Another Visit to the Ward

Posted on September 9, 2005 in Psych Wards

I scratched my chin as I ambled past the conventicle of neighbors standing outside of an open garage immediately beneath my condo. Then I pivoted. “Do any of you know where the nearest liquor store is?”

Their mouths spread agape. “I don’t go to such places,” I said. “So I don’t know where to look.” One suggested the AM-PM Market if I wanted beer. “No,” I said. “I have to buy cigarettes for a friend who is in the hospital.”

I shrugged my shoulders. As I turned away, I seized a brief study of my neighbor Christine’s face. Eyes fled from the pursing of the cheeks and dropping of the jaw. She was in puzzled shock.

Lynn and I laughed about that one as we drove off in the car. We imagined them wondering what kind of friend I was to bring cigarettes to someone in the hospital. Lynn pictured a dying lung cancer patient begging for smokes. Of course, the horrified look might have meant that my neighbor figured out where I was going, the only kind of medical unit where smoking is allowed: a psychiatric ward.

My friend remains in the ward. She improves steadily and now admits that coming to this particular hospital was the best thing that happened to her. She doesn’t make sidetrips into delusions nearly as much as she did. Nor is she given to impulsive actions. Instead of clawing the walls, she bides her time until her release. She knows that she will get out and she uses the group sessions as opportunities to reinforce what she knows. This is good.

The young poetess remains there. A few weeks ago, her father took her out. The release proved premature. She swooped into a chemical orgy. I saw her earlier this week and greeted her by name. She corrected me. The nurse who followed her told me that I’d gotten it right the first time.

The fellow who stood in his nightshirt is still on the ward. He dresses himself and watches television. He’s very softspoken, not a person I fear. We greet each other, shake one another’s hands. I don’t know what is wrong with him, but I believe he’ll make it out.

I did not see the woman who shouted obscenities. A fellow who was prone to anger had been transferred out. “That’s a sad story,” said my friend. “They have a three strikes you’re out rule here. He picked three fights and they sent him to a long term care unit.” The last time I’d visited, I’d stopped to talk to him. He spoke in mews, mutters, and grunts that my friend translated. She used her gift for understanding the language of the deranged and I was grateful for it.

Few mental patients I have met shout: most talk in normal tones or whisper. A few will howl at the end of the hall or, like the poetess, dance around chanting. Most pull back into their rooms or watch television silently. A few play games or chat with the nurses. They know one another’s diagnoses. If they can’t give decent support, at least they will reach out to one another in the spirit of “I’m alive and you’re alive, too.” Which is more than people on the outside do.

When one of the men followed my friend, my wife, and me to the dining area, I drifted back a bit and chatted with him. He told me of his plan to get out of the ward. When Lynn and I left, he would make a break for it. He gave me the exact address in Westminister where he would run. Did he know how far it was? Not very far. It was still in Orange County, so he could get there in an hour or so on foot. I asked him to remind me what he did for a living. The first time we’d spoken, he told me he was a surgeon. I was a witness to a near fight he had with the fellow who’d been banned recently. This fellow kept taunting the smoulderer by saying that his smoking would kill him. The angry patient started shouting through the low growl he effected. “I’m not going to die. You keep saying this smoking thing. That it’s killing me. You’re trying to make me afraid.” The man-volcano kept pumping verbal magma until a nurse asked quietly that he leave the room.

The last time I saw Doctor, he said that he was a psychiatrist. This time, he said that he was both in psychiatry and family practice. “He’s thirty six years old and he lives at home with his parents,” my friend said.

We warned the nurses of Doctor’s plan. When it came time to go, my friend stood just behind the red line watching him while the nurses distracted him. We jumped through the door (marked AWOL RISK on the other side) and retrieved our things from the nurse’s station: keys, Lynn’s purse, and two cell phones.

My friend appreciated her cigarettes, I am sure. I have learned that you never force a psychiatric patient to quit smoking. One crisis at a time is a good rule of thumb here.

Because it was after dark, I did not see my neighbors. How long did they talk about my strange answer? Today, I didn’t go out until late afternoon — for a doctor’s appointment. When I came back, I found the boys setting up their skateboard jump ramp. I smiled and asked how they were doing. The younger of the two boys passed a feral look at me. Was he frightened? Had the adults dissected my odd declaration? Did someone have a memory of my telling them that I suffered from major depression and jump to the all too frequent conclusion that I was an ax murderer? I smiled crookedly, said something mundane, and walked up the stairs to my condo, distressed by the grotesque mask that might have been formed over my true face.