Updated: Dec. 18, 2015
Originally Published: May 13, 2015
She didn’t need to inquire about the details. Any parent can guess the scenario without asking.
“Who are you seeing?” she asked. “Dr. Johnson did my knees a couple of years back, but Amanda really liked Dr. Smith when she had her shoulder surgery.”
“Dr. Love,” I replied, tearing into my fried chicken. “I hear he’s quite generous with the pain relief.” Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she mentally noted it.
Just like that, I found myself in a new club: Old and Broken. Our light-hearted conversations about baby swings and diaper bags had gradually shifted to discussions about kidney stones and unwanted facial hair. One by one, we transitioned from vibrant young mothers to women whose medicine cabinets are overflowing with remedies for this and treatments for that.
Of course, it wasn’t until I arrived at the hospital for surgery that the full weight of my new reality hit me. As I slipped on the hospital gown, the familiar scents of industrial detergent mixed with traces of stale vomit and anxiety flooded my memory, reminding me of my experiences giving birth to my three kids. The labor was something I’d rather forget, but the hospital stay was enjoyable—warm cookies delivered daily, friends flooding in with flowers and adorable baby gifts. A true sisterhood.
Back surgery patients, on the other hand, don’t get the royal treatment. We’re shoved into the hospital’s forgotten wing, surrounded by older gentlemen who seem indifferent to modesty, leaving their doors wide open while they lounge around in their tighty-whities. This new level of apathy was shocking.
I was enveloped by a constant symphony of coughs and the beeping of machines. My fellow patients and I shuffled down the hall, gripping our IV poles like we were parting the Red Sea. The harsh fluorescent lights made us look almost zombie-like—a procession of the aged and ailing, unfazed when a breeze made our bare backs shudder. Our mantra? “They’ve seen worse.”
Maternity patients, however, are treated like royalty. Everything is delivered with a cute pink or blue bow. This time, I found myself in a spat with the food service because they insisted on bringing me only one meal at a time. “But I’m an emotional eater!” I pleaded with the stern woman on the other end before she promptly hung up.
There were no photographers capturing memories; this was a situation meant to be quickly erased from one’s mind. No gifts, just nurses entering with medications, asking why I was in tears.
Finally, I reached my breaking point.
“Going somewhere?”
My night nurse appeared as if out of nowhere and blocked my path to the door.
“Please! My friends are over there! They’ll remember me!”
“Ma’am, I understand your feelings, but you’re not the first first-timer we’ve had here. The maternity ward is strictly for new moms.”
“No, you don’t get it. I don’t belong here! I’m not ready for this!”
“Oh, you’ll be just fine, dear!” she chirped, patting my shoulder and guiding me back to bed. “Now lie down and let’s check if you can feel your rectum again.”
As I was wheeled down to the lobby after my discharge, clutching only my stack of prescriptions and suitcase, I felt an odd sense of relief.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” my mother-in-law asked as I maneuvered from the wheelchair into her car.
“Well, my vagina isn’t shredded, and I’m ready to sleep a full eight hours tonight.”
She nodded with understanding as we drove away. Sometimes, there’s a beautiful view from the other side of the mountain.
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In summary, while giving birth is a significant life event, the experience of back surgery can feel like a completely different and less glamorous journey, filled with stark contrasts in care and comfort.