The Hands That We Hold, and the Hands That Hold Us

Updated: Apr 15

Author: Oasima Muner

Author Affiliation: Cooper Medical School of Rowan University

VJM Spring Edition 2026

I opened the heavy, squeaky operating room door and saw the female patient being accompanied by the anesthesia team. She offered a faint, cautious smile as our eyes met and then scanned the entire room, trying to capture the faces of the medical students, residents, nurses, and attendings surrounding her. She appeared seemingly nervous, clutching her loose hospital gown and attempting to cover her exposed skin. Was it an attempt to preserve her modesty or an effort to shield herself from unfamiliar eyes relentlessly concentrated on her? Was she looking at us with fear or with silent hopes of our promise to take care of her? I do not know. Perhaps all these feelings co-existed within her at the time as she prepared to undergo a complicated neurosurgical intervention for a rare condition associated with the blood vessels in her brain.

Soon after, anesthesia was administered to the patient. The body that she previously tried to shield away, gave into the rhythmic cadence of the operating room- delicately exposed, positioned and draped in the sterile blue sheets, all but the small, marked area where the surgery would unfold.

Once the surgery concluded and the patient began to wake up from the residual effects of the anesthesia, her first question to me was “Am I okay?” followed by “Are my babies okay?” Then, she cried for a few minutes. I assured her that she did great during the procedure, but she responded to me saying “I am tired of having surgeries all my life.”

A brief sentence, yet the weight of her words felt heavier than any equipment in the operating room. Her exhaustion was not just from this procedure, but from the countless times she had returned to various operating rooms, repeatedly surrendering her body, life, into the hands of strangers and waking up each time wondering if she would make it safely back to her loved ones at home.

I usually have plenty to say, but at that moment, I remained quiet.

All I could offer was my hand in hers- a silent acknowledgement that I was a witness to the pain she had endured surrounding her health, even if I could not carry the emotional and physical anguish of it all for her. Her soft hand gripped mine in return, and there lay a beautiful sacredness and vulnerability in that moment where medicine, ever so gently and carefully, held us both together in the same touch of shared humanity.