The most bothersome part of a hospital stay is the complete shedding of identity that begins the moment you register. You become a serial number on a file and your entire existence there revolves around your ailment and the treatment there of. Here, you are your illness!
Determined to remove the very last vestige of your dignity, they make you change into those awkward and unbecoming gowns that no one ever thought of adding a bit of cheer to. The dullness of it all is sure to kill you before the illness does.
Then of course, the practised politeness of the surgeon and his team. Just get the job done well boys and girls, don’t bother with all the niceties. To add to the misery, you discover that the anesthesiologist is a rather handsome man who insists on smiling charmingly as you lay there butt naked with your senses leaving you in a hurry.
Knowingly, he asks, how are you feeling. I have been better Doc, I try to croak through the fogginess. But why bother asking me, if you are going to crank up the IV before I can even shoot a suitable riposte? The truth is - I feel terrible, lying here at my most vulnerable, with tubes poking my arms and chest and whirring machines all around. Yes, I am a bit scared and more ashamed-to-be-scared. And I am embarassed. Since you have seen more of me than any man, lately. I hope never to meet you again Doc. After this indecency, I cannot imagine us sharing a drink to cheer good health. So yes, as I lay here as Exhibit A, please, just do your job and I pray you do it well.
So as Dr.PlayGirl (or maybe the serum makes him look that way!) keeps asking me to relax, I wonder why could we not have met under more pleasant circumstances. Now, I cannot imagine flirting with a man who has seen my innards, literally. Sigh!