She didn’t need to ask for details; every parent understands the story behind childbirth. “Which doctor are you seeing?” she inquired. “Dr. Fisher did my knees two years ago, but Sarah really liked Dr. Martin for her shoulder surgery.” “Dr. Heart,” I replied, tearing into my fried chicken. “I’ve heard he’s quite generous with pain meds.” Her eyebrows shot up, and I could tell she was taking note.
And just like that, I found myself part of a new collective: The Aging and Ailing. Conversations with friends that once revolved around cribs and diaper bags had gradually shifted to topics like kidney stones and unwanted facial hair. One by one, we transitioned from vibrant women in our childbearing years to those with medicine cabinets full of remedies and treatments.
It wasn’t until I checked into the hospital for my surgery that the reality hit me. As I slipped into the hospital gown, the pungent aroma of industrial detergent mixed with a hint of stale vomit and dread brought back memories of giving birth to my three children. While the labor itself was a blur, the hospital stays were delightful—warm cookies delivered daily, a stream of visitors with flowers and baby gifts creating a sisterhood among us on the maternity floor.
Back surgery, however, is a different world. Instead of warm cookies, I found myself in the “Tower of Misery” wing of the hospital, surrounded by grumpy old men who didn’t bother with modesty, lounging in tighty-whities. This was a level of indifference that made my eyes want to bleed.
I was engulfed in a dull hum of persistent coughs and the incessant beeping of machines. My fellow patients and I shuffled down the halls, grimacing as we gripped our IV poles like we were parting the Red Sea. The harsh fluorescent lights rendered us ghostly, a procession of the frail and weary, barely flinching when a breeze caressed our backsides. Our unspoken motto became: “They’ve seen worse.”
In stark contrast, maternity patients are treated like royalty. Whatever I desired was delivered with flair. This time, however, I found myself in a dispute with food services because they insisted on serving me one meal at a time. “But I’m an emotional eater!” I pleaded with the curt woman on the line before she promptly hung up.
There were no photographers capturing the moment; this experience was one I wanted to erase from memory as quickly as possible. No gifts, only nurses entering my room with medication, asking why I was crying.
Eventually, I reached my breaking point. “Where do you think you’re going?” My night nurse appeared out of nowhere, blocking my path. “Please! I have friends in there! They’ll remember me!” “Ma’am, I assure you, you’re not the only newbie we have. The maternity ward is strictly for those who have just given birth.” “No, you don’t understand. I’m not cut out for this! I’m not ready!” “Oh, you’ll be just fine, dear!” she replied cheerfully, patting my shoulder and guiding me back to the bed. “Now lie down, let’s check if you have feeling in your rectum.”
As I was wheeled out after being discharged, clutching my prescriptions and suitcase, a wave of relief washed over me. “How are you feeling, sweetie?” my mother-in-law asked as I slid from the wheelchair into her car. “Well, my vagina isn’t shredded, and I plan to sleep a solid eight hours tonight.” She nodded knowingly as we drove off; sometimes, there’s a breathtaking view from the other side of the mountain.
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In summary, while childbirth and back surgery are both significant experiences, they differ vastly in their treatment and emotional landscapes. The camaraderie and care in maternity wards starkly contrast with the stark realities of recovery from surgery, leaving many to reflect on the complexities of healing and the journey of motherhood.