While the Gown Wasn’t Mine
On losing control, and the small human acts that keep us present when life is paused
The gown didn’t belong to me.
It never does.
***
It ties you into someone else’s rules,
someone else’s timing,
someone else’s decisions.
***
They tell you to lie still.
They tell you to wait.
They tell you nothing else.
***
So I did what my hands remembered.
***
I drew.
***
Not because I was brave.
Not because I was hopeful.
But because when your body is no longer yours,
your hands look for something small they can still control.
***
The line wasn’t straight.
The paper wasn’t special.
The drawings weren’t impressive.
***
They didn’t need to be.
***
They were proof that I was still here
while everything important happened outside my reach.
***
Hospitals are strange like that.
Your name becomes a chart.
Your time becomes a number.
Your future becomes a conversation held somewhere you can’t hear.
***
And you learn quickly
that waiting is not passive.
It’s exhausting.
***
So you fill it with something harmless.
Something quiet.
Something that doesn’t ask permission.
***
I didn’t draw to escape.
I drew to stay.
***
To anchor myself in a moment where nothing could be fixed,
but something could still be made.
***
The needle stayed in my hand.
The bed stayed cold.
The ceiling didn’t change.
***
But for a few minutes,
I wasn’t just a body being managed.
***
I was someone choosing a line.
Someone deciding a shape.
Someone reminding himself that even here,
even now,
he could still create instead of disappear.
***
People think strength looks loud.
They think it looks like endurance.
***
Sometimes it looks like a quiet sketch
made while life is paused
and all you are allowed to do
is wait.
*******
This piece was written from a moment of waiting, not crisis. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t pain, but the loss of agency. The act of drawing wasn’t meant to be meaningful. It just happened. And maybe that’s the point. When life pauses us, we instinctively reach for something that reminds us we’re still here.
About the Creator
Aarsh Malik
Poet, Storyteller, and Healer.
Sharing self-help insights, fiction, and verse on Vocal.
Anaesthetist.
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Comments (7)
Wow! You tapped into territory I never think about. -Your future becomes a conversation held somewhere you can’t hear. - That line hits pretty hard. Excellent work on this, Aarsh!
Any creative outlet is great for the soul, no matter where you are. Creativity does not choose the place, just the emotion. Great poem.
Waiting indeed is exhausting, especially in a hospital when they don't tell you what is up. Luckily, there's so many small things like drawing or writing poetry to keep us from being idle for too long.
Hospitals are such strange places, I'm glad you could find comfort in your drawings!
Love the drawings and the poetry!! Hope the hospital stay wasn't long! I can relate! I couldn't leave until I could walk up stairs many years ago. I worked on those stairs until I was tired and sore, just to get myself back!💗💕💖
Thank you so much. BLESSINGS
LOVE IT > I need to draw more > I used to paint. I will return. I have lived so much in the hospital. HUGS This piece was written from a moment of waiting, not crisis. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t pain, but the loss of agency. The act of drawing wasn’t meant to be meaningful.