scent felt just right.

The answer is simple.

Habits don't disappear when you leave the hospital.

Healthcare taught me that details matter because people matter. When someone trusts something you've created, that trust deserves your very best.

Whether that's an anesthetic, or a sleep spray.

The Last Thing I See

Every surgery ends differently.

Patients wake up. Recovery begins. Families reunite. Life moves forward.

But every surgery begins almost exactly the same way.

A pair of eyes looking back at me. A quiet promise. A few deep breaths. Then sleep.

People often thank me after surgery. The truth is, I'm grateful to them too.

Because every single day, complete strangers remind me that trust still exists in this world. And every morning, they give me another opportunity to earn it.

I hope I never take that for granted.

For the Quiet Hours,
Greg Wiggins, CRNA
Co-Founder, Bloomfield Schoolhouse Lavender