Regarding the highly respected Canadian universal health care system, I have always been totally impressed by its efficiency, accessibility, and standards of care. This has included some six CAT scans, which provided diagnostic information to help determine what was going on within my person.
All the people working in the diagnostic imaging departments of the hospitals in St. Catharines and Niagara Falls were ultra competent, and seemed to genuinely hope I would realize good outcomes.
Earlier this year, my medical journey took a big leap forward, as I was scheduled for an MRI. A quick bit of Google research told me magnetic resonance imaging is a non-invasive, radiation-free technique used to help diagnose brain, spine and joint injuries or other diseases. Obviously, the main responsibility of the patient is to lay very, very still for 30 or 40 minutes.
Six weeks before my scheduled MRI appointment, I received the standard letter which talked about total fasting for six hours on the big day, registration time and a request to leave all jewelry (one or two Ls?) and piercing stuff at home. I thought that registering one whole hour before the actual MRI time was a bit much, but as usual, the experts know best.
Which leads me in a very rambling fashion to what I consider to be the oddest, most ridiculous garment ever foisted upon mankind. Something that is the polar opposite of what is seen on the high fashion runways of Milan.
Whoever came up with the design for the hospital gown? Or did it evolve naturally over the years? Seriously, it must have been the brainchild of a highly unqualified committee. As Lee Iacocca once said, “To be truly effective, a committee must consist of an odd number of members, (pause for a second or two), and three is too many.”
Think of a few other unique and memorable outfits or uniforms. The King’s Guard at Buckingham Palace are elite professional infantry soldiers from the Household Division, responsible for guarding the sovereign. Who can forget their red tunics and bearskin hats? If you haven’t seen them live and in colour, they perform their ceremony at 11 a.m. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Schedule subject to change occasionally.
Okay, yes, time to ramble back to hospital gowns.
Let’s return via a Club Med beach in Europe. A beach populated by middle aged or older men, pridefully wearing their always-too-small Speedo “swimming costumes.”
And when flipping through the TV channels, we have all seen very well fed Sumo wrestlers grunting and groaning as they try to throw their opponents to the mat. And if thrown to the mat, how do they manage to get up?
Indoor box lacrosse? Are there any rules limiting the amount of protective equipment the goaltenders can attach to their bodies? It is a miracle that the opposing players ever manage to score even one goal.
Oh yes, hospital gowns. As instructed, I arrived for my MRI last week seventy minutes before my actual appointment. An efficient registration, then easy to follow signage directed me to the diagnostic imaging waiting room. Five people in various levels of nervousness, some with caregivers, respectful of individual space. Everyone silent, not even any small talk.
Half an hour before my appointment, MRI technologist Martin called my name. Perfect for his job, efficient, by-the-book and smiley. Even enthusiastic. Very much on point, as he provided a locker key and then handed me the hospital gown. No instructions or words of encouragement. Just the standard hospital gown.
I put all my clothes and personal belongings in the locker, and then tried to put on the flimsy hospital gown. I remembered it went on backwards. I tried this way, that way and several other ways.
Try as I might, I just could not get the darned bow tied behind my back. I never was any good getting kitchen aprons on without help.
As my MRI appointment time approached, Martin knocked on the door, came in, and quickly tied the bow of the hospital gown.
How was that for a weekly Ross’s Ramblings? Somewhat bizarre?
