Agency of Care

I don’t know what it is about hospitals that irk me, I can’t quite put my finger on it. I have a real interest in the human body, and have no such feeling against visiting a doctor at a clinic. But hospitals? Hospitals in general give me the heebie jeebies.

Maybe it’s the pungent smell of alcohol wipes and hand sanitizer that assault my nostrils upon entering. The smell of cleanliness and purity in hubs for illness and disease is unsettling. A feeling that I might actually fall sick, if I was healthy walking into one. 

Or it could be the general energy and vibe. While doctors and nurses are saving lives, the predominant energy I feel going into a hospital is gloom. Patients and their families outnumber the medical staff, and their aura takes over. 
Questions of my own mortality set in. The mechanical nature of the way patients are treated makes my mind dissociate from my body. I begin to question my own care for my body. A temple, my body is not. I’ve abused my body in so many different ways, the fear of the consequences of my choices creep in. My thoughts scramble in search for ways to avoid becoming one of the sad-faced individuals I see before me. I try and ignore those thoughts as I cling onto the actions I’ve taken toward my own health since. 

I wonder why I don’t feel this way walking into a doctor’s clinic? I usually walk in with a sense of purpose, a prepared report of my symptoms, and questions about the issue. I treat it more like a discussion of ‘how can we make me better together?’. Even while suffering I try to make the conversation pleasant and humorous. Sitting in the sparsely filled waiting room is more boring than anything. No nasal assault, just a mild reminder of where I am. I sit, patiently running through all the topics and questions to discuss in my mind, and try to come up with new ones. No questions and feelings of mortality, just curiosity.

I recently visited a hospital to get a B12 injection, a routine administration that I can’t perform myself. While I was at the time partially recovered from a viral upper respiratory tract infection, I felt none of the weirdness walking into the hospital this time. The smell of ethyl alcohol opened up my semi blocked nostrils, to my amusement. Any fear of mortality was squashed by the validation I felt from successfully vanquishing the viral infection on my own. I assisted my body to aggressively heal itself.
I made small talk with the doctor present as he expertly pricked me with the syringe, made the nurse who wrote down my details smile. It was a pleasant experience.

Maybe it was the intention with which I entered the hospitals in the past for myself or visiting others. I didn’t go in helpless.
I walked in like a bloodied warrior returning from battle. Are doctor visits pleasant only when I’m winning? Such an ego move, to have the notion that I treated myself without the help of a doctor. But what is winning anyway? And why am I competing with a doctor with my own health?
Or maybe it’s care. The care for my body and health, over the years, has become personal and genuine, and a doctor’s is professional. But fuck. What even is care?