The Trauma Patient Perspective: What I Learned as a Fake Trauma Patient

In a world of strict HIPAA regulations, photographing real patients in hospital settings is strictly prohibited. So when a hospital wants to showcase its staff or new facilities in marketing materials, they have to stage the photo with a fake patient and a real clinical team to recreate an authentic moment.

When I worked in a Level I trauma center, I had the unique experience of being a "fake patient" for marketing photography prior to the opening of the brand new Emergency Department. I was put in a c-collar, splinted, strapped to a backboard and then to a gurney, and brought into the trauma bay by the Lifeflight team. I was pushed into the center of the room, laid under the harsh bright lights, and let the team of doctors and nurses simulate care around me. Without the urgency of a real emergency, the experience was eye-opening and fascinating. Here are a few things I learned:

First, the patient sees very little.

With your head immobilized in a c-collar, your field of vision is extremely limited. Assuming you are awake and alert, you might catch glimpses of people or equipment as they enter your line of sight, but mostly you see the ceiling. You have no idea where you are in space, how big the room is, how many people are in the room, or where you're going next unless someone explains it to you.

Second, the environment is intimidating.

Unless you are trained in healthcare, the trauma bay can feel overwhelming. The sounds, smells, lights, and equipment are unfamiliar. There’s constant motion, but little context. If you’re conscious and in pain, the uncertainty for what will happen next would be deeply frightening. This anxiety would be even greater if there was a language barrier and no one was translating.

Third, the patient only knows what people tell him/her.

Unless someone pops into your field of vision to explain things, you’re left trying to interpret a stream of acronyms, numbers, and clinical shorthand. Without clear, simple communication, confusion persists, even when care is being delivered efficiently.

Fourth, the team's calmness can be misinterpreted.

I might be frightened and panicked about my injury, but for the people around me, this is just another day at the office. Their calm demeanor reflects experience and control -- not indifference. They’ve done this countless times, and their focus and training is what ensures effective care.

Fifth, time feels distorted.

Pain and fear can make even a few minutes feel endless. It’s difficult to gauge how much time has passed or guess at how much time remains. Questions linger: When will this stop? When will I see my family? When will someone tell me what’s wrong with me?

Six, no one hopes to return -- but gratitude follows.

The only way you see this team is on your back and in pain. No one wants to be in a trauma bay. It’s a place associated with vulnerability and pain. Yet, with recovery often comes gratitude—for the skill and compassion of the team, for the resources available, and for the systems in place to deliver rapid, life-saving care. I image one would be thankful that the trauma center was in the community and thankful for ambulances and helicopters that minimize the distance between injury and help.

Closing Thoughts on the Trauma Patient Perspective

I do not have the audacity to tell trauma folks how to practice medicine. These reflections aren’t meant to instruct trauma professionals on how to practice medicine, but rather to offer a reminder of what the experience feels like from the patient or lay-person's perspective, especially for those who are conscious during their care. Trauma care is deeply rooted in performance improvement, and that includes continually striving to provide care with dignity, empathy, and compassion.