It's an interesting seam to investigate Yasmin. When I had my first baby in 1981, the ward I was in for a few days was in a section of the hospital that had been built (I think) in or just after the war, a single storey block with views across grass to other similar wards, fairly utilitarian but not unpleasant and good to see the grass and sky! Four years later I gave birth to son number 2 in a different hospital with a "natural birthing suite"; they had made a bit of an effort (it was a room with a double bed and a wardrobe - full of medical equipment!) but opening the curtains revealed a view across a 12ft wide gulley to another wall! It wasn’t until three and bit decades later (luckily for me) that I was in hospital again and the views to the outside couldn’t have been more of a contrast. I’d fallen off a bike and damaged my windpipe while out on a ride in the Vienna Woods with the second son, who’d moved to Austria a few years earlier. I ended up in a ward on the 6th floor of Vienna General hospital for four days (instead of the planned trip to the Tyrol!), arriving in the dark, so was unaware until the next morning of what was beyond the curtains.
It was a staggering view that greeted me and immediately took the focus away from my bruised and swollen neck - I was very uncomfortable but after scans and some medication I was deemed not in any imminent danger but to remain there for observation, and (alarming) daily endoscopy explorations of the inside of my windpipe (a tiny camera poked up my nose and down into my throat) happily confirming that the swelling was reducing. So I spent my time, day and night, gawping out of the window at an eye-stretching panorama of practically the complete city, and (the icing on the cake!), beyond to the mountain peaks of the Little Carpathian range across the border in Slovakia; a vista worthy of an expensive hotel! It was May and the swifts had arrived so I would watch them zooming at my eye level above and between the roofs of the city, old and new, guiding me to pick out a building to learn about from a guide book and map (internet access not good), and visits from my son. All of this created a rich and stimulating distraction, surely good for the healing process.
The view even incorporated an incinerator chimney, but not one likely to give anyone the heebie-jeebies! It was the flamboyant chimney of the exotic Spittelau city incinerator, designed by renowned artist, designer and architect Hundertwasser in the early 1990s! If you’d like to see some of these wonderful vistas there are some photos (amongst other ‘before, and after the fall’ photos of the trip!) on this flickr album, some with captions identifying the buildings https://flic.kr/s/aHBqjAWJ7m
Oh Liz, what varied experiences of hospitalisation! Thank you for your comment.
From green grass to blank walls and mountains. Amazing. I'm so glad you recovered well from the awful bike accident. I'm sure the view will have made a difference. Can you imagine how you would have felt if all you had seen was a blank wall?!
It's also nice to hear reference to Hundertwasser... a unique mind! All movement and colour. Love his work.
And you've reminded me of a lovely holiday I had with my son in Vienna a few years back. We both very much enjoyed exploring the city. Does your son still live there? Do you visit often?
It is a fascinating city isn't it, and with easy access to beautiful countryside nearby. We don't go often enough sadly, it's all a bit expensive! But our son does still live there with his partner and they're expecting their first baby this week, so we'll definitely be going again soon!
My experience in a hospital setting was terrible, curtains drawn so I did not have to look at the parking lot or was it a box for an extension building. One of my first actions upon discharge was outside - sit in the sun, sniff the ponderosa trees, I even walked with crutches and a full leg splint up a trail where the altitude stopped people who rested at the trail edge and in full determination I kept going. I remember looking as awful as I felt in the photos.
It seems incongruous to me that sterile spaces are believed to be more healthful than ones of nature - greenery, the flow of water, sunlight. But similarly, it seems, conversations revolve around health as something managed by a pill instead of a prescription pad that might simply say, "walk outside, no less than 30 minutes a day."
I wish I could wave a magic wand and create a healthy healthcare environment. As writers, we have limited influence but we can shine a spotlight on the things that work.
I'm fascinated by your trail walk while incapacitated, Stacy. The sight of you wielding crutches must have been quite something for other walkers to behold!
In retrospect, it was not kind. When others are struggling for air, and me very fit except for the injury, it might have looked like I was showing off. I'd rather support others effort, but I was having a very selfish moment.
This is a really good and interesting piece, we need more place writing like this to initiate conversations and action around the subject of medical environments. I was struck by these words: “And what you see through the window plays a vital role in your capacity to heal. Place is framed by your condition and by the window itself.”
Just as someone might view themselves as separate from nature, interior and exterior spaces in medical environments can add to that disconnect. As you will know, it’s well-documented that sterile and impersonal spaces can affect patients feelings of well-being. And that visually engaging and sensory exterior spaces can enhance the healing experience. But what if one is bed-bound on the 5th floor of a hospital in an uninspiring room with an uninspiring view? Air purifying houseplants, indoor gardens, artwork, soundscapes… but we can well imagine that patient-centred design is restricted by a heap of constraints, not least a lack of funding and regulations.
On a personal note, I was commissioned to design a sensory garden for a person with early onset Alzheimer’s, and years before, for a person living with AIDS in, as it turned out, his final years (the pharmaceuticals widely available today just weren’t available at that time.) These were profound, humbling experiences, and steep learning curves, I had to research so much so quickly. Thankfully, these gardens were well-received and brought comfort to their people…
… So the view from my (metaphorical) hospital window serves as a reminder of nature’s (our) beauty and resilience.
Your comments echo my thoughts, Bee. Our surroundings have an enormous impact on our wellbeing, physical and mental, and when we're hospitalised, even for one night, we're forced to live in an unreal 'manufactured' situation. It can be disconcerting, even frightening, and this has real consequences on our ability to heal.
Your gardens must be a joy to work on. I look forward to hearing more about them in your Substack.
The only time I have been in hospital overnight was after I had my first baby by cesarean section. I hated being in hospital - the food (I had to get my partner to bring in food I liked), the noise, the lack of privacy. But the one positive was that when woken at 6 in the morning I could look out at the sunrise over trees visible from the window I was lucky enough to be next to.
You were lucky to have had a glimpse of nature from your hospital bed. It must have been heartwarming to see the sun rise! Thank you for your comment Julia!
Hospitals are the most soulless places I know. There is so much more we could do, with an understanding of how place and space matters to the patient experience.
What do you see from your hospital room?
It's an interesting seam to investigate Yasmin. When I had my first baby in 1981, the ward I was in for a few days was in a section of the hospital that had been built (I think) in or just after the war, a single storey block with views across grass to other similar wards, fairly utilitarian but not unpleasant and good to see the grass and sky! Four years later I gave birth to son number 2 in a different hospital with a "natural birthing suite"; they had made a bit of an effort (it was a room with a double bed and a wardrobe - full of medical equipment!) but opening the curtains revealed a view across a 12ft wide gulley to another wall! It wasn’t until three and bit decades later (luckily for me) that I was in hospital again and the views to the outside couldn’t have been more of a contrast. I’d fallen off a bike and damaged my windpipe while out on a ride in the Vienna Woods with the second son, who’d moved to Austria a few years earlier. I ended up in a ward on the 6th floor of Vienna General hospital for four days (instead of the planned trip to the Tyrol!), arriving in the dark, so was unaware until the next morning of what was beyond the curtains.
It was a staggering view that greeted me and immediately took the focus away from my bruised and swollen neck - I was very uncomfortable but after scans and some medication I was deemed not in any imminent danger but to remain there for observation, and (alarming) daily endoscopy explorations of the inside of my windpipe (a tiny camera poked up my nose and down into my throat) happily confirming that the swelling was reducing. So I spent my time, day and night, gawping out of the window at an eye-stretching panorama of practically the complete city, and (the icing on the cake!), beyond to the mountain peaks of the Little Carpathian range across the border in Slovakia; a vista worthy of an expensive hotel! It was May and the swifts had arrived so I would watch them zooming at my eye level above and between the roofs of the city, old and new, guiding me to pick out a building to learn about from a guide book and map (internet access not good), and visits from my son. All of this created a rich and stimulating distraction, surely good for the healing process.
The view even incorporated an incinerator chimney, but not one likely to give anyone the heebie-jeebies! It was the flamboyant chimney of the exotic Spittelau city incinerator, designed by renowned artist, designer and architect Hundertwasser in the early 1990s! If you’d like to see some of these wonderful vistas there are some photos (amongst other ‘before, and after the fall’ photos of the trip!) on this flickr album, some with captions identifying the buildings https://flic.kr/s/aHBqjAWJ7m
Oh Liz, what varied experiences of hospitalisation! Thank you for your comment.
From green grass to blank walls and mountains. Amazing. I'm so glad you recovered well from the awful bike accident. I'm sure the view will have made a difference. Can you imagine how you would have felt if all you had seen was a blank wall?!
It's also nice to hear reference to Hundertwasser... a unique mind! All movement and colour. Love his work.
And you've reminded me of a lovely holiday I had with my son in Vienna a few years back. We both very much enjoyed exploring the city. Does your son still live there? Do you visit often?
It is a fascinating city isn't it, and with easy access to beautiful countryside nearby. We don't go often enough sadly, it's all a bit expensive! But our son does still live there with his partner and they're expecting their first baby this week, so we'll definitely be going again soon!
Ah, congratulations to your son and his partner! Do keep us updated.
My experience in a hospital setting was terrible, curtains drawn so I did not have to look at the parking lot or was it a box for an extension building. One of my first actions upon discharge was outside - sit in the sun, sniff the ponderosa trees, I even walked with crutches and a full leg splint up a trail where the altitude stopped people who rested at the trail edge and in full determination I kept going. I remember looking as awful as I felt in the photos.
It seems incongruous to me that sterile spaces are believed to be more healthful than ones of nature - greenery, the flow of water, sunlight. But similarly, it seems, conversations revolve around health as something managed by a pill instead of a prescription pad that might simply say, "walk outside, no less than 30 minutes a day."
I wish I could wave a magic wand and create a healthy healthcare environment. As writers, we have limited influence but we can shine a spotlight on the things that work.
I'm fascinated by your trail walk while incapacitated, Stacy. The sight of you wielding crutches must have been quite something for other walkers to behold!
In retrospect, it was not kind. When others are struggling for air, and me very fit except for the injury, it might have looked like I was showing off. I'd rather support others effort, but I was having a very selfish moment.
It’s that selfish independent strength that gets you through the tough times.
Sometimes it is the only way to see outside the dark window ...
Thank you, Yasmin.
This is a really good and interesting piece, we need more place writing like this to initiate conversations and action around the subject of medical environments. I was struck by these words: “And what you see through the window plays a vital role in your capacity to heal. Place is framed by your condition and by the window itself.”
Just as someone might view themselves as separate from nature, interior and exterior spaces in medical environments can add to that disconnect. As you will know, it’s well-documented that sterile and impersonal spaces can affect patients feelings of well-being. And that visually engaging and sensory exterior spaces can enhance the healing experience. But what if one is bed-bound on the 5th floor of a hospital in an uninspiring room with an uninspiring view? Air purifying houseplants, indoor gardens, artwork, soundscapes… but we can well imagine that patient-centred design is restricted by a heap of constraints, not least a lack of funding and regulations.
On a personal note, I was commissioned to design a sensory garden for a person with early onset Alzheimer’s, and years before, for a person living with AIDS in, as it turned out, his final years (the pharmaceuticals widely available today just weren’t available at that time.) These were profound, humbling experiences, and steep learning curves, I had to research so much so quickly. Thankfully, these gardens were well-received and brought comfort to their people…
… So the view from my (metaphorical) hospital window serves as a reminder of nature’s (our) beauty and resilience.
Your comments echo my thoughts, Bee. Our surroundings have an enormous impact on our wellbeing, physical and mental, and when we're hospitalised, even for one night, we're forced to live in an unreal 'manufactured' situation. It can be disconcerting, even frightening, and this has real consequences on our ability to heal.
Your gardens must be a joy to work on. I look forward to hearing more about them in your Substack.
The only time I have been in hospital overnight was after I had my first baby by cesarean section. I hated being in hospital - the food (I had to get my partner to bring in food I liked), the noise, the lack of privacy. But the one positive was that when woken at 6 in the morning I could look out at the sunrise over trees visible from the window I was lucky enough to be next to.
You were lucky to have had a glimpse of nature from your hospital bed. It must have been heartwarming to see the sun rise! Thank you for your comment Julia!
Hospitals are the most soulless places I know. There is so much more we could do, with an understanding of how place and space matters to the patient experience.
Soulless. Yes. It's good to learn about alternative positive experiences.