This work of fiction is part of the Medical Humanities vertical on Op-Med, which showcases creative writing by Doximity members. Do you have a poem, work of lyric prose, or flash fiction piece related to medicine that you’d like to share with the community? Send it to us here.
The Patient
He opened his eyes to the sterile glare of fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, like insects trapped in glass. The room smelled sharply of antiseptic — clean, clinical, a scent that gnawed at some buried memory. White walls, white sheets, white noise — an unsettling symmetry that itched at the back of his mind. He tried to sit up, but gentle, insistent hands pushed him back down.
“Now, now, don’t strain yourself,” a nurse said softly, her voice smooth and rehearsed, each syllable engineered for comfort.
“Where am I?” he rasped, his throat a desert.
“In the hospital,” she replied, her pen scratching something unseen on a clipboard. “You’re quite ill.”
His pulse quickened — a flutter, more confusion than fear. “Ill? What’s wrong with me?” His fingers twitched, tugged at tubes that snaked from his wrists, tying him down like a marionette.
“Oh, lots of things,” she said. “But don’t worry — we’re taking excellent care of you.”
“What does that mean? What things exactly?” he pressed, a crack in his voice betraying the panic curling inside his chest. The nurse hesitated in the doorway, her eyes flickering with something before sinking back into their smooth, professional glaze.
“The doctor will explain,” she murmured. “Just try to relax.”
She slipped out, and the door clicked shut, precise and final. He watched the monitors beside his bed — graphs pulsing in sync with his confusion, numbers flickering in and out of legibility. Everything about the room felt too arranged, as if reality itself was under observation.
Time stretched, thinned — an uncertain blur. When the door swung open again, the doctor entered, a flock of interns orbiting him like pale satellites. His name badge remained stubbornly blurred, like a word on the tip of the tongue.
“Good morning,” the doctor intoned calmly, eyes grazing the clipboard. “How are we feeling today?”
“Confused,” he murmured, curiosity clawing its way through his exhaustion. “Why am I here?”
“You’re quite ill,” the doctor repeated. “We’re running extensive tests. We’re hopeful.”
“Hopeful about what?”
“An improvement,” the doctor replied cryptically, his pen tracing lines that made no sense. He nodded — once, twice — and turned to leave with his vestigial interns trailing behind.
“Wait — just tell me what’s wrong,” the patient called, desperation spilling out.
The doctor hesitated, half-turned, his smile tightening just enough to suggest discomfort.
“You’re in very good hands,” he said before the door sealed itself shut again.
Left alone under the buzz of lights that seemed to whisper just out of range, the patient stared at the ceiling, troubled by a gnawing emptiness: No one had said his name.
His gaze wandered around the room — an inventory of absence. A clock above the doorway — hands frozen at 3:17. A chair opposite the bed — empty, angled like it was expecting someone who’d forgotten to show up. A poster on the wall, a nurse smiling too wide beneath the words “Your health is our priority.” The nurse’s eyes looked suspiciously like his own: vacant and waiting.
He studied his hands, bruised and tethered, his body a landscape of pale skin and medical paraphernalia. The machines hummed in a slow, rhythmic cadence — a mechanical lullaby. He felt detached, more curious than afraid, like his body belonged to someone else.
The monitor beeped softly, in time with his growing sense of resignation. He closed his eyes, letting the hum of the fluorescent lights blend into his thoughts, and wondered absently if perhaps he was supposed to feel something more.
He breathed slowly, finding a rhythm in the quiet hums and clicks of unseen instruments. He realized he felt neither urgency nor fear, only an oddly comforting resignation. As if reading his mind, the monitor beside him pulsed gently, acknowledging his passive acceptance. After all, he mused, who was he to question the procedures of a place that clearly knew him better than he knew himself?
An Interview with the Author
What was your inspiration? Did other creative works influence your creation of this piece?
My primary inspirations were Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” and “The Trial,” the writing of Kurt Vonnegut, and Lewis Carroll’s “Alice in Wonderland.” Kafka likes to take an ordinary upstanding citizen and put them through a bizarre situation.
How long have you been writing creatively? What got you started?
I have only been writing creatively for the past couple of years. During my research year in medical school, my cousin had given me his copy of “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron. The book explores practical ways of unlocking creativity. One of her exercises is called Morning Pages. This is where you write a full page, stream-of-consciousness-style, each morning. I started this practice and was able to find my voice in writing. Writing became one of my great joys and an outlet for me in a way I had never experienced before. As my writing has improved and progressed, I decided I wanted to embark on the journey of creating fiction.
Why did you choose this medium? What interests you about it?
Inherently, the hospital is a world within itself. It hums with energy, love, loss, and uncertainty. I chose this setting for the story and the short story medium because I get to build a world based upon fantasy and real-world experience. I have written eight more chapters of this story and have fallen in love with creating this story.
How does this submission relate to your medical practice?
In my short story “The Patient,” the hospital is not a place of healing but a looping, impersonal institution filled with cryptic rules, opaque procedures, and sterile absurdity. As a resident, you are no stranger to this. Medicine — especially residency — often feels like a labyrinth where time bends (days stretch, nights vanish). You perform rituals (rounding, charting, dictating) whose meaning is sometimes lost in the repetition. The story mirrors this mechanization of care with an Alice in Wonderland twist.
Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about your involvement in or views on arts in medicine?
Medicine taps into the depths of being a human. We see the full gambit of emotions and experience a window into people’s lives that most individuals rarely see. Artistic and creative expression has been a way to process the emotions and add additional meaning to the patient lives that we impact and that impact ourselves.
Interested in reading additional chapters of “The Patient”? Let us know in the comments!
Rohun Gupta graduated from Cornell University with a B.S. in Industrial Labor Relations prior to studying neuroscience at University of Pennsylvania as a post-baccalaureate. Afterward he attended the Zucker School of Medicine, where he found his passion for ophthalmology. He is now a resident at Rush University Medical Center. Dr. Gupta founded SightfulAMD, a biotech company focused on nutritional supplementation for age-related macular degeneration. Outside of medicine, he enjoys entrepreneurship, disco music, cycling, and writing. He is driven by curiosity and creativity in his pursuits.
Illustration by Jennifer Bogartz
