A Teddy Bear In A Plastic Bag
When I realized I would have to get a medical procedure that would likely bring back old trauma, I immediately wondered what coping mechanisms would get me through it.
I knew that this would be a difficult choice, since the procedure is being done while I’m awake. If it was being done under anesthesia or some other way of altered consciousness, there wouldn’t be as much of a need - but since I was traumatized by three surgeries I had while I was awake ten years ago, I find myself needing something more than the run-of-the-mill coping mechanisms I rely on for everyday things.
It’s hard to explain to doctors why I need a coping mechanism. I’ve found that mental and physical health are often separated to the point that only one of them matters at a time, and during a medical procedure for physical health, mental health is shoved aside. No doctor would knock me out simply because of my fear or my past experiences, and with the procedure happening on my face, there is no way for me to avoid what’s going to be happening literally right under my nose.
It thus fell to me to come up with a solution that would take care of my mental health at a time that would be triggering for me while still obeying the doctors’ instructions.
I first thought of the things that usually work best for me. My usual favorite coping mechanism for potentially triggering situations is not being alone, but thanks to the hospital’s COVID policy, I’m not allowed to bring anyone past the waiting room. I can have a friend waiting for me outside, but not in the procedure room - which will be the most frightening part. So, after securing a friend to stay in the waiting room, I began to think of what might work during the procedure itself.
My Nintendo Switch is too big, and I won’t be able to see it if my face is being operated on. Same goes for my phone, which is frowned upon in these settings anyway. I’ll try to bring headphones so I can listen to music, but there’s no guarantee the doctor will let any sort of technology in the room. It seemed to me that technology isn’t a solution for this particular situation.
I decided to branch out and get creative, trusting in my years of experience coping with a variety of things to find a technology-free solution. I quickly dismissed books for the same reason as my Switch - I won’t be able to see the pages if the doctor is standing between me and the book - and then I thought of the fact that I was likely to bleed during the procedure and didn’t want to stain a book.
I then realized that I hadn’t even thought of my favorite coping mechanism - but at first, I thought it would never work.
I’ve had Puffy - a pink Gund Snuffles teddy bear - since I was six weeks old. He’s been with me through everything in my life, and even though it’s been nearly thirty years, he still has most of his stuffing, even if his fur is rather short. The texture of his remaining fur, the smooth eyes and button nose, and even the stitches from the many, many “operations” he underwent to reattach said nose are all incredibly comforting to me.
The only problem is, Puffy can’t be washed by the machines in my apartment building. They’re industrial size and strength, and I don’t trust that they would leave such an old and very-loved toy intact. Since I was afraid of staining him and not being able to wash him until my next visit home, I almost dismissed him as a solution until I came up with an idea that I knew would work.
Thanks to years of me sleeping with Puffy cradled in my arms every night, he is significantly smaller than he was when my parents first bought him for me - which means that he can fit inside of a large Ziploc bag. If I seal him inside, I can have the comfort of my favorite teddy bear who has been with me my whole life and not feel alone during the procedure, and if I bleed during the procedure, there is a protective layer between the blood and the bear.
As soon as I figured out that I could do this, I felt a weight lifted off of me. In situations when I know I am likely to be triggered, I often feel out of control, which makes my OCD worse. I spiral into all sorts of negative thoughts and may even start to panic - and although it’s thankfully been years since I’ve had a panic attack, I still experience panicked thought patterns and my heart rate soars.
Bringing Puffy might not be in any sort of pre-op instructions, but I know that when I have him there, I will know that something is in my control. I won’t know if any of the horrible things I picture whenever I think of medical procedures will happen, but thanks to a suggestion from my therapist, I know that if I can control even one thing in a stressful or scary situation, I feel immensely better.
The procedure is tomorrow, and I’ve left out a Ziploc plastic bag next to my medical paperwork. I might not be able to control whether or not I bleed, how many needles go into my face or anywhere else, or if my worst fear about the procedure will come true. I don’t know how much it’ll hurt or how long it’ll take me to heal. But I do know that when I have to leave my friend in the waiting room, I won’t be entirely out of control when I go back for the procedure - and that’ll make all the difference for my mental health.
Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.