Stripped Bare
A plea for person-centered healthcare to protect patients’ dignity
I put my heels in the stirrups and wait.
My knees collapse together to protect me for a few extra seconds, but I’ve already relinquished control. The half-open gown with the broken drawstring doesn’t matter anymore, and neither does the paper sheet that hovers like a bib over my pelvis, barely covering me. I can feel the cold air pressing against my backside on the table’s edge. At least the lights are dim; maybe I can persuade my muscles to disengage.
The knock and the swinging open of the door form one swift movement — there is no break between them for a syllable like no or wait or yes. The paper sheet billows when she storms in, displacing the air and my calm. Though I crick my neck to solicit her gaze, her eyes won’t meet mine.
“Why are you here?” she blurts, looking at my chart.
I know what she means, but it doesn’t come across that way. Between hearing and speaking, my mind has to hush the conditioned reflex that I am a burden, that I am taxing the system, draining its resources.
I begin to tell her about my newest crisis. Or, rather, about the newest episode in my ongoing, decades-long crisis — this anonymous illness that masquerades as normal.
