Toni L. Wilkes: Things My Daughter Lost in Hospitals
Things My Daughter Lost in Hospitals
One million twenty-seven strands of hair.
A smooth scalp. Several inches of frontal bone.
A Tiffany bracelet. Thirty-nine liters of urine.
The call button. Her patience. A pear-shaped
Gallbladder. Her husband's patience. Eight pints
of blood. Numerous stainless steel staples.
Her job. One decaliter of cerebral spinal fluid.
Two blue and white hospital gowns. Her pink
sweater. The ability to have more children.
Twenty-two pieces of Big Red chewing gum.
Forty-one days of consciousness. Names
of night nurses. Names of day nurses. Six
Actiq lollypops. Seven neurosurgeons.
Two hundred eighteen sutures. Her daughter's
sixth birthday. The desire for sex. Three yellow
bedpans. Her blood-brain barrier. Five years.
Discussion Questions
Were you surprised by anything Wilkes lists? Why?
Wilkes alternates between the physical, tangible losses and the more unexpected costs. Why do you think she does this? Is this effective?
How does your experience of the hospital relate to Wilkes’s portrayal of the hospital? What do you think these characteristics say about hospitals as an institution? How has this experience changed over time?
Reflections from #MedHumChat
“I think something that moved me was how the author wove in medical loses, with physical items, and potential lost. By linking them together, it reminded me although I may be focused on urine output, there are losses that I may not see that can be devastating.”—@pskantesaria
“Having recently been in the hospital from the perspective of a patient, I think that these less tangible losses are things that often sting more, are harder to cope with. It's easier to wrap our heads around the physical losses, like hair, or pints of blood.”—@AltafSaadiMD
“I was surprised by how the narrator quantifies items. She didn’t lose her hair but “one million twenty-seven strands." The weight of her loss feels heavy for these numbers—but heavier still for what cannot be quantified: “her patience,” “her husband’s patience.”—@anoushkaasinha
“To me, the precise quantities are for juxtaposition: juxtaposition: the quantified contrasted with the unquantified highlights the fact the loss is immeasurable, that numbers cannot begin to describe the suffering, loss, and emotions patients face—that unique agony of uncertainty.”—@LanceShaver
“I think this alternation heightens both the mundanity and the profundity of each loss. She loses 22 pieces of chewing gum as swiftly as she loses the ability to have more children. There is no apparent hierarchy of these things, which is effectively disquieting.”—@anoushkaasinha
About this #MedHumChat
“Things My Daughter Lost in Hospitals” was paired with “The Ship Pounding,” a poem by Donald Hall for a #MedHumChat discussion October 16, 2019 exploring The Hospital.
We were honored to be joined by two special guests, Suzanne Koven and Hui-wen Sato. Suzanne Koven (@SuzanneKovenMD) is a primary care physician and Writer in Residence at Massachusetts General Hospital. Hui-wen Sato (@alinasato) is a writer and pediatric ICU nurse at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles.
The pieces for this chat, along with the discussion questions, were selected by Mary Pan.
About the Author
Toni L. Wilkes is a member of the California State Poetry Society and the Marin Poetry Center. Additionally, she and her husband sponsor the Londonberry Salon a quarterly reading series in their home for award-winning poets: David St. John, Susan Terris, C.B. Follett, Terry Ehret, Gary Young. You can learn more about her here.