Greg's Journal: My Favorite Part Is Waking People Up

Greg's Journal | Entry No. 13

People often ask me what it's like to put someone to sleep.

That's understandable. It's the part everyone sees. The oxygen mask. The medications. The countdown. The eyes slowly closing.

But if I'm honest, that's not my favorite part of the job.

My favorite part is waking people up.

The Beginning Isn't the Goal

When someone comes into the operating room, they're usually nervous. That's normal. They've probably been thinking about this surgery for weeks. Maybe months.

I've already met them in pre-op. We've talked. I've answered questions. I've explained the risks.

Now they're lying on the operating table, looking around at bright lights and unfamiliar faces. I help them settle in. I ask them to take slow, deep breaths. I tell them we're going to take excellent care of them.

Then they drift off.

For them, that's the end of the story.

For me, it's just the beginning.

The Quiet Work

People imagine anesthesia as one dramatic moment. It isn't.

Most of my job happens while my patient is asleep.

Watching. Adjusting. Listening. Thinking.

Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every change in blood pressure. Every medication. Every decision.

Most people will never know how much attention happens while they're completely unaware. And that's exactly how it should be.

If everything goes well, anesthesia looks almost effortless. Behind that calm is years of training, preparation, and constant vigilance.

Bringing Someone Back

Eventually, the surgery ends. The surgeon finishes. The dressings are on. The room begins to change.

Now my attention shifts again.

It's time to wake someone up.

This isn't just turning off medications. Every patient wakes differently.

Some wake up smiling. Some wake up confused. Some ask the same question five times. Some want to know if the surgery has started. Others ask for their spouse before they even open their eyes.

It's one of the most human parts of my job. You see people exactly as they are. No filters. No pretending. Just honest human reactions.

My Favorite Words

There are a few words I love hearing.

"Is it over?"

That's probably my favorite.

Because it means everything went according to plan. The surgery is finished. The patient is waking up. They're safe.

Sometimes they look surprised. Like only a few seconds have passed.

I usually smile and tell them,

"Everything went well."

Those four words carry a lot of weight.

A Good Day

People sometimes ask what makes for a good day in anesthesia.

A good day isn't exciting. A good day is beautifully ordinary.

The patient comes in anxious. They go home feeling cared for. Nothing unexpected happens. No emergencies. No complications. Just excellent care delivered quietly.

Healthcare doesn't always need dramatic victories. Sometimes success is simply the absence of disaster.

That's something worth celebrating.

Recovery Begins Here

One thing I've learned is that surgery doesn't end when someone opens their eyes. Recovery starts immediately.

Pain control. Comfort. Warm blankets. Reassurance. Families waiting nearby.

The body begins repairing itself almost immediately. That's one reason I encourage people to rest after surgery. Not because it's easy. Because healing takes energy.

Sleep isn't wasted after an operation. It's productive. The body knows what to do. Sometimes it simply needs the opportunity.

The Best Compliment

One of the nicest compliments I ever receive is when someone says,

"I don't remember anything."

Perfect.

That's exactly what I hoped for.

People often assume anesthesia is about making someone unconscious. I think it's really about creating a safe space where surgery can happen while protecting the person who's trusting you with their life.

If they don't remember me, that's okay. It probably means I did my job well.

Coming Home

Every day I leave the hospital and drive home.

Sometimes I stop by the farm. Sometimes I head to the Apothecary. Sometimes the kids are waiting to tell me about their day before I even get out of the truck.

Life shifts quickly.

One minute I'm caring for someone during one of the most vulnerable moments of their life. The next I'm helping with homework or playing cards after dinner.

That transition reminds me not to carry the weight of the operating room home with me. Home deserves the best version of me too.

Why I Love This Work

I've been in medicine for twenty years. The first six, I was a nurse. Then I became a CRNA.

People often ask why I made that change. The answer has evolved over the years.

When I was younger, I admired my father. I loved science. I enjoyed working with my hands. Those things are still true.

But today, I think I love this work for a different reason.

Every day someone places their trust in me. Every day I have the opportunity to help them through something they cannot do alone. Every day I get to watch someone wake up and return to the people who love them.

There are worse ways to spend a career.

In fact, I can't think of many better ones.

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