When my 27-year-old daughter had surgery a week ago, I spent the night in the hospital. Because she didn’t come back from recovery until almost midnight, I knew she would probably have a restless night. I was right. Her pain medication made her nauseas and the anti-nausea medication didn’t work and made her hot and clammy. The staff didn’t figure out the right combination until late morning. In the meantime, my daughter and I attempted to sleep. I was offered a cot but the large recliner suited me fine. It made it easier to get up when my daughter was sick and needed my assistance.
We were in the new hospital wing with all kinds of noisy electronic gadgets unavailable the last time I had surgery. There were the massaging calf stockings which prevent blood clots, the bed itself which intermittently rocks back and forth, and the IV drip-control machine which at first I thought was a heart monitor. (In my day, they used good old gravity.) Later in the night, they added a respiratory-measuring device because of a change in pain medication. No wonder healthcare costs have soared.
On top of all the humming and beeping, we decided to leave the flat-screen TV on because it had a “healing” program with scenes from nature and soothing music. During the day and evening, the scenes were of flowers, mountains, and ocean beaches. Then at 9 pm, the sun set rather rapidly and the stars came out. So all night long, my daughter and I had glimpses into the solar system. This actually helped me snooze some, the longest stretch sometime between 3 and 5 am. But it wasn’t really sleep, even though my daughter had finally nodded off.
When she asked me if I had slept, I told her some, like when I’ve been on an overseas flight in business class. I’m in a large recliner with a couple of thin blankets and pillows, the lights are turned down low, and I can see stars out the window. However, there is still quite a bit of activity and noise on the plane what with passengers moving their seats and tray tables up and down, getting up and down themselves to use the lavatories, pushing the flight attendant buttons, watching movies, listening to music, and working on their laptops. So when I woke up in the wee hours of the morning after not really sleeping, I had more than a hint of jet lag and knew that a couple cups of coffee would not revive me. Neither would I be able to nap when my husband relieved me. I would just have to wait it out along with my daughter’s recovery.
In the middle of my night by my daughter’s bedside, I came up with the idea to write about the strange similarities between passing the night in a jetliner and a hospital ward. This really was my own original idea, even though the very next day I read in David Sedaris’ newest book, When You are Engulfed in Flames, his comparison of an overnight flight to a hospital ward in the essay titled “Crybaby.” Honestly, I almost cried, saying out loud that he stole my idea. But I’m going to give him credit because he states his case so well:
“…many passengers prepare for bed. I’ll watch them line up outside the bathroom, some holding toothbrushes, some dressed in slippers or loose-fitting pajama-type outfits. Their slow-footed padding gives the cabin the feel of a hospital ward: the dark aisles are corridors; the flight attendants are nurses. The hospital feeling grows even stronger once you leave coach. Up front, where the seats recline almost flat, like beds, the doted-on passengers lie under their blankets and moan. I’ve heard, in fact, that the airline staff often refers to the business-class section as ‘the ICU,’ because the people there demand such constant attention…”
For sure, the next time I’m doing time in a hospital or airplane, or their accompanying counterparts, waiting rooms and airports, I will be sure to read more David Sedaris who got me through some difficult hours last week with his dry sense of humor and yet deep analysis of life.
