One of the quiet realities of getting older is the gradual surrender of privacy, dignity, and the illusion that we’re still in control of our bodies.

Vanity is one of the first casualties.

It doesn’t disappear overnight. It leaves one doctor’s appointment at a time.

One day you’re worrying about gray hair. A few years later you’re standing in a paper gown that never quite covers what it’s supposed to, while a room full of strangers discusses parts of your anatomy you’ve spent a lifetime trying to keep private.

You are poked. Prodded. Scanned. Scoped. Catheterized. Examined.

Eventually, embarrassment becomes just another thing you no longer have the energy to carry.

As a young healthcare provider, I never really appreciated what that felt like.

For example, I probably inserted hundreds of urinary catheters during my career. I knew the anatomy. I knew the technique. I tried to be gentle.

Then one day I was a patient.

Only then did I understand there is a world of difference between performing a procedure correctly and understanding what it feels like to have one performed on you. Had I known then what I know now, I believe I would have been a better clinician. I certainly would have had more empathy.

I’ve often thought every healthcare provider should experience at least some of the procedures they perform. I know that may not be possible, but I’m sure living on the other side of the bed rail teaches lessons no textbook ever can.

Getting older also teaches us something else.

Our bodies don’t always fail because of one dramatic event.

They lose their reserve.

When we’re young, pneumonia, while serious is still just pneumonia. Surgery is just surgery. We recover because our bodies have reserves we take for granted.

As we age, the problems begin to stack.

A bad knee.

Diabetes.

A bad prostate.

Heart issues.

High blood pressure.

Another medication.

Another specialist.

Another procedure.

None of them alone may be enough to defeat us.

But together they slowly consume our reserves. Eventually something that would have been a minor illness at forty becomes life-threatening at eighty—not because the illness is necessarily worse, but because the body no longer has the reserves to fight it.

There is one observation I made over forty years in hospitals that has never left me.

Patients who are still worried about their hair, whether they’re covered up, or what they look like generally aren’t the ones who concern me the most.

The patients who have lost every trace of vanity…

Those are the ones who worry me.

Because by then they are no longer thinking about how they look.

They are simply trying to survive.

Perhaps that’s one of the quietest indicators of serious illness.

When getting better becomes more important than preserving your pride.

After enough birthdays, enough procedures, and enough revealing paper gowns, you eventually discover something unexpected.

You stop worrying about looking dignified and start concentrating on simply feeling well.

I believe Vanity doesn’t really disappear with age.

Maybe it’s just gets replaced by gratitude for what your body still allows you to do.

* * *

Roger D. Forgey, FACHE, is a retired healthcare executive, nurse practitioner, and Army Lieutenant Colonel with more than 40 years of experience in healthcare leadership. During his career, he served as CEO of multiple hospitals and held senior leadership roles with Erlanger Health System and other regional healthcare organizations. A Fellow of the American College of Healthcare Executives, Forgey has spent his career leading hospitals through growth, change, and crisis. Today, he enjoys writing thoughtful columns on life, leadership, healthcare, faith, and the issues that shape our communities. He lives in Northwest Georgia with his wife. He can be reached at rogerforgey@gmail.com.