Humble Pie

 

This is a story from my past, dear reader. One I look back on with pain and attempts at gratitude. It is heavy and sad and very much a part of my story. It took a long–a very long time–to write.

Be kind to each other, sweet reader. Read if you wanna go deep, deep into your feelings.

Humble Pie

On this Thursday morning, there were no shouts of defiance when the clocks struck 6. It was eerily silent, save only for the steady breathing of a neighbor–the shuffle of a nurse’s feet. It was a holiday, so the temporary residents of the third floor were awarded the privilege of sleeping in. 

When they finally rose, they did so as ghosts–pushing aside white sheets and white knitted blankets, opening the doors of white rooms to walk down white hallways. With eyes glazed from sleep and sedatives, some showered, some paced, some stared at the spaces between things. Those who remembered wished each other a happy Thanksgiving. Those who had forgotten gave a soft good morning, or spoke only to the noise inside themselves. All were glum. All wished they could be somewhere they were not. 

The third floor of the C.H. Medical Center is a psychiatric ward. Here, those who are a danger to themselves or others are taken to stabilize–some willingly, some by threat of force. They are essentially stripped of their right to freedom; their confinement ends only with a psychiatrist’s signature. 

At Eight-thirty, they shuffled together from the “night side” where they slept, to the “day side” where they would spend the next fourteen hours. The day side is split into three small areas: the dining section, the television section, and the activity section. Here, patients picked the most comfortable patch of space they could find, and perched protectively. 

Breakfast was set out on two round tables in the dining section. Small, blueberry muffins, cereal, and cartons of milk were picked over quickly. A few oranges and a single green apple sat in a large bowl, untouched. Spoons were signed out, and promptly returned upon the meal’s completion–they were a liability. The coffee was not coffee but murky, decaffeinated water, and yet they drank it in big, full gulps, clinging to imitation normalcy. 

When stomachs were full of Frosted Flakes and decaf’s sweet placebo, a community meeting began. Each patient was asked to set a goal for the day, and though many chose not to speak, others made an attempt at optimism. “To have a good day” was among the most common responses–a goal as difficult to accomplish as it was simple to say. It was always met with kind, sympathetic eyes, or a gentle nod of agreement. 

After breakfast, each patient was taken to speak to their assigned psychiatrist, who hid with a clipboard and unchecked freedom behind one of several locked doors. There were three psychiatrists employed by the unit, but on Thanksgiving, there was only Dr. V. A no-nonsense, graying, Peruvian man controlled the freedom of thirty psychiatric patients–not one of them had ever seen him smile. He spoke quickly of medication changes he had or was planning to make. Zoloft from fifty to one hundred, the addition of Seroquel, the necessity of Ativan–this was his language–these were his weapons. Patients had precious few moments with him–maybe five if they asked questions that required more than a yes or no. This time was largely spent attempting to convince him of their stability. “Yes, I am feeling much better,” They would say. “No, I do not feel at all panicked.” They would smile. Even if these were lies, they were delivered with as much sincerity as they could muster. They all wanted out as soon as possible, and Thanksgiving gave their performances even further motivation.

One of those hoping for a signature was sweet, sixty year old R. She moved slowly, even with the aid of a walker. It squeaked loudly from a loose wheel, but she didn’t seem to mind; she paced back and forth across the dining section floor, waiting for her turn with Dr. V. 

R had given birth to three children–two girls and a boy–who she was convinced had inherited her traumatic past. She had been beaten, emotionally starved and belittled by her father, yet she herself had been severed from her children’s lives for more than a decade. Though her daughter did reach out during her stay on the third floor, it was only to tell her that she had brought all ten of R’s cats to a shelter. She was devastated. R had not seen her other daughter or son in years. She was legally stripped of visitation rights, and encouraged by their father to stay as far away as possible. She was an alcoholic and an addict, and her family wanted none of her struggle.

R had worked as a nurse in her thirties and forties, but found it increasingly difficult to focus on patients while consuming only bags of pistachios and cheap, clear liquor. She stopped working, and fell further into her addictions–further from her family. Though she had a few friends, ten cats, and a small lap dog who she committed her entire heart to, she was lonely. Though she longed for her release, on the third floor she was not alone. The third floor was a quiet, sober place for her to rest, and here she spoke freely. R told her companions heartbreaking stories of her past, taking great pains in describing every detail of the day she “met” her son. She had driven in circles for hours, unsure which house was his. She saw a tall man with dark hair sitting on the stoop of an old, white house. She rolled down her window. Not knowing it was him, R asked her son for directions. They embraced–but only briefly. It had been more than a decade. 

R was released at twelve PM on Thanksgiving day. 

R’s story is one of thousands that have paced the third floor; her struggle is one universally shared. This was not a happy place–not a sanctuary of healing. Though necessary, it felt much like hopelessness. Here, people were lost to themselves. 

At twelve-thirty, the pacing stopped; a thanksgiving meal was to be served. Turkey, cranberries, mashed potatoes and gravy sat beside cartons of milk and salt packets. Those not on specialized diets were given small cups of pumpkin pie. Most ate quickly, hungrily, not used to such decadent food. A few words of thanks were muttered between bites, but the air was too heavy to hold much conversation. The knowledge of their shared reality was too much to speak about, so they kept to themselves as they tried to cut their meat without knives. They kept to themselves as they thought of loved ones they missed. 

A woman in a wheelchair smiled encouragingly at a girl with big eyes and hollow cheeks. The girl took a small bite of turkey, and returned the smile sadly. “You are my sunshine.” I didn’t know her, but I cried with her that day.

The battles waged on the third floor are fought within–they do not end with a patient’s release, but follow them through the double doors and onto the streets. Here, there are human beings hurting. They survive bipolar disorder. Depression. Schizophrenia, anorexia, bulimia.  All of this is true, and yet, here there are human beings giving thanks. Here too, they want only to sit beside someone–to share their love.

–

Think about these people sometimes, dear reader. We are still there on days like this–on days of celebration and sadness both. I have long been under my own power. I am doing well, and with this I promise to help those who aren’t.

I love you.