April 8, 2012
I love medical attention. First off, I still hope to be a doctor when I grow up, so everything that happens, from my doctor showing me pictures of his granddaughter to the removal of stitches, is utterly fascinating. Johnny coats? So comfy, and universally unflattering, so why even worry? I love those cool tests my doctor does—eye tracking and reflexes. They make me feel so interesting! Then there’s the conversation—how am I doing? Is there anything different? Do I have any questions? Is there anything else he can do for me? No wonder I love that guy (despite the fact that he looks nothing like McDreamy here. But don’t tell him I said that).
When I hurt my leg last summer, I had a pretty wonderful time, too (aside from the pain and injury, which I could’ve done without). I loved riding in the ambulance, and especially being wheeled through the halls on the gurney. “I feel so important,” I told the paramedics, who responded by rolling their eyes. I didn’t care. The ER was filled with nice people who wanted to make me feel better. I wish I could go once a month or so…not that I want to be injured, but just for the attention. There was a TV in my little room. I don’t have a TV in my bedroom, so this was kind of a thrill in itself. They offered me painkillers and food. What was not to like?
Then there’s surgery. I’ve only had surgery three times, but I can see me becoming addicted. Not that I want them to cut anything…but those warm blankets in the pre and post-op? So comforting! All those people reassuring you, patting your hand, asking you easy questions like, “What’s your name?” and “When’s your birthday, hon?” (The pet names…another plus!). I also enjoy the utter lack of personal responsibility. How rare is that? All you have to do in surgery is lie there and inhale the magical relaxation gas. The last time I was in and the nurse was tucking me onto the table, I believe I said something to the effect of, “I love it here. I never want to leave.” Which is a little sick, but still. You understand.