I was recently hospitalised and spent some time in the wards of a local hospital. For most of the stay I was in a room with 3 other men with similar ailments. We all were subject to a routine where we were prodded, pricked, measured, weighed and subject to various other indignities and small degradations on a regularly scheduled basis, including late night wake ups and trips to the loo for urine samples wearing those bare-arsed hospital gowns. We were constantly asked our names and date of birth by rotating crews of nurses, technicians and orderlies and when given medications. Doctors came around episodically, sometimes trailing junior colleagues who asked us to explain why were there as if we were children. In return we barraged them with questions about when we would be released, questions that they could not answer until all protocols had cleared and been signed off on.
On seperate occasions two of my roommates, older Maori men, objected to the constant repetition of the procedures and processes. One appeared to be a senior member of his whanau (given his visitors) and the other claimed to have been abused while in State care. Both clearly believed in defending their mana. Neither liked being ordered around by the all female, all foreign nursing and technician staff. Although there was some language hurdles, I thought that the women were actually quite polite and patient in their interactions with us. But they were firm and insistent in any event.
The men most vigorously objected to the repeated checking of basic facts (name/DOB, with the man who spoke of his time in State care mentioning that his Maori name was changed against his will into a Pakeha name while he was in State custody and the other fellow mentioning that the staff should figure out who he was by then), having given the same answers each time. As the days passed they objected to the constant taking of blood samples, temperatures, blood oxygen levels and other body status indicators, as well as being moved around for scans in other parts of the hospital. So did I, but silently. At times they refused to comply with instructions, eventually requiring the doctors to intervene in order to chart their progress.
I was completely sympathetic to their complaints because quite frankly, the routine was a pain in the rear. Plus, we all detested the food (prepared by David Seymor’s cronies at Compass, the same outfit awarded the Ministry of Health school lunch contract) and the intrusions on our sleep given how little of it we could get. For those of us in that wardroom, the thrill (such as it was) was gone.
As I listened to their complaints I realized that these men were coming late to a women’s “party.” Underneath the specifics that bothered them lie a broader phenomenon that extended beyond their individual circumstances. In the end what they were complaining about, and which they were attempting to defend against, was their bodily autonomy and the intrusions upon it. This was not just a defense of mana although it deeply involves it. As women everywhere know all too well, this is a condition where one’s body is not one’s own, but instead is subject to the manipulations and demands of others. I wondered if these men made that connection–that their plight was akin to that of women everywhere at some point in their lives–and concluded that they probably did not because their concerns were immediate and unreflective about the broader syndrome. They were living their unhappy moment, not dwelling on the deeper context in which their human agency was being infringed.
My approach to hospitalisations, much like my approach to air travel, is to not rock the boat, try to get along, suffer indignities in quiet and avoid trouble with petty tyrants in the medical hierarchy and passenger control and security infrastructure. But I have an advantage in that I am a mediocre older white guy who does not have to defend my bodily autonomy or my mana on a regular basis. For those who do, the issue could well be existential rather than a mere inconvenience, and given that perspective born of life experience, a reason to protest against otherwise seemingly small slights.
Beyond that realisation about bodily autonomy, I used the involuntary holiday in the wards as a time for reflection on my own life and what is in store for my loved ones down the road. More immediately, I witnessed a hallway fight and a death in the first ward I was assigned to (which served as a type of triage unit). My care was actually quite good but it was clear that the staff were undermanned and overworked. Most of all, although being able to leave the hospital in a somewhat vertical position was a plus, I also realized yet again that it takes extraordinary people to handle with grace and aplomb the everyday grind of dealing with very unhappy and sometimes uncooperative patients in very unfortunate circumstances not always of their own making. In other words, it seems that when it comes to intrusions on one’s personal autonomy, hospital staff also have reasons to complain. Because foreign or not, they have mana, too.
To them, I tip my hat.
And to those old guys in our wardroom defending their mana, I say good on you because what are we if we do not have our dignity to defend? To them and decent old guys everywhere I say: Kia kaha.
I’m sorry to hear you have needed hospital care, Pablo. I hope you are on the road to a full recovery.
Re: the questioning each time there is a medical interaction – when my dear husband was in hospital for an extended period late last year, the questioning was the same and I’m pretty sure it is in order to gauge cognition/confusion or delirium (which was the case for my husband). Perhaps there could be an explanation by the medical staff as to why that is necessary, but from my own observation it was a good way to see how my husband was doing with regard to his cognition and the delirium he was suffering and really provides a safeguard for the staff, especially if they’re giving out powerful meds. Perhaps there needs to be a te Reo version.
Because of the chronic understaffing, perhaps those niceties are too time consuming at this stage (I’m not excusing it, just suggesting a possible reason).
Thanks Di.
I fully understand the reasons for the repetitive questioning, especially since I remain compos mentis for the time being. It was the bodily autonomy angle that I focused on–the belated realization by some men as to what women endure every day.
Pablo, I am sorry to read that you spent time in a hospital. I hope that recovery is going well. I look forward to reading your future contributions to your blog.
I have spent times in the local ER dealing with self inflicted wounds of masculine stupidity. None of them were life threatening and a few were received with some humor and eye rolling by the nurses on duty. The last and most painful of these involved the trigger finger of my right hand ‘encountering’ a 4.5 kg sledgehammer. Hammer 1, finger 0. The triage nurse had seen far worse, stuck my hand in cleaning solution and asked if I planned on deer hunting the coming season. I said that I had planned on it. She noted that I may find it a bit more challenging this year than last and we spent some time chatting about the local deer overpopulation and the limited hunting seasons and so on. Then the ambulances started coming and heart monitors started pinging and I went from giving the nurses something to do to being dead last in the queue. Three hours later, the nurse returned and apologized for the delay. Apologized for a delay in treating a reasonably minor wound because she had been running from ward to ward literally trying to keep people alive. In that time she had gone from pleasant and engaging to visibly exhausted in what turned out to be the first four hours of her ten hour shift on an average afternoon with Friday and Saturday nights of the week, when the real shit comes in, yet to come. It takes a remarkable person to do that and all of the triage and attending nurses were, of course, women.
Thanks Luke.
The bad news is that I now know what will most likely kill me. The good news is that the day that comes to pass may be a way’s off yet. Maybe I should open a prediction market wager on that.
Carlos:
I assume that your local deer are sneaking into your woodshed and strategically positioning sharp and blunt instruments so that you keep on injuring yourself in masculine ways. Beware if you see a string strung low across the entrance door–there may be a firearm trigger attached to it inside the shed pointed at the doorway because some deer play for keeps. :-0
Very sorry to hear you have been ill, hope your recovery is swift.
Kind regards, Barbara Matthews.
I am sorry to hear you have been in hospital Pablo.
I think hospitals are alien places at the best of times – for those of us who have had a relatively healthy lifetime. The one thing that has always shocked me is the noise; and then, the bright lights – hardly conducive to recuperation of any kind, or sleep.
When I think back to our A & E, experienced just over 12 months ago, it was not unlike our local WINZ office – long waits, all sorts of ppl from wide backgrounds and ages; long waits, and short-tempered, overworked staff.
To Carlos above, I say, be thankful for the assistance you get for your self-inflicted wounds – and be aware the staff are routinely overworked – because of underfunding. Try and be more careful.
And Pablo, I do wish you a longer and happy life – there are still people, your son, who depend upon you.
And we enjoy your contributions – columns and broadcasts!
Take care.
With warm regards.
Much thanks Barbara.
Indeed, I have much more to live for. As does Carlos, who as they say, has some history with me dating back a few decades and who also has many good reasons to keep fighting the good fight in spite of his bouts of involuntary self-flagellation. In a world of bad men, he is an exception to the rule.