Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Psych Ward

She didn’t expect to have to come back here. Two long weeks and seven hundred miles later, here she was again. Three different medicine combinations had been tried, and Mom wasn’t back yet. She could see hints of her somewhere behind those 87-year-old eyes. Mom was in there somewhere. Come back one more time, Mom, she thought. Even if it’s just to say good-bye.

She walked off the fourth floor elevator and passed an elderly gentleman. He seemed a little dazed. It’s a madhouse in there, he said. She smiled. Yes, yes it is. She laughed to herself. What did you expect? she asked him silently. There are crazy people in there! Perhaps this was his first visit to the psych ward. Perhaps he had to leave his wife there, and it was breaking his heart. She knew that feeling well. This was her fourth or fifth time. She had lost count. It never got any easier.

She waited at the door to the locked unit for someone to let her in. She stated her mother’s name. Sign in at the desk, the aide said. Like they do every single time. She recognized some of the patients. Ruth was doing her usual silent pacing, leaning slightly forward in her determined gait, marching the unit perimeter over and over. Heaven knows where Ruth is going, but she’ll be pretty fit when she gets there. Black Chris was in his wheeled recliner in the Group Therapy room, near the window so the nurses could see him. He must have been yelling profanities again. White Chris was reclined in the hall in front of the station, with a handful of other non-ambulatory patients. The nurses like to bring them out where the action is. Sometimes White Chris smiled when she looked at him. Not today. Phil was in the hall. He must be in time out. Did you pinch another nurse, Phil? she asked as she passed him. He winked at her.

She walked to her mother’s room and Bob followed her in. You can’t come in here, she told him for the umpteenth time. This is a woman’s room and you’re not allowed in here. She guided him out and he planted himself in a chair in the hall. She and Mom headed for the lounge, and Bob followed them in and sat in the corner. The usual litany followed. The food is bad. The doctor is a bitch. No one comes when you call. I’ll never be well enough to leave here. I’ll never go home again. She uttered some reassurances, trying not to make empty promises, forcing herself to be optimistic. If she truly believed Mom would get better, if she refused to accept the alternative, maybe she could make it happen. Clapping for Tinkerbell.

After a few hands of rummy, she walked Mom back to the room. She waited at the unit door for someone to let her out. She heard a woman moaning loudly. She heard it most days, but she never saw the patient. She didn’t know if they were wails of physical pain or emotional despair. A man’s voice reached her as she tried to clear the thought from her head. Isn’t anyone going to help me? he bellowed over and over. She heard him a lot, too. Why do they call them patients? she wondered.

An aide unlocked the door and let her out. She smiled and thanked the woman, relieved to be able to escape. She didn’t know how anyone could work there, but she was grateful that somebody could. She walked to the elevator and pushed the button. She thought of the old man she had passed earlier.

Yes, sir. It’s a madhouse in there.

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