Updated: Dec. 18, 2015
Originally Published: May 13, 2015
She didn’t need to ask for details. Every parent knows exactly what’s involved in childbirth.
“Which doctor are you seeing?” she inquired. “Dr. Thomas operated on my knees a couple of years ago, but Emily really liked Dr. Cooper for her shoulder surgery last year.”
“Dr. Bliss,” I replied, tearing into my fried chicken. “I’ve heard he’s pretty generous with the painkillers.” Her eyebrows shot up in acknowledgment.
Just like that, I found myself part of a new group: The Aged and Ailing. Our light-hearted chats about baby gear and parenting strategies had gradually shifted to discussions about kidney stones and unwanted facial hair. One by one, we transitioned from vibrant young mothers to women whose cabinets overflowed with creams, ointments, and various remedies.
Of course, the reality of it all didn’t truly hit me until I arrived at the hospital for my procedure. As I slipped into the hospital gown, the distinctive scents of industrial laundry detergent mingled with faint traces of stale sickness and anxiety stirred up memories of my own childbirth experiences. The labor itself wasn’t something I relished recalling, but the post-delivery perks were delightful—warm cookies delivered to my room every afternoon, a steady stream of visitors bearing flowers and baby gifts, and the camaraderie of fellow new moms on the same floor.
In stark contrast, back surgery patients miss out on the warm cookie treatment. We’re placed in the “Tower of No Fun” section of the hospital, sharing space with grumpy elderly men who seem oblivious to personal boundaries, often lounging about in their pajamas. It was a level of indifference that made my eyes want to bleed.
Surrounded by a symphony of coughing and beeping machines, my fellow patients and I shuffled down the hallway, clinging to our IV poles like we were parting the Red Sea. The fluorescent lights cast a ghastly glow on us, transforming us into a procession of the weary, barely reacting as chilly breezes brushed against our exposed skin. Our collective mantra? “They’ve seen worse.”
On the maternity ward, women are treated like royalty. Every whim is catered to, wrapped in colorful bows. This time, I found myself in a disagreement with the food service staff because they insisted on delivering only one meal at a time. “But I’m an emotional eater!” I pleaded with the curt woman on the phone before she abruptly ended the call.
No photographers came to capture the moment; this was an experience to be forgotten as quickly as possible, with no gifts in sight—just nurses appearing to dispense medications while asking why I was crying.
Finally, I reached my breaking point.
“Going somewhere?”
My night nurse appeared out of nowhere, blocking my path to the door.
“Please! I have friends in there! They’ll remember me!”
“Ma’am, I can assure you, you’re not the only first-timer we’ve seen. The maternity ward is exclusively for women who’ve just given birth.”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t belong here! I’m not ready for this!”
“Oh, you’ll be just fine, sweetie,” she replied cheerfully, giving my shoulder a reassuring pat and guiding me back to the bed. “Now lie down, roll over, and let’s see if that sensation has returned down there.”
When I was finally wheeled down to the lobby after my discharge, clutching only my prescriptions and a suitcase, an unexpected wave of relief washed over me.
“How are you feeling, dear?” my mother-in-law asked as I transitioned from the wheelchair to her car.
“Well, my lady parts aren’t in shambles, and I’m planning to sleep a full eight hours tonight.”
She nodded knowingly as we drove away. Because sometimes, it’s all about finding that unexpected silver lining.
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In summary, while both experiences can be challenging, each comes with its unique set of struggles and unexpected joys. Whether navigating the trials of childbirth or recovering from surgery, there’s always a lesson to be learned.