No place like home for a rest

Press, 4 June 1984, Page 10

No place like home for a rest

Helen Brown

Hospital for a rest, they call it. The first thing they told me to do was take off my clothes. There may not have been much class or style about my Woolworths track suit. But at least it was mine. It had expanded and shrunk in all the right places over the years. It was part of me—- — an extra layer of skin. But it belonged to the outside world where people made their own decisions. There was no place for a woman in a track suit in hospital; unless she’s a visitor. “Put your nightie on,” the nurse said as she pulled a screen around the bed. It wasn’t really MY nightie. The selection of rags and tee shirts I throw on during chilly nights were not the sort of thing people wear in hospital. My husband went out and

bought a pretty lemon nightie with a frill around the neck — the sort of thing people wear in hospital. My real clothes went away into drawers and lockers. I signed forms and gave specimens until the hospital seemed satisfied I no longer belonged to myself. It was nowhere near bedtime, but the nurse wasn’t going to leave me alone til I got in it. The sheets were cool and crisp like typing paper. She clapped a plastic bracelet with my name and number on around my wrist — in case I forgot. Then she pulled back the screen so I could see the room I was going to rest in. The faces of three women rose like pale moons over their bedclothes. Curiosity gleamed in their darkringed eyes. I could tell they wanted to talk about Operations.

I vowed I would keep to myself. Polite and aloof. “I had 27 stitches right across here!” one said. I couldn’t bring myself to look. “They did an awful job with the tuck. I’m so as-

hamed of it, I won’t show you.” There’s a limit to how much small talk you can do with three sick women. Nobody could remember what the weather was like outside. The hospital had taken us over. It told us when to eat and sleep. I had the feeling if an earthquake or tidal wave had suddenly torn the building apart, it would simply have been the result of a hitch in hospital administration. A matter that could be solved by pressing the nurse call button. I liked the idea of a good rest. But it was difficult to fit in. I couldn’t rest during visiting hours. If no one came to see me, I lay back, eyes half-closed, ears straining to hear what the lady opposite was whispering to her husband.

“She's impossible! She really is!” Who, me? Night offered few opportunities for drifting off. Trollies crashed and squealed down corridors. The woman in the next bed was an explosive snorer — the sort who emits an astounding snort every five minutes. A mysterious figure shone torchlight in my eyes. It was impossible to rest in the mornings when doctors did their rounds. I learned to identify people from the sound of their footsteps. Patients crept. Cleaners shuffled. Nurses were always on the point of sprinting. The cool, confident strides of doctors, the gods, echoed prestige and power throughout the halls of pain. Young, male doctors were so compassionate and informative, I could hardly

wait to see their sisters in action. Surely womanly understanding and scientific expertise would be the perfect combination? Unfortunately, not so. It was a woman doctor who cheerfully referred to her patients as ‘'victims”. Not a good word to hear when you feel like one; a female doctor who called an ancient dressing-gowned woman “my young lady" in antiseptic tones. I have always loathed people who say 'Tm all for women's lib. but . . ." For once, I felt that way myself. Male doctors, so careful not to be macho bullies, had been surpassed in patriarchal patronism by their female counterparts. After two days, I was exhausted. Thank heavens they decided I’d had enough rest and sent me home.