Free The Blue Cotton Gown by Patricia Harman Page A

“Yes,” I say, holding out my arm with the plastic ID band on it, wanting him to double-check my name. He did say Harman, didn’t he? Not Hammond or Hartman?
    The orderly glances at the band without really reading it. “It’s time to go. They’re ready for you.” As we roll away, I view the ac-tion in the large pre-op bay.
    Nurses and doctors in blue scrubs transport patients back and forth, consulting with one another as I pass by. The professionals sound like they’re speaking another language, and I feel like a character in someone’s bad dream. We’re inside an alien spaceship. They’re the crew and I’m the stranger about to be probed. Then I’m moving fast down the hallway into the belly of the craft, and there’s the smell of Betadine and antiseptic soap.
    “Good luck,” someone calls.
    At the last minute my husband shows up, dressed in scrubs and wearing a green paper hat. He’s not going to assist with the surgery; he’s just here to make sure my soul doesn’t float away in the middle of the operation. Tom’s not an assertive guy, but if they’re screwing up and letting my blood pressure drop, he’ll say something. I think he’ll say something . . . he won’t let me die.

    Tom jokes with the nurses, shakes hands with Dr. Jamison. I watch them discuss my case, leaning in toward each other. Then Tom comes over and touches my arm. “How you doing?” The OR is as comfortable to him as his study, the scrubs as comfortable as his pajamas. Not to me. As a midwife, my place is in the birthing room or the mother’s bedroom. I enter the surgical suite, hesitantly, only when I assist with a C-section.
    My husband’s green eyes twinkle above the surgical mask as he bends over me. I want to touch his smooth tan cheek, and lifting my hand, I beckon him closer. “If I die,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against his and not caring who hears us or what they may think, “I’ll meet you in heaven.”
    I have tears in my eyes and I haven’t loved him this much for a long while. Tom smiles indulgently. “Did you hear me?” I insist seriously. He’s probably thinking it’s the pre-op sedation making me goofy, but he pulls down his mask and kisses me.
    I know Tom doesn’t believe in heaven, but right now he needs to.
    This might be our last time together. “Promise?” “Yeah,” he says. “But you won’t die.”
    They are rolling me into the OR now . . . “You never know,” I say. “It could happen.”

    *
    I don’t die. But three days later, I’m still in the hospital and I’m not doing well. I feel like shit. My blood oxygenation is poor. I’m short of breath, in too much pain, and my abdomen resembles an eight-month pregnancy.
    I’ve decided I must have a pulmonary embolism, or maybe a massive hematoma under my diaphragm, but Dr. Jamison and my husband don’t seem concerned. Maybe they’re covering something up, trying to be reassuring.
    I don’t trust the nurses either. I’m an RN myself and I know I’m not getting the kind of care I would give. I time how long it takes

    them to answer the call light. Twenty minutes. I’d have been dead by then if I’d been having a stroke. I remind myself that there’s a national nursing shortage and I should try not to be so demanding. They’re probably attending to too many patients. That doesn’t help. Now I’m really afraid.
    Three days after the surgery, a massive transport aide with a triple chin comes to room 770 and says, “X-ray?” I didn’t know I was getting an X-ray. I wonder what’s up.
    Across from the nurses’ station, the orderly parks me; I’m on display while we wait for the elevator. He leans against the wall and salutes the ward secretary. Visitors’ eyes linger, they’re wondering what’s wrong with me. I imagine how I must look; pale, disheveled. I haven’t washed my hair for a week. Some of these people are my patients or families of patients that I have delivered. I pretend to be asleep, or maybe