Blue-Gown Daydreams

4 Jun

There’s nothing like being naked under a half-open blue robe, laid out in a hallway with a bunch of helpless sick and injured folks, to make you feel like the exact opposite of WonderWoman. I kept pondering to myself, “Julia, you’re not sick or injured. Why would you choose to come here?”

Then I forcefully pushed those pesky rational thoughts out of my little head and daydreamed about glorious sex without the risk of making more babies. Oh yeah, that’s why I’m here. Goals and dreams. Keep your eyes on the prize.

Plus I was there on principle. I mean, the insurance company takes money out of every paycheck, so I have every right to this. Just as compellingly, it would have cost more than a month’s pay to get the surgery done privately. When I asked a private doctor whom I trust if I was crazy for going to IMSS, my insurance company, for this surgery, he assured me that I wasn’t. IMSS is the Mexican Institute of Social Security, and it provides health insurance to a large portion of folks who have formal jobs. In many ways, it is much better than in the US because many more people are covered, and aside from whatever monthly cut they take out, there are no other, extra costs. It gave me 12 weeks paid maternity leave, which is 12 weeks more than what I got in the states. The main downside is that it is a giant institution that sees you and treats you as just another number in the system. It is slower than molasses in January, stressful, dehumanizing, often inadequate or just plain wrong.

But still, a free surgery is a free surgery. “The same doctors who work in IMSS also work in the private sector,” my doctor reminded me. “It’s perfectly safe. The only thing that might be bad is how big of a scar they leave you. It’s kind of the luck of the draw, depending on the doctor. He might leave you a tiny scar or he might leave you looking like you had a C-Section.”

“Good thing I wasn’t dreaming of a career in pornography,” I told my husband, because sure enough, the doctor left me a giant scar. It’s longer than my friend’s C-Section scar, as a matter of fact. It kind of looks like a kindergartener who cut their own bangs, except on my pubic region instead of my forehead. Luckily, I’m not concerned about the aesthetic of it. I think scars are just visual reminders of a life lived, a show of how bad ass and interesting someone is. On another level, though, the excessive size of my scar makes me feel expendable and dehumanized. The surgeon couldn’t be bothered to take care with me (or anyone else, I’m sure). My body is so unimportant and inconsequential to him that he cut what must be the maximum possible, for what? Just because he can? To make the surgery part as easy as possible for him?

The gynecologist didn’t even acknowledge me when he came into the room, or at any point before I passed out. I didn’t even realize that I was going to be knocked out for the surgery, since I signed up for local anesthetic. I had to fight to have anything explained to me, and I neglected to realize that I needed that part explained. I just can’t imagine treating people like that, and it makes me sick to my stomach thinking about all the people these doctors and nurses are in charge of who aren’t getting quality and humanized care.

It’s not just this doctor, either; it’s the whole system. I mean, this is the insurance company that thousands (millions, I think) of people are paying into, and the best they can do is beds in the hallway? There are some overcrowded rooms as well, and I suppose I can be grateful that I was the only one in the surgical room while my surgery was happening (as far as I know). But geez.

And heavens forbid you are there without a family member. One poor guy was brought in by his coworkers, who called family members immediately, but no one had arrived yet when a nurse came by with a tray of food for him. “You don’t have family here?” She asked him and everyone else around, incredulously, about 8 times. I wanted to scream at her by the 5th time. She couldn’t figure out what to do with his breakfast. She asked him to sit up, but he couldn’t sit up on his own. Then she tried to get the wheelchair attendant to sit him up, but for some reason they aborted that mission as well. Finally, after being assured yet again that he was all by his lonesome, helpless, vulnerable, defenseless self, she carefully balanced the tray on top of his chest and walked away. He was totally unable to eat anything from the tray at that angle. And it couldn’t have been comfortable. But there you have it. The nurse officially did her job of delivering the breakfast tray to the patient. Eventually the wheelchair attendant took pity on the man and removed the stupid tray from his chest. I closed my eyes some more and continued to daydream about a better universe.

Hopefully you’re also not a child in need of emergency services at my insurance company. A small, tough girl with her chin up walked past me into a room at one point. She must have been about 4 or 5- my daughter’s age. Of course she wasn’t stoked about giving a blood sample or whatever needle-related thing they were doing to her in there. But the nurses had zero tact or style about calming or convincing her. Instead they used various threats and near-impossible deals, none of which helped anybody achieve their goals. They even brought in one of the security guards to scare her into submission. Bless her, it did not pacify her in the slightest. She just cried out more for her mama, who I think was nearby, but who I got the impression wasn’t allowed to be with her or touch her or something? I couldn’t see anything, so it was purely aural clues that painted the painful picture for me. At one point they told her if she was quiet and cooperative that her mommy could come and be with her, but how the hell do you expect her to calm down without her calming person in the first place? It reminded me of the clueless (or purposely mean?) nurse when Lucia had to be hospitalized for an asthma attack; the nurse thought they were going to be able to stick a tube in her arm with me out of the room, leaving her all alone. Yeah, being alone with strangers who seem to want to hurt you is always great for small children. They calm right down and obey. Gosh, even using sarcasm to deal with the situation doesn’t make it less distressing. I know that kids are going to scream and cry over pain and new situations, but it seems like the hospital tactics just escalate the fear and pain for kids. It was pretty disheartening, to say the least. (Also, my dear, dear friends, please don’t threaten your kids that a police officer is going to come and get them for not obeying you. UGH! Have some compassion for these lovely, little human beings, please! Imagine how terrifying that must be!)

Also on this grand adventure, I learned that soap and toilet paper are luxuries far beyond what one deserves in this insurance hospital. Not one bathroom of the three that I visited while there was stocked with soap (or toilet paper). I was sharing my outrage and disgust about it with my mother-in-law, Paulina, who matter-of-factly said you have to bring your own soap to a hospital. However, I remain stubbornly indignant about it because a) Nobody tells you that; b) It’s totally impractical to expect you to carry it around the hospital with you. What are you going to do? Tie it to your gown? it’s not like you have your own bathroom to put your soap in; and c) This is BAD public health policy! It’s supposed to be a hospital, a beacon of health and wellbeing, not a hotbed of reckless germ-spreading!

By the time they wheeled me on my hallway hospital bed back towards surgery, I’d had a nap and managed to psyche myself up despite all the circumstances. Eyes on the prize. No more never-ending months of pregnancy (seriously, both times I’ve been pregnant for more like 10 months- and twice is enough for me!). No more diapers as soon as this little one is all the way potty trained. No more painful/tedious/expensive forms of birth control. No potential need for abortion. (Okay 99-point-something sure.) You got this! Let’s do it!

The anesthesiologist seemed like a nice enough person, except she left my butt completely hanging out while she was putting that bizarre stuff into my back. I get it. They’ve seen it all, blah blah blah. But are you not allowed any shred of modesty, any tiny sense of privacy or autonomy over your body? There was no need for my ass to be uncovered. There was a cover for my use that was just being used inadequately. It was unnecessary and inconsiderate, and I felt too vulnerable to say anything about it. (You don’t want to piss off the anesthesiologist, right?)

The last thing I remember before the surgery, after the doctor came in and ignored me, was the anesthesiologist asking me if my legs felt tingly yet. And then I was down for the count. Nobody told me that I was going to be asleep for the surgery, though. I thought that because I was getting an epidural, it would be like getting a C-section. I wouldn’t feel anything below my waist but I could be awake and aware. (Isn’t that how it happens? Something like that?) Nope. Nothing of the sort. The first time I woke up I felt drunk/high and totally giddy. “This is great!” I think I told the nurses. They asked me if I drank wine. “Sometimes,” I said. They must have taken me for a raging wino because they proceeded to ask me how many cups it took to make me feel like this. “A lot?” They asked. If only they knew what a light weight I am! But my mind was too cloudy to explain. I got it together to ask if the surgery was already over. And I demanded to know how in the world anyone could give birth on this epidural business! Nobody would answer me. I went back under.

At some point I woke up again in the hallway right outside of the surgery area to the gynecologist giving me my instructions for care. I mumbled in response, trying to reaffirm and think of relevant questions. “So everything will be like normal in 7 days?” Yes, he assured me. (Umm, that was not true for me, by the way.) He also promised someone would come around with written instructions before I left. He left the very important paper that would be my paycheck for my week off of work in my hands, and I carefully laid it on my belly and passed back out.

When I woke up again, still in the surgery hallway, I could feel the pain in my abdomen and I did not feel giddy. I asked for some water. The nurse told me it would be just a little longer. He’d already let the hallway nurses know I was ready to return to my spot in the hallway, but they were really busy, he explained. I asked several more times for water and received nothing. Finally he said he would send my family member for some food and drink. I was too wiped out to tell him that I didn’t want any food. I just wanted water. I felt like a camel after months in the desert. Finally they brought me some orange juice and yogurt that they’d sent Conan off to buy. Apparently they didn’t ask him to buy water, which was my lone request and hope for life in that moment. I was feeling very nauseous and I asked if I could have anti-vomiting medicine like they’d given me before surgery. He said no; they’d already given that to me before surgery. I drank a little orange juice and almost immediately threw it up.

Then they let Conan come back, because supposedly I was ready to be sent home. Basically, the anesthesia had worn off and my legs were working fine. That makes you ready for home. The nurse realized I wasn’t really okay. I kept throwing up and could barely walk from the nausea. But he didn’t know what to do, because I understood from Conan that they were short on beds. The nurse checked in with the anesthesiologist and assured us that I was sick from the pain meds and not the epidural. They’d given me morphine or something equivalent. I had forgotten to try to negotiate over pain meds, which never, ever sit well with me. “You can stay here and wait for it to wear off,” the nurse explained, “but we’ll have to put the tube back in your arm and change back into the hospital gown.” (I’d already gotten other clothes on to leave, with Conan’s help, in between vomiting.) He told me technically he couldn’t let me leave without eating something. I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat for a long time. I ate a couple bites of yogurt and threw it up. Mission accomplished. He then said I could wait out the effects of the meds there or somewhere else; “It doesn’t really make a difference.” So of course I opted to get the hell out of there.

We were in Huatulco, about two and a half hours from home. There was no way I was gonna stomach that journey, though, in the state I was in. I am so, so grateful that we had the money to go get a hotel room. I can’t imagine having stayed longer in that hellhole. Already Conan had been sitting out in the waiting room from 7am to 5pm and had picked up some stomach problems from some dodgy street food meanwhile. (We’d had to arrive at 7, although my surgery hadn’t happened till about noon.) I am also eternally grateful that my mother-in-law was staying with my kids and didn’t mind staying an extra night. I couldn’t even hold down water until sometime in the middle of the night; I can’t imagine how I would have survived a bus ride like that.

Although I’m complaining about this very specific problem with IMSS in Mexico, I realize that many of these things aren’t unique to my insurance company or to Mexico. You can get rude doctors and nurses anywhere. Overcrowded hospitals happen. Planned surgeries, folks have told me, are a big, routine, impersonal business most everywhere. It’s also easy for people to treat children and helpless adults as less-than-human in any setting. It doesn’t make it okay, though. And when the whole system is designed to dehumanize us all, and we’re the ones paying for it? It’s time for an insurance uprising, in my humble opinion. And after the health revolution? There will be soap in every bathroom, dammit! Soap, humane treatment, and health justice for all. Amen.

One Response to “Blue-Gown Daydreams”

  1. exiletomexico June 5, 2017 at 8:40 am #

    Also, I forgot to mention that my private doctor suggested that I bribe the surgeon to get better treatment. (“You know, offer to buy his dinner.”) I did not follow through on that suggestion, mostly because I was too shy to mention it at the appointment beforehand and there was no opportunity just before the surgery. I don’t know how much it would’ve helped anyway, but bribes are certainly a normal part of life in many public realms around here. For the record.

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