The Hospital Gown
I've had a lipoma (lump of fatty tissue) growing on my back for the past 2 years. It started off the size of a ping pong ball and I was told by many people, a physician and Google that it isn't an issue of concern and it probably won't grow, but it eventually grew to resemble a B-cup boob on the right side around the middle of my back. It was time to get it removed and after lots of procrastination, excuses and time wasting I finally made the appointment for the removal this past week.
Anyone who knows me well enough knows I am the worst patient ever. My first stay in hospital was when I was forced to induce labour with Avery at 31 years old and then had to have an emergency c-section. The recovery for that was extremely frustrating and I didn't do well in following the instructions to rest. Not to mention my general aversion to medication which makes it very rare that I will take the prescribed dosage of especially pain meds. This procedure was unavoidable anymore since the lump was so visible through the back of my tops and was also becoming uncomfortable to rest against. It had to be done.
As I lay in the ward at 6:30am and prepared for the long wait to be sent into theatre, the apprehension I had building up the entire week had turned to restlessness and just wanting it to be over with. I was mostly nervous about the general anesthetic since I hadn't experienced that before and was worried about how I would respond. I responded poorly to my epidural when I was in labour and became extremely paranoid and anxious rather than mellow and relaxed as advertised. However, as I laid there and tried to distract myself with a good audiobook I couldn't help but notice the great leveller that is the hospital gown. I felt like the moment you slip it on, there's a fragility and vulnerability that nobody can escape from.
The well put together woman in the bed opposite me, looked poised and smart with her perfect hairdo, reading what looked like a riveting crime novel but when the nurse came over, she hopped out from under the blanket revealing a tiny and frail looking frame exposed through the back of her hospital gown where you could see her protruding shoulder blades under pale, almost translucent, shrivelled skin. Overhearing her conversation I learned she had 2nd stage liver cancer and was there for a radioembolization. She also informed the nurse matter-of-factly that she was wearing a wig and had just ended a year-long chemo treatment.
Even I, who was there for a fairly routine and mostly cosmetic surgery suddenly felt extremely vulnerable wearing nothing but the loose-fitting, cotton hospital gown. As I was wheeled to theatre, transferred onto the surgical bed and then poked and prodded by the theatre team in order to find a vein for my IV, the gown being my only barrier from the cold, sterile and clinical environment, I felt a bit like a rag doll, even a bit undignified as the gown started to slip off around my shoulders and leave me with a chill. Before I knew it I was waking up in recovery and informed that all went well. When I returned to the ward the woman with cancer wasn't there anymore and I wondered how difficult her journey would be going forward.
While I was waiting at admissions in the morning there was a mum with a little boy who looked about 4 or 5 years old. He was giving her quite a rough time, yelling loudly and breaking free of her hold, running away as she struggled to hold on to him and simultaneously fill out the paperwork. She was the picture of a supermom, looking determined and handling her stuff but I could see and sense her vulnerability as she told the admissions clerk that she was there for an MRI since her son had not begun talking yet. As a mum of a 1 year old, it made me instantly empathetic to her situation as I thought about how we make such a big deal over every attempt of Avery's to pronounce words. How the entire family erupts in praise when she gets a new word right or in laughter when she cutely mispronounces something. I can't imagine what a challenge it must be and what strength it must take for parents who are determined in seeking all measures to help their kids who struggle with verbal communication.
Making my way up to the ward I saw a frail, elderly woman being pushed in a wheelchair by a nurse, her body flopped clumsily from side to side as the wheelchair maneuvered around hospital trolleys and staff. I wondered whether she might be nervous or feel lonely having to navigate illness at such an advanced age without family right by her side. She was drowning in her hospital gown and had to wear two to cover herself properly.
I'm home recovering at the moment. The anaesthetic has completely worn off and I am being as conservative as possible with my pain meds so I decided to distract myself with some writing. I can barely move without wincing in pain and I spent quite a lot of time thinking about when I would be able to wash and dry my own hair again but then caught myself feeling sorry for myself and had to take a moment to get back to gratitude.
I think my point in blogging about this experience is because I am finding it difficult to stop thinking about the fleeting nature of health and our physical ability. Each one of those patients at the hospital would have journeyed on to face the next day of whatever challenge their health issue holds for them and there is no certainty that they will always have support or help from family and friends. I wonder for the woman with cancer if she would have been bothered as the rest of us about the inconvenience of having mild Omicron symptoms and having to quarantine while she was undergoing chemo at the time. or if the mum with the little boy would have not preferred to be going for the MRI herself rather than having to watch her son who was full of energy and gusto endure what I imagine to be a challenge of staying still and cooperating with a process he has no understanding of. Health seems to be one of the deceiving issues in life that is sometimes invisible to the outside world until we are forced to slip on that gown. How different would our approach to different people be, even strangers if we could view them all with that level of vulnerability. Even if the challenge isn't physical, in some way we are all harboring fragility in some area.
Just some thoughts as I lie in my comfy bed, being waited on by my caring hubby while my doting in laws occupy Avery for the day. I'm not comparing myself to any of these strangers at all. How patronising to assume that they are in any kind of worse situation than I am. I am simply thinking of them though, questioning my own commitment to my health and that of my family and I know there is much to be desired. I probably won't wait 2 years before I address a physical or health problem again.