No one needs to ask the reasons why when it comes to childbirth. It’s a shared experience that unites mothers everywhere.
“Which doctor are you seeing?” my friend asked as we chatted. “Dr. Thompson did my knees a couple of years back, but Sarah really loved Dr. Lee when she had her shoulder fixed.”
“Dr. Love,” I replied, as I tore into my fried chicken. “I hear he’s quite generous with the pain medication.” She raised her eyebrows in approval.
And just like that, I found myself initiated into a new club: the Old and Broken. Conversations with friends that once revolved around baby gear have now shifted to discussions about kidney stones and unwanted facial hair. One by one, we’ve transitioned from vibrant young women in our childbearing years to a group whose medicine cabinets resemble a pharmacy of treatments for whatever ails us.
This reality didn’t truly hit me until I checked into the hospital for surgery. As I slipped into the gown, the sterile smell of industrial-strength detergent mixed with faint traces of stale vomit and anxiety brought back memories of delivering my three children. While the birthing process is a blur I’d rather forget, the hospital stay was enjoyable—afternoon cookies, an influx of visitors with flowers and sweet baby gifts, and a true sense of camaraderie among the women on my floor.
Back surgery patients, however, don’t get the same treatment. We’re confined to the Tower of London wing, sharing space with grumpy older gentlemen who seem quite at ease lounging around in their underwear, leaving the doors wide open. Talk about a new level of discomfort!
The constant sounds of coughing and beeping machines filled the air as my fellow patients and I trudged up and down the hall, gripping our IV poles like they were lifelines. The harsh fluorescent lights made us look like zombies, shuffling along with no care for our modesty. Our collective mantra became: “They’ve seen worse.”
Maternity patients are treated like celebrities, with every need catered to. In stark contrast, I found myself arguing with the food service about why they only delivered one meal at a time. “But I’m an emotional eater!” I pleaded with the curt woman on the phone before she hung up on me.
There were no photographers capturing the moment; this was an experience I wished to forget as soon as possible. Instead of gifts, I had nurses coming in with medication, asking why I was crying.
Finally, I reached my breaking point.
“Going somewhere?” a night nurse asked, suddenly appearing in front of me as I made a move for the door.
“Please! I have friends in there! They’ll remember me!”
“Ma’am, I know you think you’re the only one going through this, but the maternity ward is for new moms.”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t belong here! I’m not ready for this!”
“Oh, you’ll be just fine, dear!” she said cheerfully, patting my shoulder and guiding me back to bed. “Now lie down, roll over, and let’s check if you’ve regained feeling.”
When I was finally wheeled out of the hospital, discharging with just my prescriptions and a suitcase, I felt an unexpected wave of relief.
“How are you holding up, sweetheart?” my mother-in-law asked as I slid into her car.
“Well, my vagina isn’t in shambles, and I’m looking forward to a full night’s sleep tonight.”
She nodded knowingly as we drove away. Because sometimes, there’s a stunning view from the other side of the mountain.
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Summary
This article humorously contrasts the experiences of childbirth and back surgery, highlighting how hospital visits change over time. While maternity patients receive royal treatment, those undergoing surgery face a more challenging environment. The author reflects on the emotional journey of both experiences, culminating in a sense of relief post-surgery.
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