Takeaway
When I became a patient, loss of control helped me realize how much trust I needed to place in my doctor. As a clinician, I will remember my experience and the need to build trust with candor and clear communication.
Passion in the Medical Profession | October 20, 2025 | 2 min read
By Katelyn Jackson, medical student, Johns Hopkins Medicine
I can still pinpoint the moment when I realized I had lost control. It was the night I received my pacemaker during my first device check. I was sitting on the hospital bed, groggy and disoriented, when the pacemaker technician pressed a button on his console, and suddenly my heart rate leapt to 150 beats per minute. In an instant, the pounding of my heart rendered me a marionette discovering her strings. I felt hollow, sickened by the idea that my heart was no longer under my jurisdiction, but could be hijacked at the press of a button. The precious thread of control I had clung to regarding my life and health slipped from my grasp.
The humbling realization of my own cardiac imperfection has been at times difficult to bear. To step into the hospital is to surrender oneself wholly to the medical system, as patients give up every aspect of their daily lives in the hopes that the clinician’s knowledge will sustain them. It’s difficult to describe the paradox of vulnerability and strength required to step into the role of the patient; to live reliant on monotonous IVs, wholeheartedly trusting the intelligence of others with one’s own life, to give up every semblance of independence in the hopes that it generates a future presently questioned. At the same time, as a medical student, I’ve felt a sense of “peeking behind the curtain,” receiving the humbling opportunity to witness others at their most vulnerable, and to understand the limits of medicine.
If I could force my heart into an independent sinus rhythm, I would spare myself the reality of my cardiac fragility. But perhaps in relinquishing control, I’m learning something more valuable: how to move forward amid pressing uncertainty. As healthcare professionals, try as we might, outcomes for our patients are often out of our control. The beauty of clinical medicine lies in the shared humanity of both patients and clinicians, walking alongside each other in the uncertainty.
Starting medical school has been a journey of finding myself amid both the white coat and the hospital gown. As my heart beats on, each paced depolarization is a reminder of my weakened sinoatrial node. It becomes clear that the only way forward is one beat at a time. To put on the hospital gown requires immense vulnerability and the strength to accept dependence; to put on the white coat requires humble recognition of our own humanity and modern medical limits. Maybe, in its brokenness, my heart is teaching me what it truly means to heal.
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This piece expresses the views solely of the author. It does not necessarily represent the views of any organization, including Johns Hopkins Medicine.