It's a jungle down there

I was only suppose to be in the hospital for five days. I figured maybe seven so I had a lot of planning to do. I had my hair cut a week before surgery. My eyebrows and upper lip waxed two days before, a manicure and pedicure - only buffing - at the same time. I shaved, closely, the day before and the morning of surgery, making sure I didn't cut myself because, silly me, I didn't want to get an infection and make myself sick. I packed my lipgloss and lip balm, facial care stuff, lotion, tweezers, toothbrush, floss, eyeglasses and mirror. That's it. Change of clothes, granny underwear, jammies and a robe. I made sure my dog was groomed, made a list of all the household stuff that needed to be done, paid my bills, left my atm card and a list of all my access codes in an envelope, as a precaution.

After about six weeks from waking up, I asked for a mirror and really looked at my face. I'm not super vain, I'm a normal girl. I don't mind going out without makeup, I do mind, however, looking like bride of Sasquatch. Something happened to my hair growth while I slept in my coma. It was as if my hair went, "Partay!!" and rumba'd right out of my follicles. I had never seen hair so long on my face before. I had a Fu Manchu mustache. I did. I could do the evil villain mustache stroke because I actually had the facial hair to accompany the motion! Remember Jim Carrey's Vera de Milo character on In Living Color? Remember her unibrow? Mine wasn't as thick but it came close. I had this lone hair on my left upper arm, about two inches long that resembled a pubic hair. Sadly, I developed ear and nose hair. Yup, I had old man hair syndrome. Oh, and the hair on my toes. My toes! I was told I had hobbit feet. Me, hobbit feet. Bad enough my left foot would probably never get back into a size six shoe again, now I had hair sprouting off the tops of my toes and feet. Okay ladies, it's time to talk about the bikini line. Now, six weeks is a long time to go without trimming. We all know that. But let me tell you something. When your own father starts singing to you, "It's a jungle down there" you know it's bad. What could I do?

Friends would come to visit and I would flash them, not on purpose but I'm lying in an open hospital gown with my leg propped up. Chances you were gonna see something you didn't expect happened all the time. I actually had offers from some of my girlfriends for a trim. Now that's love!

My doctors explained to me that my body had gone through severe trauma and that sometimes in response these things happened. It's called, "Idiopathic" and I personally think that's just medical jargon for "DUH?" Let's break it down. It's pathetic. They're idiots. They don't know. How hard is that? I don't know. From personal experience, doctors had the most difficult time sounding out those three syllables. It was if their lips were glued together and all that came out were noises similar to those made by Charlie Brown's teacher, "mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa." Maybe they should have buttons made that light up when the doctor pushes some tab on the inside of his/her pocket. That way, they're not actually saying it, the button is saying it for them. "Doctor, why is there a two inch pubic hair growing out of my left arm?" I DON'T KNOW

The body does weird things when it has a chance. Hair sprouts out all over the place, odors abound, your nails don't grow as fast. But then, other wonderful stuff happen. Your body heals when others doubted it was possible. Everyday something else happens, maybe not so great, yet it's a step in the journey towards healing. But the hair thing? I don't know.

Ass Wiping 101

When you sign the inpatient paperwork upon entering the hospital, there is a question, I believe, that must be added: "Are you prepared for the many and various indignities that are about to be done to you and for you by complete strangers?" It's important, as you are signing your Do Not Resuscitate order, that you are warned of this very real occurrence.

We all know about hospital gowns and their flappy backsides. They've been out there so that the real stuff is never discussed.

After a few weeks out of the coma, I was more and more aware of what was going on around me. Up until that point, waking moments were not very long and not really remembered (probably a good thing, given what I remember now). My Dad and I had developed a ritual where he would soak a washcloth in hot water and then drape it over my face. I looked forward to Dad placing that warm, steamy washcloth on my face, breathing in deeply, feeling the steam fill my lungs, the heavy wetness dripping down my face. Uncomplainingly he would do this again and again until I was sated. He knew, from my heavy sighs, that this was one of few pleasures for me.

One morning, my parents went to the cafeteria together and I asked for the bedpan (more on this later). As I finished and called for the nurse, instead of using toilet paper, as my Mom did - she had been doing all my potty duties - the nurse busted out a stack of WASHCLOTHS and proceeded to wipe my ass clean. I asked if this was standard for the hospital and she told me that using washcloths was more cost effective, they were washed so that all bacterias were killed (uh huh)....I already had stopped listening, thinking of all the washcloths that had touched hundreds, nay, thousands of asses prior to touching my face. I had actually kissed ass thousands of times - and breathed in their steamy stench. How many others could claim such devotion to the art? When my parents came back to the room I told them of my experience. With my voice reaching heights that only little girls under the age of five are able to achieve, I demanded that my parents bring a stack of washcloths for my face and body. Just to be safe, hand towels, too.

The bedpan. Anyone who has stayed in the hospital has some story. When I first started using the bedpan, it was an event. I was so bloated and weak, it took either 4-6 nurses and CNA's (they make them so small nowadays) or 2 big turn teams members (love those guys!) to roll me on my side and back. Usually, it was the 4-6 nurses and CNA's with the dubious pleasure of working around my many IV's, my leg, my nervous parents, and of course, me, apologizing for being so much trouble. By the time I finished doing my business under the watchful eye of at least one nurse or CNA, who then had to gather the team again (nothing like having a group of people pretending not to gag at the stench in the room) I was usually falling asleep before I was finished being rolled back over. Oh, you know your poop really stinks when the nurse "gifts" your parents with a spray bottle of room freshener from Bath and Body Works. My Dad loves Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin.

When I learned to roll from side to side, it was huge. It meant my strength was returning and my parents took over bedpan duties. My Mom, being the strong person she is, took control. She learned bedpan placement and and cleaned me. Dad was in charge of taking said bedpan and cleaning it. If the hospital staff cleaned the bedpan and Mom or Dad didn't think it was up to their standards, it was recleaned.

At this point I should mention the importance of baby powder. A bedpan is now made of plastic. If you apply the plastic directly to your butt without the baby powder, let's just say the bedpan and your ass have formed a sometimes painful alliance. Too much powder and baby, one minute you're peeing in the bedpan, the next, you're sitting in your pee with the bedpan beside you. My parents had powder application down to an art form.

Anyway, my parents had both been staying at the hospital, each of them going home at some point during the day to shower, change, do chores, pretend that life was normal, etc. When I learned to roll, we decided it was okay for one to stay the night shift, one to stay during the day. Mom stayed during the day, Dad was there for that first night. And my first poop with only me and my Dad. He confidently got out the bedpan, powdered it just so, slid it in under me with military precision and waited for me to do my business with the requisite, "peeeewwww" and gagging noises with me saying superiorly, "It doesn't stink. It smells like roses. Beauuuutiful roses." Whatever. It was our bit and we laughed. I finished and he gagged as he pulled out the bedpan. He then analyzed my poop, it was dark brown, rabbit pellets - thus beginning a long standing habit which still annoys my Mom. When he was finished checking out my poop I said, "Aren't you going to clean me up, Daddy?" He looked at me shocked and said, "No! I can't do that! Call the nurse!" I said, "Why can't you clean me, Dad? What's the big deal?" Dad looked at me very seriously and walked to the bathroom door saying, "Someone might walk in and think I'm molesting you!" I started laughing and said, "You're wiping my ass, Dad!" He kept telling me no, he wasn't going to do it and I should call the nurse. Finally, I yelled, "DAD! WIPE MY ASS NOW!" Dad said, "Fine, but I'm pulling back the curtain and opening the door a little bit." It was a small battle but I won it.

After that, Dad had no problems. Oh, we still did our gag and roses bit; if Mom was in the room she just rolled her eyes and did her "you two" speech and smiled at us while she sprayed Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin in the room.

Why don't they make guest point cards for hospitals?

Many families measure milestones in traditional manners - birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. My family still does this but we've acquired a new tradition - that of measuring milestones by health crises. I came across this nugget by accident the other day. I couldn't remember when I'd worked in L.A. with one of my girlfriends (I was giving her a job reference - and yes, despite my unprofessionalism, she did get the job) and I yelled out to my Mother, "Hey Mom, what year did you have breast cancer? 1998?" Dad had open heart bypass surgery in 2004 - when my niece graduated from high school; my niece was diagnosed with her blood disorder in 2002 - the year she celebrated her 16th birthday...you see what I mean?

New Year's 2006 - me in a coma. So, here's my question - why don't hospitals offer guest point cards for families like mine? I mean, we would prefer not to "visit" the hospitals as much as we do, really. But since we're there as much as we are, shouldn't we earn points? There would have to be strict guidelines, of course. Not everyone would qualify. Just like regular rewards cards you'd need a certain amount of points before even reaching a starting status, which I've dubbed appropriately, "Saline" - the card would be clear. You'd need a few basic outpatient procedures, doctor visits, eat in the cafeteria for at least 5 meals (this is non-negotiable, everyone must eat hospital food to qualify). The next level would be "Morphine" - the card would be one of those cards that catches the light and changes color. Same as Saline with an Inpatient stay of 3 days. The highest card, "Transfusion" would be blood red, almost black. Same as Saline and Morphine with multiple stays but you can jump ahead if you have families like mine. What do you get for being a card holder besides the status ? Upgraded to private rooms, brand name medicines - no generics, home phone numbers of your doctors (only if you're a Transfusion card holder). I'm still in the planning stages of this idea but I think this might be a whole new niche market for the patient care industry.