I am a hideous monster, dragging my feet, back and forth, in the recovery room. With the weight of the heart-monitoring device in the upper left pocket, the hospital gown is sliding off my left shoulder and leaves my breast half shown. I can even see the 13 inches scar on my stomach when I look down.
I feel exposed. I am angry. I hate the ugly gown. Can I have little dignity? If I am hideous inside, do I have to look hideous outside too? I’d rather be naked! The whole world is laughing at my failure and even you, opening your big mouth, having my privacy shown.
Nothing is right, the blood transfusion, the monitors, the hospital bed, the dead baby, and this hideous gown. I am not supposed to be here: I should be home and still be pregnant.
I am mad at the ugly gown. But, deep down, I know it is not really about the gown — It is everything else gone wrong the morning of June 27, 2013.
Writing 201: Finding Your Key Moment