Takeaway
My rare spinal tumor required complex surgery at Johns Hopkins, where I’m a faculty physician. The experience reminded me that while technology saves lives, empathy and compassionate presence sustain patients through their darkest moments.
Lifelong learning in clinical excellence | July 2, 2026 | 3 min read
By Anita Gupta, DO, PharmD, MPP, Johns Hopkins Medicine
No matter how advanced healthcare technology becomes, the human connection between a patient and physician will always be the heart of medicine. This is what I believe as an anesthesiologist, pain medicine specialist, pharmacist, and healthcare policy expert. But I never fully understood this until I found myself on the other side of the stethoscope—lying on the gurney instead of standing beside it.
The diagnosis that changed everything
It started with symptoms I tried to rationalize. As a physician who’d spent years managing complex pain and surgical cases, I knew the red flags. Imaging revealed a large schwannoma—a benign but aggressive nerve sheath tumor—attached to a critical nerve in my spine. It had grown through the spinal canal and extended into my chest cavity, threatening to paralyze my arm and cause far more serious complications. (Watch this YouTube to learn more.)
I’d trained at Georgetown for anesthesiology, completed a pain fellowship at Johns Hopkins, and built a career focused on helping patients navigate fear, uncertainty, and pain. Now I was the one facing a rare disease, surgical risks, and the loss of control that every person fears.
Living the patient experience
Walking into Johns Hopkins as a patient—after having trained and worked there—felt surreal. I traded my white coat for a hospital gown. My condition required a rare, coordinated two-day surgery. A peripheral nerve surgeon and thoracic surgeon, along with their multidisciplinary care teams, worked together to carefully remove the tumor while protecting my spinal nerves and vital structures. The technical precision was extraordinary—advanced imaging, meticulous planning, and surgical expertise.
But what stayed with me most wasn’t the tools, robots, or technology. It was the human moments: the reassuring words from the care team, the nurses who took time to explain each step, the way my family was supported, and the quiet empathy that made me feel seen rather than reduced to a diagnosis.
As someone who’s written and lectured extensively on pain management and patient-centered care, I gained a visceral new perspective. I understood in a deeper way how even small acts of kindness can reduce suffering, and how the fear of the unknown amplifies pain.
Here are four things I took away from this experience:
1. Empathy is always necessary.
Knowing the science is essential, but truly feeling the vulnerability of illness transforms how we communicate and care.
2. Technology serves humanity.
The most sophisticated OR in the world still relies on trust, clear explanations, and compassionate presence.
3. Rare diseases demand collaboration.
My experience highlighted the power of multidisciplinary teams—something I advocate for even more strongly now in policy and leadership roles.
4. Support coworkers.
This experience deepened my commitment to supporting colleagues facing their own health challenges.
Recovery brought gratitude, reflection, and renewed purpose. I returned to practice, teaching, and advocacy with fresh eyes—whether addressing the opioid crisis, advancing women’s health, or speaking at forums like the NORD Rare Disease Summit.
To my colleagues: Take a moment to imagine yourself in the patient gown. Listen more intently. Explain more clearly. Support coworkers through their own health challenges. The “heart of medicine” beats strongest in those human connections we create every day.
To patients and families: You’re not alone. Your questions, knowledge, and resilience matter deeply. Advocate for yourself, lean on your care team, and remember that true healing includes both science and the human soul.
My tumor removal was successful. I’m grateful every day for the skilled surgeons, compassionate nurses, and dedicated care team who carried me through. But more than that, I’m grateful for what the experience taught me—the stethoscope may connect us to hearts and lungs, but it’s compassion that truly connects us as humans.
That’s the lesson I carry with me—from the gurney back to the OR, from patient back to physician, and into every interaction going forward.
This piece expresses the views solely of the author. It does not necessarily represent the views of any organization, including Johns Hopkins Medicine.