Let’s see, there’s, that not being able to move around at our own free wills, needing EVERYBODY to take care of us, because we can’t move around much, and that’s, just the start of that long, winding, “list”! Translated…
Many a year ago, when I took up the flamenco dance, I’d chit chatted with the receptionist at the dance studio, she’d told me of her trials of getting diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and her hospital stay, how she’d felt helpless over what was happening to her body, and how it’d, burdened her loved ones, that it’d made her wanted to end her own life. I’d told her, “I know how you feel, I’d gotten hospitalized at one time of my life too!”
As I was pregnant with my second child, the pregnancy had been unstable, I’d had contraction pains very often, plus I’d started bleeding time after time, and the gynecologist requested that I stay in the hospital, to help the fetus settle down, that I had to stay bedridden 24/7.
And the results of lying still through the twenty-four hours of each and every day was that I’d felt drowsy, dozed off when I’m not supposed to be sleeping, and when I’m supposed to be sleeping, I couldn’t sleep, night or day, it didn’t matter to me anymore, there’s NO clear boundaries between one day to the next, the days were like the porridge that were, overcooked, that got, STUCK at the bottom of the pot. What’s more depressing was, that I was, restricted to bedrest, and everything in life, I’d needed someone else’s help, lacked the mobility, and the privacy too, not only did this inconvenienced me, it’d also, tried my caretakers’ strengths and patience too. During those days of bedrest, I’d come to understand, that the belief of “no good offspring as the elders fell ill long-term” is a normal reaction of human nature.
The nurse asked me to see myself as a rich family’s daughter-in-law, but this was, easier said than done. A woman from a rich family can holler out to all, while the patients at the hospitals needed to, lower themselves, to solicit help from others.
I’d wanted to, desperately, run from this life of getting stuck with the drips in my arms then; I wanted to take my own shower, clean my own hair, then, just get a good sleep; I don’t want to be awakened, by the noises of those who came to visit me, those who came to wish me well, when I’d just, finally, fallen, to dreams; I want to be free to move about at my own will, to do everything on my own; I don’t’ want to be using the bedpans while another is eating the meals. I’d summed up my hopes and dreams then to: being able to just go home.
A day, two passed, this dream didn’t come true, one week, two weeks, still not yet come true. I’d often pitied myself lying on the hospital bed, silently cried on. Any sort of a grand house, can’t compare to my own home, let alone, a ward in the, hospital.
As my baby caught up to the safety of the weeks, I was told that I can go home, and, as I’d received this “get-out-of-prison” card, I’d not felt the least bit, elated, or ecstatic, perhaps, I’d stayed in the hospital too long, I’d, grown, numb.
Stayed in the hospital for over twenty days, the second time my feet touched the ground was to get my birth check, and I was, wheeled over. And, this time, my feet couldn’t feel a thing, I’d needed someone to steady me, in order to, stumble around. I’d, used my husband’s arms to steady myself, took a few steps, then rested, and, began again. The road home is truly, difficult, and long.
I’d, turned to look back, the bed, the orange curtain, the gray-white colored ceiling, that was, my world, for the past, twenty-plus days.
I’m grateful for those who came to visit me, I’d received their cares and concerns of me; those who couldn’t come, I’m equally grateful toward them, they’d, helped me maintained my dignity. I’m grateful for all the assistance I’d received, and can’t deny, that the heart of those who’d stayed long in the hospitals are, fragile, and, unsettled.
A few years ago, my father had pneumonia repeatedly and had been hospitalized repeatedly, as he’d become paralyzed from the waist down and needed hospitalization, my sisters and I took turns looking after him, I’d understood how it’d felt, STUCK in the hospital beds, being hard of hearing had, blocked the messages from the outside for my father, which added to his unsettlement. Every time I went out of his field of vision, even if it were just to go to the bathrooms, or to get water, I’d leaned in to my father’s pillow, and told him where I’m off to, waited for him to let me know it was okay to leave him, then I’d, leave. My sisters couldn’t understand why I’d done this, but this was a sort of a secret code my father and I shared, how I loved my father.
I’d played the roles of both patient and caretaker, the caretaker is having it hard, so are those bedridden, if we can show more considerations toward each other, then we will be able to, get along, harmoniously. I regret, that my father couldn’t’ make the full recovery he’d needed, but being there to take care of, to look after him, it’d, reduced the regrets I’d felt over losing him greatly.
And so, this, is on not having any regrets, and, from this woman’s personal experiences of hospital stays, hospital stays ARE no fun, especially when you’re restricted of your diets, your movements, and I still remember how quickly I hopped (literally!) up off the bed, after I was told to stay bed rested from my angio for four to six hours after my operation.