How embarrassing!

I sometimes wondered what the budget of hospitals was for decorating. They always have such pretty walls and posters and chairs and the such. Even at Searle at NU, we had that spaceship lookin' chair that you got to sit in when you had blood-work done. It was awesome and made you feel like you were fighting evil aliens and such (especially if you were running a high fever during the test). Actually, occasionally, I thought that stuff was wasteful. You don't need this many magazine subscriptions. And you can do without some of the fancier decor.

Until today.

Today, I realized I really appreciate the high decorating budgets of American hospital. Score one for America.

Today, I had some blood-work done at the Rishi Valley Rural Health Center. Now, I am quite impressed that this rural health center in the middle of nowhere, Andhra Pradesh is even able to accept and process blood-work (score one for India/Rishi Valley!), so I'm not complaining. But I do want to note that hospital decorations have revealed their importance to me, here at Rishi Valley.

I don't deal well with needles or blood. I used to be absolutely fine about it. When I was a kid, I'd play with syringes (sans needle, of course), since my mom was a doctor and brought a bunch home and we always had them about. Growing up with an older brother, I was totally cool with watching blood and guts (on TV, of course). Mom and I would watch footage of surgeries, and I wouldn't even wince. Then, senior year of high school, during an Honor Society Blood Drive, I was talking to someone while they were giving blood and I suddenly just about fell down. And from that moment onward, I have gotten increasingly uncomfortable around blood and needles.

When I get any type of blood test/vaccination in the States, I always embarrassingly ask to lay down during the procedure and to have some water on hand, just in case. Usually, I am fine. I just can't run a marathon fifteen seconds after the needle's left my arm, but I'm fine.

The trick is to distract yourself. First, you read the magazines, then you look at the charts, you study the intricacy of the wallpaper, and you eventually ponder why the hospital spends so much money on decorating. It's an awesome and complex thought to think about while someone is digging a needle in you and it definitely does the job to keep you distracted from said needle.

But, today, there were no magazine subscriptions, no wallpaper, and no charts to read. I walked into the Diagnostic Center and sat at a barren white table alone for 15 minutes. Around me were doctor-people (meaning they might've been nurses or aids or randos) carrying around doctor-looking-apparatuses (my mother cannot be proud of me for this sentence) and generally doing doctor-like things. There was crazy machinery all around me and it smelled a lot like formaldehyde. Or bleach. Or disinfectant. It smelled a lot like what I called "doctor" when I was a kid. Mom would come home from her shift and I would say, "Mommy, I love you. You smell like doctors, go shower!" It was cute.

But, today, the smell wasn't cute. And I didn't love it. It made me increasingly nervous. I was also nervous, because I was close to missing breakfast and I had to fast for the test. Dum dum dum. I was even more nervous, because someone was going to stick a needle inside of me. How embarrassing. The doctor-lady came in (I had met her before), and resat me from the chair to the stool. Then, she tugged at my arm and gave me directions, as I tried very hard (and succeeded) to look away from anything that she was doing. But I couldn't escape it: there were all these hospital-y doctor-y things all around me! And it smelled 100% like doctors. And even though I didn't even see the needle, nor a drop of blood, my vision started to cloud over, I heard a dull buzz, and I broke into a cold sweat. I was more and more dizzy by the second, and I felt consciousness slipping away from me. I asked for some water, but couldn't quite work the pitcher to my mouth. I asked to be laid down, which involved me having to walk across the room. I made it. Barely.

Laying there, I still could not escape the reality that I was, indeed, in a hospital. Surrounded by needles. And blood. (Okay, not surrounded, but that stuff was in the same room!) And it smelled, unquestionably, just like doctor. I was not okay.

Finally, I decided to make a break for the fresh air, and I stumbled out of the room, mumbling a thank you to the very nice [and now utterly frightened] doctor that had drawn my blood earlier.

I felt much better outside, as I had focused on flowers, auto-rickshaws, and puppies. And I even made it to breakfast (thanks to the auto-rickshaw!).


Today, I finally answered the question of why American hospitals invest in decorations.
But the answer only raises more questions, like: how important are the ties between psychology and physical well-being? And is our lack of attention to psychological matters in the developing world reduce the well-being of the populations? By not affording the fancy decorations, could we possibly be turning off a lot of [perhaps embarrassed or scared] individuals from seeking proper health care? How important is this in the larger picture (as in, is it far more important to focus on increasing physical health through traditional means, without paying attention to this psychological aspect, as it probably affects only a tiny fraction of the population, whereas the other stuff affects people on a much larger scale)? And, finally: should I get that nice doctor lady some presents for scaring her by being embarrassingly scared of needles?