Becky: “There’s something in my subconscious that makes me think I’m safe when I’m wrapped in as many layers as possible.” She was wearing – I say “wearing” because it literally did not separate from her when she walked to the pencil sharpener – three shawls, three blankets, a bathrobe, leggings, leg warmers, pajama pants, two pairs of socks, slippers, a long-sleeved shirt, an undershirt, and a sweater.
“You’re not doing this because you’re cold?” I asked skeptically.
“I wasn’t.”
“And you’re not overheated now?”
“No,” she said, blithely expressionless.
I sat in the recliner, pulled its blanket over me, and shook my head. “You could bring some blankets to Stella at the hospital. She’d like that, and you have the experience to wrap her up well.”
“You’re right,” she said, marking a college-ruled sheet of notes in between glances at her book. “I should ask Aunt Alexandra about whether there’s any shawl or blanket in particular that she’d like.”
“We’ll make it a surprise,” I said. “We won’t call Stella. She’ll like that, too.”
[later]
Dr. __ said, “You can bring a sweater and other clothes from home, you know.”
We all stared at her. Stella, as usual, voiced us before we could recollect our consciousnesses. “That’s funny,” she smiled. “I think we all viewed the hospital gown standard as inviolable.”
First thing when you got to a hospital, after triage, you got a gown. That was before the doctor saw you, before you got a CT scan or an electrocardiogram. In order to be treated, to be a part of the hospital, you absolutely had to wear the gown, tie it around your waist and neck – or ask someone else to help you if you couldn’t. It was like the army; you were required to wear the gown. Wear it or else not be treated – that was the requirement. But once you became a resident of sorts, established in your plastic throne, reminiscent of aeronautic technology, then you were awarded stuff from home to make you feel at home, signs of endurance, like a Purple Heart in the armed forces, or the Croix de Guerre in France.
