It strikes me as extremely contradictory that the definition of the word 'patient', besides 'someone who is receiving medical treatment', is: 'able to wait without being anxious or annoyed'.
Actually I find it downright hilarious that the same word is used for someone who is receiving medical treatment, and someone who is able to wait without getting anxious or annoyed! I sure don't know anyone receiving medical treatment who isn't able to get at least a little annoyed at the fact they even need medical treatment.
Recently, I went under the knife, for the fourth time. I actually shouldn't complain, my track record isn't too bad, especially if I compare myself to some of the poor souls on the knee forums on internet. Some of them have undergone countless procedures involving anything from reattaching to cleaning, replacing to shaving, grafting to drilling, all in the hopes of improving their less than perfect, yet so essential, knee joints.
The entire process of dealing with an injury is pretty bizarre, when you think about it. First of all, it took me years before I was really aware of any serious signs of wear and tear. It's a bitch when your mind and body work together to cope with and cover up pain, and when you finally realize they've been pulling the wool over your eyes, you discover you've been living with it daily for years! How did that happen? And when I finally did collapse in physical agony, everyone around me said in surprise: 'Well, with the way you were limping around like a pirate with a peg-leg, we thought you'd cave in a lot sooner!' I found out the hard way, no one was going to tell me I was in pain and should slow down - that was something I had to tell myself... I just couldn't manage to get myself alone for a few minutes to talk about it!
So, when I finally decided to take action, I thought: 'I'm in pain, I know there are people qualified to take away pain, so what am I going to do about it?' That's when the endless examinations and scans began. First, several doctors, doctor's assistants, physical therapists and nurses yanked on, extended, flexed and wiggled around my injured leg to assess what needed to be done, according to them. I got all sorts of expert opinions and advice, and went home with a severe case of knowing too much. I needed time to digest all this information, so I waited, desparately trying to wait without getting anxious or annoyed.
When I was ready for the next step, (pun very much intended) I had to get pictures done. Which meant being exposed to all sorts of hazardous beams coming from X-ray machines and MRI cabins. I would lie there, wondering if my knee was at all photogenic, on a table about as comfortable as a diving plank. Halfway through the scan, I would always regret the position I was lying in or get an imaginary itch somewhere and feel the overwhelming sensation to move, and I'd have to remind myself what the nurse had said: 'Now lie still! If you move even one fraction of an inch, we'll have to start the scan all over again'. So I would have to be patient again and wait, tolerating, accepting, and especially not annoyed, until the last radioactive beam left my body.
And after the pictures were taken, I'd have to wait, patiently. And finally, when the results would come back, I'd meet with the doctor, the one I finally decided worthy of cutting into me, and discuss the possibilities. There were always many, which meant I'd have to go home and chew it over, think about it. And wait.
And wait. And wait some more. I had a couple kids in the meantime, while I was waiting. And all the time, I'd keep in mind: 'I'll just have to be patient, and not get annoyed at the fact that it hurts just to bend down and pick up the pencil I just dropped on the floor'. Because, after all, that's what being (a) patient is.
Then came the point where I just couldn't wait anymore. I made the arrangements to go through with the procedure of my choice with the surgeon I liked best, and then...well, then I wait for that day to arrive.
Being a hospital patient is the epitome of being patient. You arrive early and hungry, and the nurse on duty will probably give you the better part of two hours to get yourself out of your regular clothes and into one of those charming hospital gowns. A support stocking and glass of water to accompany the heavy pain medication will most likely already be set up on the bedside table, waiting patiently for your return from the OR. If you're lucky enough to have a private room, you get to wait patiently in solitude, but I prefer a full room, where you can sneak a peek at the other patients and maybe pick up some tips on how they're managing to be patient without getting anxious or annoyed. Everyone knows, everyone is anxious and annoyed, but no one's showing it.
But a surprising thing happened to me during my most recent patient experience. When I was finally wheeled into the OR, after waiting as patiently as a patient can wait for the anaesthesia to kick in (which, incidentally, is by the far the most pleasant moment of the entire procedure), I was accompanied by a sort of OR guide, who looked friendly, despite the fact that his entire head was covered with a surgical mask and showercap. Good thing he could smile with his eyes.
As he called up my file on the OR computer, probably to ensure they had injected the drugs into the correct limb, he saw my name wasn't Dutch, and asked where I came from. I've noticed on many uncomfortable occassions that being foreign is the best and easiest ice-breaker. When I said I was American, we launched into a discussion about the presidential elections, which are coming up in less than a month. Just before he left the room, the friendly man jokingly said I was prettier than VP candidate Sarah Palin. I couldn't help visualizing myself in my unflattering hospital gown and showercap, with my limp and lifeless leg looking about as attractive as an oversized breadstick, gone sort of yellow-ish. In spite of myself, I laughed outloud at his bizarre compliment. That's when I realized the doctor had already made his first incision! To my surprise, I'd actually been waiting patiently all that time, without getting anxious or annoyed! The definitions matched!
Now, how did that happen??
I know from first-hand experience how resilient the human body is, and that it really does take time to heal all wounds, but that certainly doesn't mean I'll always be able to sit back and wait without getting anxious or annoyed about it. I'm a patient, but I can get so sick of being patient.
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