THE BIN
PART V
ELIZABETH BODINE
Finally…
All told, this experience lasted only ten days from beginning to end. Hard for me to believe. Obviously, while rolling in the deep, any bad episode feels like a unpleasant eternity.
What, you’re surely wondering, did we during each endless day?
Activity in the ward included many unending interviews — whether “therapeutic,” diagnostic, whatever — with people in charge who acted as though they knew what they were doing but didn’t.
Here’s an example.
One morning, as we were seated together waiting for breakfast, a white-coated lady with a clipboard approached the table. Bending over each patient individually, in a completely audible “whisper,” Clipboard would say something like, “okay, are you Maria? No? Who are you? Claire? Okay, Claire, how come you’re here? What happened?”
And Clair would mumble something like, “Baker Acted..” Then Clipboard, still loudly whispering, “Okay, Baker Acted, did you hurt yourself, try to kill yourself?” Claire — “um-hmm..”
Clipboard, “And why was that? Just tell me. Nobody else can hear us.” Actually, everyone heard every word. Anyone heard of HIPAA?
Clipboard turned out to be an advance guard for the panel of experts scheduled to interview patients on that day. Research conducted for these meetings apparently consisted of whatever incomprehensible rubbish had been extracted during Clipboard’s inquiries.
It was profoundly clear that such interviews or events served no particular purpose for us; but they did fulfill staff requirements. And provided information for reports which were pointless and repetitive. However, participating in these efforts took up the morning — waiting, talking, answering, waiting.
I should say at this point — if not by now obvious — there was no treatment happening here. No relief. Just a lot of meds, sleep, and activities (occupational) clearly designed to keep us from trying to jump through the barred windows.
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I guess this stuff would in some alternative dimension be considered Crafts. As in Arts and Crafts. Perfect for anyone in or under the fourth grade. Still, it was something. We got instructions from a very nice woman and then we were on our own. We made things. Bead bracelets or other crafty pieces of jewelry.
And we made or at least worked on woven baskets. Some folks however, simply retired to a quiet table and quietly, endlessly unraveled anagrams or finding words from a sea of letters on a single sheet. These were our afternoons.
Anagrams, beads..baskets..license plates..no, just kidding about the license plates. I actually sort of got into it, the beaded jewelry part. Made stuff for my friends and family. Which was a good thing; it was essential that I participate freely (if not enthusiastically) and produce — If I expected toget out
In fact, I enjoyed the beads and eventually plan to enroll in a real jewelry-making class There’s one in my local Adult Education place.
Still, discharge was the shining light leading everyone through the dark.
Could we influence or effect discharge? When would we prove ourselves sane and safe members of society?
There were no guidelines, rules, traditions, standard operating procedures. It was out of our hands and up to the nameless higher authorities. I mean, we weren’t criminals. Okay, most of us weren’t criminals. We didn’t have to redeem ourselves. We just had to get (or seem) better.
Which goal required that we comply with all staff: elaborately bored doctors, frazzled, overburdened nurses, and always exhausted aides. And of course, to engage in activities. In essence, we were compelled to quietly collaborate with those running the place.
My stay seemed to march aimlessly on and on. Those examining our individual comportment as we meandered around our hopefully projected departures had no actual interest in keeping us there, but they took their time in agreeing to unleash us.
A significant number of patients were too sick to move absent, custom long-range planning. There were liability issues inherent in releasing anyone who might do real damage on the outside. Nothing was easy for anybody in this small but dispassionate passion play.
Fortunately, I was functional and obviously safe with myself once the immediate stress was eliminated (if only by function of absence from my previous circumstances). I had family anxious to help me get back on my feet and a good psychiatrist. Accordingly, I was a okay candidate for discharge.
AT LAST!!!
Seven days (don’t forget: the first three were in isolation) after I’d been rolled in on a stretcher, I walked out the door. (Once guided through tunnels, stairs, elevators, overpasses and a courtyard), I fell into the arms of waiting family members. It was over.
Okay, not over. I had to work on a lot of stuff to be really better. I hadn’t actually made friends — but I found myself fond of those with whom I had connected. I understood that I had been luckier than many.
NO MORE
