Kimberly Hetherington

I was guided to the surgical unit and met a woman at patient admissions. “I hope I’m in the right place!” I said with a smile. She didn’t smile. “You here for surgery?” she asked not looking up from what she was doing. Yes, I told her. She asked me to leave my forms on the table and told me to wait. I stood there waiting, looking around. Then she glanced through my forms and handed me a plastic bag with my uniform for the day: a gown, long socks, shoe covers, a hairnet. She led me to my room, told me to change, and pulled the curtain shut.

I did as I was told then sat on the hospital bed and waited. I felt uncomfortable and exposed. It was cold, so I put my big winter jacket over myself. When she came back in, she noticed and smiled. It was the first smile I’d received that morning. “Sorry, you can’t have that,” she said gently, “but I’ll get you another blanket.” She returned with a freshly dried, warm blanket.

I looked around and wondered who else was sharing this strange, vulnerable day with me? I noticed an older man lay in the bed across from mine. He was scrolling on his phone watching videos that were far too loud. I learned that he was also waiting for hernia surgery. Another man’s curtains were closed, but I could vaguely overhear the nurses. Whatever was happening sounded serious. Just a regular Thursday morning to these staff. All of these people are just patients to them.

I felt a surge of anxiety and then calmed myself down with the thought that there are surgeries that we plan for, and surgeries that happen to us in emergency situations. It’s much better to be in a situation like this one. A calm, planned one.

Finally, another nurse walked in. This one was friendly. She asked me a long list of questions. After she got all the information she needed, I asked if she enjoyed being a nurse. I was looking to connect because I wanted her to see me as more than just another patient. But also, I just wanted to chat. We talked about The Bad Nurse documentary, and she shared a few podcast recommendations. I noticed I was likely older than her. I notice how this is happening more and more now. I thought about how old age is creeping in on me. And how one day I’ll be an elderly woman, likely in a hospital, waiting on care of some sort.

It made me sad to think of it. How we all start off young and energetic and ready to take on the excitement of life. We do cool things, we fill our bucket lists, we achieve our dreams (or at least some, if we’re lucky) and then after a certain point we just wither away. We become ghosts of society. When we’re young, old age feels like something far away. And it is. But what I didn’t realise is that it happens slowly. It’s not something that you stumble into one day. It’s something that shows up in more and more grey hairs and pains in your body you never felt before. It’s a certain type of loneliness that comes when looking around and realising you’re the oldest person in a room.

I was snapped out of my thoughts when they came to set me up with an IV, but my “tiny spaghetti” veins weren’t letting anyone in. The young nurse was kind, but I could feel her stress as she tried, her face reddening with each painful miss. She apologised profusely and called in another nurse. That one failed too. Finally, a third nurse arrived and jabbed with enough force that it worked. Fifth time’s a charm! Thankfully, I was already lying down because I was very close to passing out, but I kept that to myself.

Eventually, I was led into the surgery room. I’d never had surgery before, but it was exactly like the movies. Cold, brightly lit, stainless steel everywhere. Not inviting at all. A handsome anesthesiologist greeted me and asked me to lie down. A nurse strapped my arms in place and someone fitted a mask over my mouth and nose. I stared up at the bright lights, wondering what would happen next. I told them my nose was itchy and the next thing I remember I woke up on another hospital bed in the recovery room. It felt like I’d returned from the wildest drug trip I’d ever taken. Suddenly a nurse appeared and told me the surgery had gone well. “You can go home now” she said without much emotion. These beds are needed. Onto the next patient.

I texted my husband with the only thing I could think to say: “I think I’m back.” We laughed about that later. And now I’m home, trying to heal quickly so I can return to life with two young children. I don’t like feeling frail and weak. Who does? Part of my ego is wrapped up in being capable, independent, strong. This whole thing reminds me what I felt after giving birth. Waiting for my body to heal and giving it compassion like it was outside of myself. While also urging it to hurry up quick because it was also me.

There is a thin line between independence and needing help, and we move across it more easily than we think. Even the most skilled and competent neurosurgeon will one day lie in a hospital bed. There is so much humility required in being a patient.

When your clothes and jewelry are taken away and you put on that hospital gown you are no longer your roles, your usefulness, or your identity. You are simply another mortal human being in need of care. I imagine the courage it takes to grow old. The vulnerability and sadness it must feel to watch yourself become something you never pictured, and to learn, again and again, how to accept help.