The first thing I remember is waking up in intensive care.

The last thing I remember is being in emergency.

Machines. Tubes. Sounds, noises, and voices I didn’t recognise. People gently helping me understand where I was and what had happened.

I had been in ICU for six weeks – critically unwell, in a medically induced coma.

When I woke up, the world felt surreal. I was surrounded by people, yet often felt completely alone. It was hard to make sense of it all. Time seemed abstract and overwhelming.

I remember my family visiting, relieved beyond words, while I struggled to understand how unwell I had been.

I remember the nurses telling me my father had been sitting at my bedside for weeks upon weeks, holding my wrist, feeling my pulse. He never gave up hope.

I remember the kindness and humanity of the doctors and nurses who cared for me, people to whom I owe more than I can ever possibly express.

At one point - unable to speak because of a tracheostomy - I wrote a note to my father:

“Am I going to die?”

He read it, looked at me, and said nothing. I can still feel that moment of pained uncertainty.

There were times I felt completely trapped, unable to move, speak, or rest - unsure if I would ever recover.

But slowly, with an extraordinary intensive care team, I did.

After eleven surgeries and significant muscle loss, I had to relearn even the most basic things. Recovery was long, frustrating, and at times overwhelming, but I kept improving.

Now, years later as a medical student, that experience stays with me in quietly powerful ways. It doesn’t make me more insightful or think that I’m special – but it does make me pause. I think, ask better questions, and listen more carefully for the answers that patients don't always say out loud straightaway.

What mattered most to me when I was in ICU were the moments of connection:

Kind eyes.

A warm smile.

The touch of a hand holding mine.

A willingness to listen (or read notes I’d write down).

Genuine acknowledgement and encouragement when I struggled.

These were all moments that said, “I see you. You matter.”

The care I received didn’t just help me recover – it helped me thrive. It shaped the person I am today, the kind of doctor I hope to become, and the gratitude I carry with me every day.