At least it was an excuse to test myself ($350 for a 24-hour "concierge" negative) and take a much-needed mental break––a two-week staycation––after powering through the first full half of 2020 without so much as one whole day off (Sundays included). Despite the pain I anticipated, and the unsightly bruising, I was looking forward to the propofol and midazolam. Sweet, medically sanctioned oblivion!

Sadly, I suffered a rough night during my required stay at the surgical center. The food was inedible, the meds made me vomit, and the nurse was on my case. Let's just say I wouldn't wish her on anyone. Among other transgressions, she blamed me for vomiting on my blankets when she didn't lift a finger to bring me a receptacle, constantly woke me up to admonish me for messing with the (consistently stable) Q 5 mins BP readings, and––worst of all––treated me like an infant throughout the night. Enough, already!

Infantilization of patients is a thing

This is a pet peeve of mine. One I increasingly worry about as I get older and have to suffer through more mammograms, ophthalmic appointments, cardiology screens, and other fun stuff as we careen inevitably toward the continuous care setting we work so hard to afford so our kids don't have to.

Why, oh why do we seem to have to put up with nurses who call us "Mami," "Sweetie," "Baby," or any other unprofessionally infantilizing inanity? I'm urged to drink my "sopitas" and "gelatinitas" (my "little" soups and Jellos) with a "teensy" "cucharadita" like a "good girl." Add in the high-pitched sing-song voice, the pouty "sad" face, the "zoom spoon" forced feedings, and the finger wagging for "behaving badly," and you'll almost get the complete picture. All the evening lacked was a soulful recitation of "Good Night Moon." (I promise I'm going somewhere veterinary-related with all this.)