Hospital gowns, Stitches, and the Wimp

"Yes, you are right," she said.  "This one needs to come off."

I wasn't completely surprised.  After my brother's brush with a cancerous lesion in December (you can read more of his story here), I made an appointment with the doctor to have questionable spot of my own looked at.

"It is probably an over-reaction because of my brother's diagnosis," I told the nurse when waiting on the doctor, "but I'd feel better having it looked at."

Turns out the doctor agreed that it shouldn't stay there. It had potential to become something unwanted  in the future, though it wasn't serious now.  The doctor described mine with a Latin-sounding term impregnated with too many syllables to remember or type into Google translate later.  But whatever the thing was, its name definitely sounded much more musical than "melanoma."  All I would need was a half hour visit to have it removed.

"And this one is going to need a few stitches," she said.

I wilted.  Up to this point, I considered myself a fairly tough cookie when it came to personal medical situations.  But stitch work, in my opinion, is best when done on cloth.

There was one more thing I dreaded.  The hospital gown.  I don't do hospital gowns.  I have never worn one, not even on the day my brother was born in a hospital 'way back in the era when visitors robed up before holding babies.  On that day, I had simply rejected the gown and opted to hold my baby brother for the first time when he was in the safety of our living room.

I didn't care to break that long-standing record now.

See, I knew too much about hospital gowns.  A family friend described them this way:
     "You expect ME to wear this THING?"
     You can't actually wear it.  You only approach it and they make it hang on you. Then the poor soul...now feels cool breezes in his or her back forty and the front makes you look neither like a boy or a girl but something not yet truly identified.  There are 50 or so snaps here and there, and then strings in the back.  It kinda reminds you of a moving van going down the road and the back doors are missing, or just swinging in the wind.
     Why is it so important to have the back forty accessible?  Is that where most people have their heart or lungs and other valuable equipment not mentioned?  Why not some pink pajamas?  Just simple loose fitting pajamas?  A top and some pants.  Maybe a row of snaps in the back and a row in the front."

With that kind of information, do you blame me for not wanting the gown?

Turns out I wouldn't have needed to worry about one.  The nurse who led me into the Procedures Room offered me a drape to protect my clothing and that was that.  I was grinning, grateful that I skipped out yet again on the gown even after all three of my sisters had separately told me, "I'm actually hoping you have to wear one." (I think they spoke out of sisterly camaraderie; they had all paid their dues to the gowns and wanted me to join their club.)  

The doctor and a medical student entered.  The drape was arranged.

And then things headed south.  In the silence of the room, the nurse turned to the cupboard and asked the doctor, "What size of punch do you want?"

Punch?  This is my flesh we are speaking about. My very own tender flesh.  I began to feel odd.

The needle slid in; the area burned as the numbing took place.  I didn't wince or blink.  I didn't mind this part.

"Wow. You are really tough," the student said.

"There. The worst of it is over," the doctor said.

Wrong. Very wrong, all of you.

The worst was not over.  The worst was the tension and release of pressure and the painless sensations associated with the punch.  The worst was the doctor and medical student holding a conversation about medical school and medical related stuff--a conversation I would have thoroughly enjoyed under other circumstances. The worst was that I was not tough.

I might have been fine if I hadn't seen the suture material lengthening and shortening.  The idea of intricate embroidery happening on my own skin made the ceiling tiles fuzz together. I have never even come close to fainting in my life, but I knew that this time I was in a war for my consciousness.  I deliberately drew my eyes to posters on the wall.

"Spell something," I told myself.  I concentrated on the letters. None of the words took enough brain power to distract my brain from the string sliding through my flesh.  I tried spelling them backwards.

It was when the letters and words multiplied on the poster that I diverted my eyes upwards again to find that the curtain and the ceiling tiles had become one blurry line.

The medical student noticed.  "Are you feeling okay?"

"Actually, I'm not feeling so great," I answered, feeling bad enough to be unashamed of nearly fainting out cold over three measly stitches.

The nurse brought a wet paper towel for my forehead and handed another one to me.  I held it stupidly and tried to concentrate on what she was saying.  Was I supposed to switch them out?  Wash the iodine from the sutured area?

"Your face is sweating," she said. "You can use it to wipe your face."

Oh yes. Of course. I hadn't known I was sweating.

The doctor very wisely changed the subject and included me in the conversation.  "So," she said easily and cheerily, "who has your children while you are here today?"

The fuzzy world spun back into focus and I knew I'd be okay.  The color came back into my face in full force, for I was now cognizant enough to recognize the humiliation associated with being a wimp.

How do people survive true medical crises?  Guess I'll never know firsthand even if I have the misfortune of a needing an invasive procedure.  I'll definitely be passed out cold. That might be a blessing, actually.  Not only would I not have to know what is happening, I probably wouldn't even mind the hospital gown.