Nonfiction Best-Write
My Forenoon Gown
I was never fond of dresses or skirts, particularly in early March, when the air was still chilly and damp from snow and rain. It was with great reluctance that I would remove my street clothes and slip on the off-white gown, fumbling with the complicated ties at my neck and waist.
I hated that gown, loathed it, in fact. Whenever I went to a session, I complained to my mother about it; about going, about the need to go, and about how my gown never fit right anyway. I remember the sleeves were too big, but the garment stopped just at my knees. I was covered every where else except for the middle of my back, which was open. I felt self-conscious the first few times I put it on, for when I looked in a mirror I saw a child in adult clothes staring back at me. I fought with the contradictory feelings wearing the garment gave me. Just as much as it made me feel exposed to the world it constricted me as well. It was a uniform of sorts, it allowed administrators to pick me out of a crowd, it separated me from the common. I couldn’t hide in it, I couldn’t leave the building with it, I was confined to the indoors. Still, I felt naked. Thankfully I was allowed to wear underwear with my garish attire. The gown exposed my ill body for all to see; betraying everything I had tried to hide.
As I waited to be inspected, I shivered in my seat and examined the detail of this unfamiliar apparel. Made of cheap, thin cotton, it had seen many girls like me before. The stiff, quick-dried cloth and off-white color held testimony to that. It smelled like detergent, with a tang of sickness and disease. Physical soil they could remove, but the essence of fear and anger could never be washed away. Just by that smell I knew this was what past girls in my situation had felt, just as sure as I was feeling them then. Perhaps the gown was trying to add a bit of cheer to its dismal settings. It was decorated with navy blue snowflakes, large and small ones alternating throughout the fabric. I didn’t appreciate the embroidery, since it only served to remind me how cold the room was, and how I wasn’t allowed to don a sweatshirt.
Though there were many times when I had to wear the gown, one specifically stood out in my memory. It was just another appointment; another twenty minutes or so spent shivering in the office while educated folks whispered with each other in a separate room. I was inspecting the stitches in my gown, and self-consciously feeling the open space where my back was exposed. Just as I was trying to adjust the ties, a doctor walked in, followed by my parents. They held each other’s hands and smiled, playing the part of Darby and Joan. The doctor smiled at me and began speaking, but I barely remember her words. Where the gown had once hung loose, it suddenly tightened around my body. With each word from her mouth my crossed arms were suddenly in handcuffs, the gown itself turned into a hot orange jumpsuit. I left her office heavily guarded, guided to my new prison.
Here everyone wore their gowns between 6 and 7 AM. Until then, we were a relatively happy bunch. We were just another group of teenagers hanging out, getting school work done, talking about friends, music, movies, the stuff normal people talk about. Then the nurses would come out and we were suddenly patients. Whenever one saw someone else in their hospital gown they would avert their eyes. The gown served as a constant reminder of why we were here, how close to death some of us were, how some would leave in a few weeks, while others would be restricted for months at a time.
It wasn’t until my body began to heal that I made peace with the gown. Yes, it was ugly. Yes, it was uncomfortable. Yes, it was a symbol of my ill health and inability to do what “normal” kids do, but it became more than that. It was a symbol of healing, health, and caring. My family cared enough to get me checked out when I was too ignorant to think much about my ailing body. I often think of my experience at the hospital and it is never without a thought or two to my patient garb. Hopefully I will never wear it again.
I was never fond of dresses or skirts, particularly in early March, when the air was still chilly and damp from snow and rain. It was with great reluctance that I would remove my street clothes and slip on the off-white gown, fumbling with the complicated ties at my neck and waist.
I hated that gown, loathed it, in fact. Whenever I went to a session, I complained to my mother about it; about going, about the need to go, and about how my gown never fit right anyway. I remember the sleeves were too big, but the garment stopped just at my knees. I was covered every where else except for the middle of my back, which was open. I felt self-conscious the first few times I put it on, for when I looked in a mirror I saw a child in adult clothes staring back at me. I fought with the contradictory feelings wearing the garment gave me. Just as much as it made me feel exposed to the world it constricted me as well. It was a uniform of sorts, it allowed administrators to pick me out of a crowd, it separated me from the common. I couldn’t hide in it, I couldn’t leave the building with it, I was confined to the indoors. Still, I felt naked. Thankfully I was allowed to wear underwear with my garish attire. The gown exposed my ill body for all to see; betraying everything I had tried to hide.
As I waited to be inspected, I shivered in my seat and examined the detail of this unfamiliar apparel. Made of cheap, thin cotton, it had seen many girls like me before. The stiff, quick-dried cloth and off-white color held testimony to that. It smelled like detergent, with a tang of sickness and disease. Physical soil they could remove, but the essence of fear and anger could never be washed away. Just by that smell I knew this was what past girls in my situation had felt, just as sure as I was feeling them then. Perhaps the gown was trying to add a bit of cheer to its dismal settings. It was decorated with navy blue snowflakes, large and small ones alternating throughout the fabric. I didn’t appreciate the embroidery, since it only served to remind me how cold the room was, and how I wasn’t allowed to don a sweatshirt.
Though there were many times when I had to wear the gown, one specifically stood out in my memory. It was just another appointment; another twenty minutes or so spent shivering in the office while educated folks whispered with each other in a separate room. I was inspecting the stitches in my gown, and self-consciously feeling the open space where my back was exposed. Just as I was trying to adjust the ties, a doctor walked in, followed by my parents. They held each other’s hands and smiled, playing the part of Darby and Joan. The doctor smiled at me and began speaking, but I barely remember her words. Where the gown had once hung loose, it suddenly tightened around my body. With each word from her mouth my crossed arms were suddenly in handcuffs, the gown itself turned into a hot orange jumpsuit. I left her office heavily guarded, guided to my new prison.
Here everyone wore their gowns between 6 and 7 AM. Until then, we were a relatively happy bunch. We were just another group of teenagers hanging out, getting school work done, talking about friends, music, movies, the stuff normal people talk about. Then the nurses would come out and we were suddenly patients. Whenever one saw someone else in their hospital gown they would avert their eyes. The gown served as a constant reminder of why we were here, how close to death some of us were, how some would leave in a few weeks, while others would be restricted for months at a time.
It wasn’t until my body began to heal that I made peace with the gown. Yes, it was ugly. Yes, it was uncomfortable. Yes, it was a symbol of my ill health and inability to do what “normal” kids do, but it became more than that. It was a symbol of healing, health, and caring. My family cared enough to get me checked out when I was too ignorant to think much about my ailing body. I often think of my experience at the hospital and it is never without a thought or two to my patient garb. Hopefully I will never wear it again.
posted by Emily at 2:27 PM
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