Call me crazy, but I've been meaning to write about hospital gowns for some time now. I'm tired of them getting a bad rap. Or is it a bad wrap? Turns out, according to a lone internet opinion, the correct phrase is bum wrap, which hospital gowns notoriously don't do. Personally, I thought the phrase was bad rep, and being the anal person I am (ahem ...) I was forced to research which usage was correct. I've lost you, right?
Hospital gowns are not known for their sartorial properties. They barely give coverage where some of us need it most. But they are designed that way. On purpose. They have all kinds of really important features, some to make life easier for medical staff, but some for the patient, too. If you're hooked up to intravenous meds and you wake up in the dead of night drowning in perspiration, you can unsnap a hospital gown and put on another without being disconnected. And they have a nifty pocket through which your line passes so that you don't have it snaking up through the top or down under the bottom of your shirt.
Well, you might be thinking, I didn't have an intravenous line, so why should I have to be subjected to this poor excuse for pajamas? Surprise! You can wear your own pajamas, although they might get a bit of bodily effluvia on them. If that's not acceptable, you can wear two gowns when you go out into the hallway for your exercise. Or a robe. Why not don a cool pair of hospital pants with a plain t-shirt and pretend you're a member of the staff? You see, there's nothing to complain about and much to be thankful for.
I'm currently reading a book that blathers on about hospital gowns, an otherwise good book that got my ire up. It's not even the patient's opinion. That's what kicked off this diatribe.
Thank you for putting up with me.
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Adirondack Mountains, Feb. 2007
Tale of a Cord Blood Transplantee Who Relapses and Goes on to Have a Matched Unrelated-Donor Transplant
The Weight
Adirondack Mountains, Feb. 2007
ABOUT ME
In March 2006, I was diagnosed with a blood cancer called Acute Myelogenous Leukemia (AML). Life as I knew it came to a crashing halt. After enduring a month in the hospital where I received intense chemotherapy, I was declared "in remission." I had three additional treatments and remained cancer-free until May 2007, when I relapsed.
My only shot at survival was to have a stem cell transplant. However, my brothers' immune markers didn't match mine, and an international search of bone marrow registries found no perfect matches. A transplant using the blood from two umbilical cords was recommended. I grasped at this straw in September 2007. It seemed to work.
This blog tells the story of my transplant and recovery, replete with outrageous slings and arrows. The expression "blood is thicker than water" has new meaning for me. I remained alive due to the blood of strangers, two of them, both male. Thanks guys.
The plot thickened when I relapsed 19 months into my new remission and had to go through the same rigamarole once more. This time, I received stem cells from a matched adult donor who was identified last go round but didn't fit into the necessary time frame. Charles Dickens could have fun with this, the stuff of pulp fiction.
I remain in remission 4 years later. My donor keeps leukemic cells in check but finds interesting ways to attack my body. Chronic graft versus host disease keeps me firmly entrenched in the medical world. And so it goes.
My only shot at survival was to have a stem cell transplant. However, my brothers' immune markers didn't match mine, and an international search of bone marrow registries found no perfect matches. A transplant using the blood from two umbilical cords was recommended. I grasped at this straw in September 2007. It seemed to work.
This blog tells the story of my transplant and recovery, replete with outrageous slings and arrows. The expression "blood is thicker than water" has new meaning for me. I remained alive due to the blood of strangers, two of them, both male. Thanks guys.
The plot thickened when I relapsed 19 months into my new remission and had to go through the same rigamarole once more. This time, I received stem cells from a matched adult donor who was identified last go round but didn't fit into the necessary time frame. Charles Dickens could have fun with this, the stuff of pulp fiction.
I remain in remission 4 years later. My donor keeps leukemic cells in check but finds interesting ways to attack my body. Chronic graft versus host disease keeps me firmly entrenched in the medical world. And so it goes.
2 comments:
I used to wear soft yoga pants and a T-shirt or hospital pants and a T-shirt and switch to a gown at night in case I sweated or otherwise made a mess.
Ah, the good old days.
good one about the bum wrap or lack thereof
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