Just got back from a pretty nasty couple of days at the hospital. C-spine fusion followed by a painful 60-mile drive home. During the drive, pretty much my only thought was "Breathe. This will get better"
Hospitals are quite adept at transforming a perfectly civilized person into a carefully managed rhesus monkey lab experiment.
The dehumanuzation process starts when they ask you to verify the information on that mylar piece of plastic that will effectively serve as your doggy collar for the duration of your stay. "Please state your name. What is your date of birth? Can you tell me why you are at the hospital?" It's at that moment when you trade in your civilized soul for an ID, a birthdate and a diagnosis. For the rest of your stay, you are a barcode confirmed by your date of birth.
The next bit of degradation is the wheel chair. At first, it's nice having someone wheel you around even if you are perfectly capable of walking. The problem is that at the moment you sit down in that chair, you cease being a human and become a medically managed slab of mammal.
Next is the gown.
What is the most obvious feature that distinguishes people from animals? Clothing. Your final descent from humanity is when you ditch your suit and tie for a gown that has your *** crack exposed to the world. For a while, you walk around holding the back of the gown closed, but eventually stop as you realize it's simply too late. You are no longer a colleague or peer, husband or father, but an ID, a birthdate and a diagnosis.
The degradation continues after the surgery when some 30 year old aid has to monitor you every time you go to the bathroom. Heck, the hospital I stayed at actually has a button in the shape of a toilet that you have to press when you need to take a leak. If you get up yourself without assistance, an alarm goes off and RNs race over and start castigating you!
The surgery is over. You are lying in your bed. Brushing your teeth has become a luxury you need to ask permission for. Your fall from civilization is complete.
But there is hope.
Through the steroid induced tachycardia and the haze of morphine coated pain, you realize this will all be better. Soon.
A long drive to northern Westchester from Manhattan during rush hour is always an unpleasant experience. Doing it 24 hours after a surgeon had your larynx in one hand and your spine in another made for a particularly notable experience. "Breathe. This will get better." God bless my dear wife. I can only imagine what a bear-like creature I must have been like on that drive.
I woke up this morning with the pain down to a manageable "6" out of "10". My 4-day beard was driving me crazy beneath the cervical brace. I carefully got myself up and made it to the bathroom. I took the collar off a looked at the mangy dog in the mirror. I would be an animal no longer.
I went for my jar of Grooming Department pre-shave, but it was out of reach. I have about 25 different shave creams I could likewise not raise my arms high enough to bring down to the sink. Would I remain an animal for yet another day? No. On the side of the sync was a PAA menthol cube. That would do. I pivoted my body to the left and saw my Razorock OC Hawk with a Captain Titan already loaded. As I put a warm wash cloth to my face, I knew my dog days were coming to an end. As the Hawk made it's first pass down my cheek, I re-entered the civilized world.
Hospitals are quite adept at transforming a perfectly civilized person into a carefully managed rhesus monkey lab experiment.
The dehumanuzation process starts when they ask you to verify the information on that mylar piece of plastic that will effectively serve as your doggy collar for the duration of your stay. "Please state your name. What is your date of birth? Can you tell me why you are at the hospital?" It's at that moment when you trade in your civilized soul for an ID, a birthdate and a diagnosis. For the rest of your stay, you are a barcode confirmed by your date of birth.
The next bit of degradation is the wheel chair. At first, it's nice having someone wheel you around even if you are perfectly capable of walking. The problem is that at the moment you sit down in that chair, you cease being a human and become a medically managed slab of mammal.
Next is the gown.
What is the most obvious feature that distinguishes people from animals? Clothing. Your final descent from humanity is when you ditch your suit and tie for a gown that has your *** crack exposed to the world. For a while, you walk around holding the back of the gown closed, but eventually stop as you realize it's simply too late. You are no longer a colleague or peer, husband or father, but an ID, a birthdate and a diagnosis.
The degradation continues after the surgery when some 30 year old aid has to monitor you every time you go to the bathroom. Heck, the hospital I stayed at actually has a button in the shape of a toilet that you have to press when you need to take a leak. If you get up yourself without assistance, an alarm goes off and RNs race over and start castigating you!
The surgery is over. You are lying in your bed. Brushing your teeth has become a luxury you need to ask permission for. Your fall from civilization is complete.
But there is hope.
Through the steroid induced tachycardia and the haze of morphine coated pain, you realize this will all be better. Soon.
A long drive to northern Westchester from Manhattan during rush hour is always an unpleasant experience. Doing it 24 hours after a surgeon had your larynx in one hand and your spine in another made for a particularly notable experience. "Breathe. This will get better." God bless my dear wife. I can only imagine what a bear-like creature I must have been like on that drive.
I woke up this morning with the pain down to a manageable "6" out of "10". My 4-day beard was driving me crazy beneath the cervical brace. I carefully got myself up and made it to the bathroom. I took the collar off a looked at the mangy dog in the mirror. I would be an animal no longer.
I went for my jar of Grooming Department pre-shave, but it was out of reach. I have about 25 different shave creams I could likewise not raise my arms high enough to bring down to the sink. Would I remain an animal for yet another day? No. On the side of the sync was a PAA menthol cube. That would do. I pivoted my body to the left and saw my Razorock OC Hawk with a Captain Titan already loaded. As I put a warm wash cloth to my face, I knew my dog days were coming to an end. As the Hawk made it's first pass down my cheek, I re-entered the civilized world.
