I was recently discharged from Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara. It was a non-emergency, but a highly recommended surgery. People couldn’t have been nicer and everything went fine. But being in the hospital brought up several issues for me.
First, for someone who appears to be an open book, I realized how much I value my privacy. Although I share a lot, I share what and when I choose. In the hospital, all pretense of privacy is abandoned. You’re asked the most intrusive and personal questions by complete strangers. It starts the day before you’re admitted, assuming this is a planned hospitalization.
On arrival, you’re grilled by a pre-admission clerk. Of course, doctors need to know your history, your family’s history and all about your lifestyle. However, I always rankle at being asked how many drinks I consume, if and when I’ve smoked cigarettes, and if and when I use recreational drugs. (Three glasses a week, stopped my pack-a-day habit 30 years ago -- and, none of your business. I know it’s legal now, but it’s still none of your business!)
And don’t even get me started on the indignity of getting weighed and measured in a hallway. It has taken me a long time to replace the polite young lady who’d been taught to smile and say “yes” to most requests, with the woman I am today. I now have the courage to say “no thank you” to things I don’t want to do.
However, when the admitting clerk says I really must get weighed and measured in order for the anesthesiologist to correctly knock me out, I appear to have little choice but to stand on the scale and have the numbers sung out.
The next morning, an hour before surgery, my doctor appeared. I decided that turn-about was fair play. So, I began asking HIM some private questions. Had he drunk any alcohol in the past 24 hours? Had he used any recreational drugs in the last 24 hours? Were there any recent arguments with his partner which might cause him to be distracted? After looking appalled, my doctor, to his credit, replied, “No, no and no,” before scurrying away toward the operating room. Hey, don’t I have the right to ask the guy cutting into me if he’s in any way impaired?
Next is the issue of modesty. Most people, my husband emphatically included, would not describe me as shy. My dear spouse has been embarrassed countless times by my sharing personal stories.
Our sex life is not even particularly off limits, especially with my girlfriends.
But, guys are guys. They NEVER discuss their relationships. They talk about their work-out routines or restaurants or getting rid of the gophers in the back yard. Women, on the other hand?
We discuss everything with our close friends: the latest disagreement we’re having with a sibling, our most intimate medical woes and even what turns us on. However, and this is a big however, I get to choose who I share with. And I prefer it not be the person I met that morning in Cottage’s admitting.
And consider touch. I’m a big hugger. However, I don’t care for being touched by strangers. Yet hospitals require revealing one’s body and being touched by strangers on a regular basis. Even a medical student -- who did not look old enough to drive himself to work -- felt he needed to see my incision.
I gritted my teeth.
Surprisingly, there were a few moments in the hospital that were pleasant. Early one morning when I couldn’t fall back asleep, Nurse Robin came in to check on me. We began to chat. The sun wasn’t yet up, the room was semi-dark and our conversation flowed easily. She told me about her dying mother and the special moments they’d shared recently. I told her about my writing, what was working and what was not. It was lovely. I was sorry when she had to leave and even sorrier when I realized that she’d not be back to work again before I was discharged.
They took good care of me at Cottage Hospital.