Freedom of Sketch

Body Language

The blonde woman stands up and stretches. "Ready to finish the shift with a body assessment?" she asks the girl named Tori.

Body assessment? What the heck is a body assessment?

Tori nods. "I was going to stay late anyway. You got the assessment sheet?"

"Yep." The blonde woman holds up a clipboard, steps out from behind the nurse's station, and introduces herself as Jenny, a nurse. She looks to be in her early thirties, and has a very kind, reassuring smile.

Tori turns to face me. "What we're going to do next is something that every patient has to go through when they come in to the hospital - we basically have to do a body search."

"Oh lovely," I sigh, following them into an exam room adjacent to the nurse's desk.

Jenny shuts the door behind us. She and Tori snap on some examination gloves taken from one of several boxes mounted above the stainless steel sink. A violent shiver slowly courses through my body, rolling down my spine one vertebra at a time. I feel like I'm preparing to be cut open, dissected.

"Okay," Tori says, a hint of nervousness in her light voice, "you're just going to remove your clothing one item at a time, and put them in this bag." She shakes out a shiny white bag with plastic handles. My name and birth date are scribbled on it in permanent marker.

"I know it's embarrassing," says Jenny, "but it's a very important part of the admissions process. We want to make sure you aren't bringing anything harmful into the hospital - "

" - I'm not going to hurt myself!" I protest.

Jenny nods. "That's great, but just because you won't use certain items to harm yourself doesn't mean another patient won't. We have to think of the collective safety of the facility."

"We also have to cover our butts," Tori adds. "We record every mark or bruise you come in with so you can't claim that you got them from something that happened in here."

"Awesome," I say flatly.

"Whenever you're ready," says Jenny.

I remove article after article of clothing, carving myself down to my milky winter skin and the weird shadowy lumps and dips where my bones hold pieces of me together. I break out in a flare of goosebumps the second I remove my final layer. I am down to my underclothes. My nerve endings burn, skin bursting into flame at the touch of Jenny's critical gaze.

"Lift up your arms," Jenny instructs. I do so and she narrows her eyes at my bra. "Underwire?"

I nod.

She shakes her head. "That's gotta go, too."

I sigh, unhook the bra, and drop it into the bag. Aside from my pair of size extra small gecko-print boxers and checkerboard socks, I am stark naked. The air, spiced with scents of antibacterial hand soap and latex, flows freely around and into me, exploring the folds and creases of my body. I think of the nude art models hired to pose for the drawing and painting classes at the museum. As the art students become more experienced, they no longer see naked people standing before them. The models' bodies eventually fall into an assembly of shapes, positive and negative space, light and shadow determining where the background ends and flesh begins. I wonder if Jenny, whose art is medicine, has seen enough naked people to numb her into seeing nothing more intimate than skin on muscle on bone.

"You have quite a few bruises," she remarks, bending down to get a better look at my legs. "What are they from?"

I shrug. "Rogue desks, coffee table attacks, other violent encounters with inanimate objects."

Tori remains a passive shadow in the background, silently documenting all of my marks and flaws in my ever-growing chart.

Jenny straightens. "Mmm. Hold your arms out like this." She stretches her own out in front of her, palms-up. I do the same; she scrutinizes everything from shoulder to fingertip, as if looking over a piece of produce at the grocery store. Her years of working in psych have trained her to spot familiar patterns in the flesh; specific stripes, seams, or craters in skin that remembers razor blades and lit cigarettes, maybe even teeth. "What are these?" She indicates an assortment of nicks and scars in various stages of healing that are mostly gathered near my wrists, the tops of my hands, and my knuckles.

"Occupational hazard," I explain. "I'm always working with paint scrapers, X-acto knives, linoleum carving tools...."

Tori bobs up and down, trying to peer over Jenny's shoulders so she can map out the exact locations of my blemishes.

Jenny raises an eyebrow. "So none of that is self-inflicted?"

"I just happen to be a klutz."

The women exchange questioning glances, but neither presses the subject any further.

"Okay, just one more thing," Jenny says.

Exhausted, I tremble in rhythm with the unstable fluorescent glare. "What?"

"Shake out your underwear."

"Good lord." I pull my boxers out by the elastic and give them a few hard tugs.

Satisfied with the lack of cocaine, razors, and other dangerous goodies raining down from my underwear, Jenny hands me two folded hospital gowns. "Put one on facing the back and the other facing the front," she says. "Tori and I are going to inventory your belongings and put them into storage. You might want to call your parents to bring you some more appropriate things to wear."

I leave one gown on the exam table and shake out the other one. It's made of paper-thin cotton and features a faded leaf design in diluted blues and greens. I slide my arms through the billowy sleeves and turn around so Jenny can help me button up the row of snaps in the back (no strings allowed). When she's done, I take the second gown and put it on like a robe.

"I almost forgot," Jenny says, opening a cupboard. "Socks."

Tori holds out the open bag of my confiscated clothing. "Put yours in here," she says.

I groan, peel off my socks, and fling them into the bag. The floor feels like ice.

Jenny hands me a fluffy blue ball. "Just lift up your feet and wiggle your toes real quick for me, sweetie."

I do as I'm told, wondering what on earth I could hide in between my toes. Then I separate the fluffy blue hospital socks and slip them on. They have lines of rubber treads on the bottom, which I have to admit are kind of cool.

"Hmm." Jenny suddenly rests her hand on her chin and nods at me. "Her piercings," she tells Tori.

"What about them!?" I say.

Tori: "They've all got to come out."

I mutter to myself as I pull out my various ear piercings, and my lip ring. They go into a solid gray bag marked SAFE.

***

We return to the hallway. A male nurse beckons me over to the desk. He holds out a white wristband and asks me to confirm my first and last names, and my birthday. Once we determine the information is correct, he fastens it around my left wrist. I also get an orange bracelet with my only allergy - strawberries - written on it in permanent marker. "I almost forgot," he says, motioning for me to hold my arm out again, "you're new here, so you get a red band, which means you're starting at the bottom tier of our level system."

"What?" I say.

"Think of it as being on probation," Jenny explains. "We need to be cautious and observe your behavior for a little while to determine what privileges are appropriate for you. It's not a punishment, but you are subject to level drops if you act out."

"And you move up in the system when you behave well, follow directions, and participate in your treatment," Tori says. She smiles, revealing a slight overbite. "I'm sure you'll be bumped up in no time."

"You have no idea what kind of pain in the ass I can be," I challenge.