I Thought Hospitals Were All About Privacy?

My parents, I love them dearly, are very involved. They show up to everything. I am pretty sure the first time I was going to talk to a client they wanted to be on the phone. So naturally they did not leave my side that first day in the hospital. They were right there. And when I saw “right there,” I mean like, “right there.” And,I guess, since I didn’t put up any sort of fight with them being there the doctors, nurses and administrative folks at the hospital assumed that my parents were more than welcome to listen to and receive updates regarding my condition – which, of course – they were.

But… this does not mean they are more than welcome to hear about every minute detail of my life. When you are in the hospital there are a lot of people asking you a lot of questions. A lot of very personal questions. And I am not sure why SO MANY people had to ask me the same questions over and over and over again. And the whole time there were mom and dad. Only one nurse and later one doctor who actually made my parents leave the area before re-asking me these personal questions about my life and lifestyle. And to them I say, thanks, but they already know everything. And when I say, “everything,” I mean EVERYTHING.

By the time I was admitted to the hospital for surgery I had pretty much quit smoking (again, that is, since I had quit for 6 months in early 2008). I mean, I was in the hospital for 2 days the previous week and my mom pretty much moved in with me over the weekend, so there was no smoking since before the first hospital stay(quick back story: I have never smoked in front of my parents – except when my dad caught me smoking when I was 18. While it was obvious I was a smoker – and how can it not be obvious – it was never formally discussed except for the occasional mini lecture on the dangers of smoking). So there we were in the little curtained off area and the nurse firing away question after question as if this were the Spanish Inquisition (I have no idea what that means, by the way). Name, age, height – I can handle. Weight – Ugh, fine. Last bowel movement – really? You really need to know this? Alrighty, you’re the one who asked. Last menstrual cycle – slightly uncomfortable, but whatever that is fine. Level of sexual activity – oh gawd – followed by a list I had to choose from. Can I just tell you there is noway I am pregnant since that is what you are most concerned about? Do you drink? Yes. Do drugs? Um…. No? Smoke? Um… not anymore? Please elaborate. Here it goes…

Me: I quit smoking.
Nurse: When?
Me: Last week.
Nurse: And how long did you smoke before you quit?
Me: (Deep breath) 10 years.
Nurse: How much did you smoke?
Me: Half a pack to a pack a day.
Big Jon Ruud: Jesus, AMY!
Mama Rose Ruud: Jon, please.
Me: Dad, not really the time or the place.
Nurse: Good for you for quitting.
Me: I was forced into it.
Big Jon Ruud: GOD DAMNIT, AMY!

Mind you, we went through this at least half a dozen times in the 5 days I was in the hospital. Looking back on it now I can think of 4 things:

1. Since I couldn’t actually see the look on my father’s face (who is what I would consider a self righteous non-smoker) I can only imagine the look and I am sure it was priceless.
2. Being laid up in the hospital while admitting that I have been a full time smoker for the past 10 years was probably pretty genius since it really is neither the time nor the place to get into it with my parents. And it has not been discussed since. I also have not smoked since (almost 3 months now – go me).
3. Being laid up in the hospital and receiving morphine every 4 hours is a great way to quit smoking… and lose 15 pounds – trust me I know.
4. If I had to do it all over again – and God I hope I never do – I will request everyone to leave the room when the interrogation begins. I suggest you do the same, unless you don’t care who knows when the last time you pooed or got a piece was.