Day 4 of 7

Standard warning applies.

Saturday passed quietly. I began writing in my marble composition book. The same kind school children tote in their brightly colored plastic backpacks. I began to keep this account, jotting down notes with a contraband pen. Another patient had given it to me when he heard me talking to my husband about how much I wanted one. We were only allowed small pre-sharpened gold pencils. When they dulled (as they did at a frustratingly fast pace) we had to return them to reception and trade for a new one. My black click-pen became my most jealously guarded treasure. With it I could actually write, not scribble and smudge my letters on the page.

My husband called at noon. He told me he had informed my father about what was going on and that my father would be in town on Monday to see me. He also promised another treasure; photos of my dogs. My dogs are my children. My husband and I have never wanted human kids, so we’ve filled our lives with “fur-kids”. We have two dogs, two hedgehogs, four snakes, and one very opinionated cat. We had decided nine children were enough and stopped getting new ones after the cat. But I digress. My father was going to visit and both my husband and my father planned on being there for my next “team” meeting.

By this time my husband was just as irritated by my treatment as I was. He was a certified nursing assistant and everywhere he looked on my ward he saw lawsuits waiting to happen. But because the victims were all mentally unstable according to the doctors no one would believe us, even if we filed. There was a phone number for free legal advice by the phone. But even if you went to court, your doctor said they were doing what was best for you and you ended up back on the ward. Surrounded by the people you’d just tried to sue. Being dependent on their good graces. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that fighting to be let out is a waste of time and results in poorer care than you had before. Only now you’ve cried wolf and have even less credibility if possible.

See here’s the thing with not having clocks, you can’t document abuses accurately. You can say ‘between lunch time and afternoon snack’ and the nurse or doctor in question can show documentation that they were somewhere else. With my problem of getting different information than my husband? Forget it. It was my word against theirs, and they were doctors with years of experience. I was getting involuntary inpatient “treatment” for being a danger to myself. They have all sorts of paperwork shoulding what I was “told”. I have my account of what was said. Patients aren’t allowed recording devices. Cameras don’t record sound. It’s “they said/she said” where the She is alone and discredited by their very presence. So there the patients remain.

Saturday night the screaming started. The night before there had been a fight and one of the other patients had been sent to the “quiet room”. This was the rubber terror cell I had been triaged in. While he was locked in there one of the orderlies took it upon himself to taunt him.

“Awww little baby gonna cry? Little baby all alone? How do you like it in there? Maybe next time you won’t lose your temper!” He was laughing.

This was the same orderly who held his clipboard up to block the clock when another patient tried to tell thee time. He finds the best way to antagonize patients, knowing full well that it’s our word against his. And we are in the loony bin.

The patient in the “quiet room” had been in the ward for seven months. He had anger issues, but for the most part he was sweet and helpful. He also had an uncomfortably pronounced crush on me. Every time I left my room he watched me like a hawk, looking for ways to help me. He was never more than a few feet away whenever my husband was visiting. But he snuck me a watch, an extra pillow, and drew me a picture of daisies. He’s also the one who gave my husband the phone number to reach me, visiting hours, phone hours, and all the other information we should have gotten when I was brought in.

Now he was screaming at the orderly and slamming himself into the rubber wall of the “quiet room”. My room shared a wall. He managed my make my bed shake in his rage.

When he stopped the screams started from a new patient. She was wheelchair bound and required constant supervision. Every time an orderly or a nurse got close to her, not even touching her, she’d scream about how they were hurting her. She was so loud that I could hear her clearly in my room, with the door closed, down the hall, with hearing problems.

Then something miraculous happened. My night nurse came in and apologized. He, unlike any doctor I’d dealt with while trapped, treated me like an adult with dignity. Until you’ve been denied that basic courtesy you have no idea how good it feels to be treated like you matter. He asked me how I was and I told him my frustrations, particularly about the medication and group therapy being pushed on me. He actually listened. The first person to do so who wasn’t a fellow patient or my husband.. He agreed that what was happening to me was bullshit, told me I had been stable every time he’d talked to me, and told me to stick to my guns. He said I was doing what I needed to in order to get out and if the doctors tried to hold me because I continued to refuse medication I had grounds to sue them. He was interested in my dogs, my business, my life outside my depression. I can’t emphasize how much that actually helped me.

I was able to sleep that night.

Day 3 of 7

Again, Notes from the Ward can be skipped if any of this is triggering. The last thing I want is to cause someone else discomfort.

They came at 6:30am to try to take my blood. I panicked again and refused. I’d spent so long not sleeping that I no longer knew if I was awake or asleep. My nightmares were the ward, my waking world was the ward, I refused to see if they’d listen. If they did, I was awake, if not I was still asleep.They shrugged and walked out.

I read until breakfast. They still came to try and get me to go to group therapy. I was in debilitating pain. I asked for pain medication and was told they would bring it right away. No one did. I couldn’t move. I wasn’t going to try and struggle my way to group when I wouldn’t be able to hear, so I wouldn’t get anything out of it.

I was brought to my “team”. I’d had it implied that I was going to go home that day, being Friday, and I felt it was worth it to struggle to where my “team” waited for me. I sat in the chair, facing the whole group as though I was in an interrogation. They asked how I was doing and I asked about pain medication. It was then that I was told why I hadn’t had any since the night before. Apparently they were waiting on the results of a pregnancy test, though no one saw fit to tell me. Nor had they considered that they’d already been giving me pain  medication for days before that. I was irritated but decided to bite my tongue on it. I asked when I was going home.  

My social worker told me she was working on my transfer to another hospital. But that it wouldn’t go through until Monday at the earliest. And I shouldn’t get my hopes up that I was leaving that soon. She started talking about medication. I didn’t really hear her. I started begging to go home. I brought up my back, my hearing issues, my blood pressure being dangerously low. My doctor refused. I got up and left.

I tried to call my husband. I couldn’t. The phones were off. I couldn’t reach him until between noon and one pm. Which meant my social worker called him and told him about the meeting before I could. I went back to my room and cried. I didn’t have a clock, I couldn’t tell exactly what time it was, and none of the orderlies would tell me. But lunch was served at noon, I could call my husband then. I clung to that and read one of the books he’d left me.

I shouldn’t have worried. My husband called as soon as the clock struck 12. I was trying to struggle up to go call  him when one of the patients came to tell me he was on line. And I’d better hurry to the phone since I only got 15 minutes because there was only one in bound phone.

I tried to tell him about my meeting with my “team”. He told me what the social worker had said first. He’d been told that I screamed at the doctor, started crying, then ran out of the room. Heavily implying that they believed my back problems were a lie to try for special treatment. She also told him that I was emotionally unstable and had no control of myself. They were going to try to transfer me to my hospital of choice on Monday, but it would be another in patient because the doctor didn’t believe I could handle out patient. He told me he didn’t believe them, he believed me, he loved me, and he would be there at 4:30. Then we hung up because we’d run out of time.

I struggled back to my room. A nurse came around and finally gave me another dose of pain medication. It was the first I’d had since the night before, apparently my pregnancy test came back negative. The medication was starting not to do anything for me, but it was all I had to at least dull the pain so I kept taking it. The walk to and from the phone had caused my back to seize up again. I’d lost my chance to pee. Thankfully I hadn’t been drinking anything since I knew I wouldn’t be able to move often. Grinding glass in gears is that much more unbearable with a full bladder.

One of my therapists came to talk to me privately. I told her I wanted to go home. I told her about the nightmares, the not sleeping, the constant pain. I told her this place was making me worse. She told me there was nothing she could do, that I was there for as long as the doctor thought I was a danger to myself. Pointing out that keeping me here was a positive feedback loop of pain and depression fell on deaf ears. Monday was the earliest though could transfer me. They wouldn’t discharge me until they had a therapist appointment for me. Meaning I wasn’t getting out Monday either. I asked her point blank how long until I could go home. She couldn’t answer. I went back to my book.

My husband arrived at 4:30 like he’d promised. He was confronted by a half emotionally vacant wife. I was shutting down out of self preservation. I couldn’t hope anymore. I’d accepted that I was never going home. My life had become my small white cot in a small white room with my Spanish speaking roommate. I was resigned to living the rest of my life under the watchful eye of ceiling cameras and silent orderlies. My husband could only promise to try to get me out. Apparently my social worker called him again. She told him that for me to be discharged on Monday I had to show I had control over my emotions and go to group therapy. Otherwise they were holding me indefinitely until I did.

I had been adamant on three things since I was committed.  I did not want medication, I  wanted to go home, I was not going to group therapy. I saw no point. I would struggle painfully to get there, sit and be unable to hear and therefore unable to participate, then struggle painfully back to my room. I’d bet money I didn’t have that if I went it wouldn’t be enough. I wouldn’t be able to participate to my doctor’s standards. I did not trust my doctor or my social worker. They were more concerned about shoving me through a mold to fit their perception of what I should be, rather than actually helping me get better.

As for emotional stability? I was trapped in a destabilizing feedback loop. I couldn’t sleep, when I did the nightmares came. I couldn’t eat for fear I’d vomit and be diagnosed with some eating disorder I didn’t have. Hospitals set me on edge at the best of times, cold, sterile, and white didn’t do comforting things to my brain. I was constantly being given hope of home, having it ripped away, and being told with smug smiles my constant pain was all in my head. I thought I was showing tremendous emotional control by only crying. I’d frequently day dreamed about slugging the smug smile off of my social worker’s face. But I did not. I did not scream, I did not assault my doctors, even as they ignored me yet again and tried to push medication.  

That night my husband managed to get me a walker. He couldn’t bring my cane, I wasn’t allowed to have it. But he convinced an orderly that I wasn’t faking my back pain and I did in fact need something to help get around with. They gave me one without wheels, that I had to lift in order to move. But it was something and kept me from falling. He also managed to get me the notebook I’d been promised the day before. I never got anything when I asked, but he did what he could to make that place more bearable for me.

Day 2 of 7

Again, the Notes from the Ward posts CAN BE SKIPPED if discussions of medical fuckery, depression, PTSD ect is triggering and you are not able to read it. Dog posts will resume after day 7.

I was woken up on Thursday morning by an orderly saying “We need to do her too.” and feeling someone grab my arm. They’d come to draw blood. I panicked and pulled back against the wall and refused to allow them to come at me with needles. They shrugged and left. It was some time around 6 am or so.

Some time later a different orderly came by to take my blood pressure again. They didn’t let me see what it was, nor did they speak to me. I continued to lie there, unable to move because of the pain in my back, with nothing to do except stare at white walls and ceiling. I started trying to imagine what time it was and picture what time my husband would finally be there.

The community organizer arrived and handed me a hot pink slip of paper with all of the group therapy sessions outlined. I again notified him that I did not intend to attend any group sessions due to my pain and my hearing problems. I asked for paper to write or draw on to pass the time. He told me the doctor was running late and would be in to see me when they got back from court. That should have been my first clue about my therapist. I asked that my husband be brought to whatever room I was in when he got there, I didn’t care if I was in with the doctor, I’d signed a HIPPA release at Crisis the night before and would sign another at the hospital if I had to.

“Oh, you’re expecting your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Ok.” And he walked out.

I went back to waiting. It was about 10am or so I believe when my social worker walked in. Again I answered the same questions, wondering by this point why they didn’t just write things down. I’d seen everyone taking notes when I’d spoken to them, but apparently none of it made it into my file. I asked if my husband was there yet. She told me that they didn’t have a good number for him and he hadn’t called yet so they were waiting on him; but would I mind signing a HIPPA release for him for when he got there? I signed. She handed me another sheet of paper that she didn’t let me read, just demanded I sign. I was sleep deprived and not thinking so I did. It was consent to treat me and agreement to follow the recommended treatments prescribed by my doctor. She left.

I resumed waiting for my husband. Alternating between crying and falling asleep because my body couldn’t handle the stress anymore. Another orderly took my blood pressure. It was dropping. I was about 15 points lower than normal. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. I felt like I was going to throw up if I did.

Eventually my doctor showed up. He was a soft spoken Indian man. I answered the same questions yet again. He sat there nodding knowingly while I spoke. I was trying to cooperate, hoping that if I did they would send me home to the out patient therapy I’d been asking for. I explained my back pain, my hearing problems, that I did not want medication or group therapy and explained my reasons for both. When I finished he drove a stake through me.

“This is all from guilt. You feel guilty because you feel emotion for your ex boyfriend and duty for your husband.” I shut down. I had just tried to bare my soul to this man and he decided to focus on the type of consensual, mutually fulfilling relationship my husband and I have, rather than the actual problems or stressors. He continued talking but I barely heard him.

I asked if anyone had heard from my husband yet. No they hadn’t. And they didn’t have a good number to reach him, because he never gave it to crisis. I gave them the number for my office and told them to call there and get his number from them. He took the number and left.

I went back to waiting. Finally, after lunch and afternoon snack time, but before dinner an orderly came to tell me that my husband was there. I asked that he be brought back to see me, since my back felt like glass being ground between rusty gears. I hadn’t had pain medication since I was triaged.

That wasn’t allowed. I had to get up and go to the day room if I wanted to see him. If I didn’t get up and go there then they were going to tell him that I didn’t want to see him and send him home. For the first time since I’d been there I lost tight control of my temper. I screamed at the nurse that I couldn’t walk.

“Well why not?” Her tone was snotty, as though I was being stubborn for the sake of being a personal annoyance to her.

“Because of the back problems I have told every god damned doctor and nurse in this place about!” She gave me the look an exacerbated mother gives the toddler throwing a fit in public.

“There was nothing in your chart about back problems. I’ll get you motrin but you still need to go to the day room to see your husband.” She turned and left.

That walk was the most painful one I have ever taken. I had no cane, no help, no pain medication. I had to lean on the walls for support. Not a single orderly or nurse even asked what was wrong, let alone tried to help me get there. Another patient came to help me when I needed to cross a large open space with no wall support. A man who had been there for seven months with anger and control issues was more merciful and helpful than the nursing staff. And he got yelled at for touching another patient. With his help I made it to my husband and collapsed on him. My legs were shaking from pain and I was physically and emotionally exhausted. My husband picked me up and carried me to the couch. The nurse brought me motrin while my husband was looking, so he saw me being taken care of.

All I could do was sob and beg him to get me out. Eventually I calmed down enough to ask him why he’d broken his promise, why he hadn’t come in the morning. He’d tried.

At 9 in the morning he called the Crisis center, asking if I was still there because he was never notified I was transferred. He was told where I was taken and given a number to call. When he called they told him I wasn’t there. He called Crisis back. They’d given him the wrong number. He called the hospital I was in and they refused to confirm that I was there. Crisis never transferred the HIPPA release over. He called Crisis back and was told that they couldn’t transfer it over, that I’d have to sign a new one. He called my hospital again. They still refused to talk to him, even to just confirm that’s where I was. As far as he knew I was lost in the system.

He kept calling. Finally they handed him over to my social worker. She’d just finished with me and was “about to call him”. On what number I have no idea, since they perpetually claimed they didn’t have a number for him to me. She confirmed I was there, but that visiting hours didn’t start until 4:30pm and they ran until 8:30pm and he could see me then. At no point did they tell him I was asking for him, nor did they ever tell me he was calling. Nor did they tell me when visiting hours were.

My husband knew me well enough to know that I hadn’t eaten. Even with no one telling him anything. He brought me three different kinds of juice and my favorite chips, hoping to calm me down enough to keep something in my belly. I picked at it. He kept me drinking the sugary juice, handing me cup after cup until I’d drunk it all without noticing.

While he was doing that, and I was hiccuping trying to calm back down, the helpful patient gave him the phone number to call me, the times the phones were open, the number to my social worker, weekend visiting hours, basically everything neither of us had been given. When I could breathe again I started telling my husband what had happened that day.

My husband doesn’t get angry. He balances out my scottish red-head temper that way. He wasn’t angry. He was livid. My husband is a certified nursing assistant. He’s been trained as to what is and is not acceptable in a hospital ward. He began taking notes, and asking other patients for their stories.

The helpful patient was there for anger management and control issues. The hospital didn’t offer anger management courses. He was there until such time as they found the medication that worked best on him and/or he magically learned how to control himself. In the mean time several of the orderlies made a sport out of taunting him until he lost his temper. When that happened he came out swinging and they tossed him in the “quiet room”. He had the same social worker as me. She didn’t give him information either.

An older gentleman had been involuntarily committed, just like me, only he came from the cardiac ward of the hospital. He’d been classified as a danger to himself and others when he was up there. One of the doctors began talking down to him and he, being in his 60s and not one to deal with being treated like he was six, cursed the doctor out. He was brought to the psych ward while he was supposed to be under observation after just having a stent put in his heart. My doctor had been in court because he was suing the hospital to be taken back to the medical ward. He’d won. Which is why my doctor had been so short tempered when he came to see me.

While we were sitting there we saw an orderly lift his clipboard to block the one clock in the hallway when a patient tried to see what time it was. Another came and took my blood pressure again. In the public space. And he’d had the machine angled so everyone but me could see what it read. Another popped in to tell helpful patient to leave us alone and not ‘bug’ us. They were none too happy with my husband taking notes, but couldn’t stop him.

8:30pm hit. My husband left, swearing he’d be back the next day. He told me that the doctor told him I was leaving the next day. That he needed to hold me for a second day of observation to make sure I hadn’t just been having a lucid day, then I could go home. He told me he’d call when the phones were open and he’d be back to take me home. He took my dirty clothes, left me clean ones and books, and went home.

I stumbled back to my room, again clinging to walls but not given help. I settled back into my bed and tried to read. I cried again and passed out. Then the nightmares started. I couldn’t tell if I was awake or asleep half the time, my nightmares were the ward I was trapped in. I dreamed of a succession of orderlies coming in to check on me. I dreamed of medication being forced down my throat. I dreamed of my doctor telling me I’d never get out. I woke up every time the door opened and caused light from the hall to fall across my face. Rounds were every 15 minutes. I’m not sure how much I actually slept. But I know I didn’t get any rest one way or the other.

What has Happened And Abrupt Topic Change for This Blog

Trigger warnings (yes there are many): Depression, attempted suicide, involuntary commitment, unpleasant medical actions, PTSD development and on going treatment.

What the hell happened to the Heathens? Is this still a dog blog?

Yes it is. With my PTSD diagnosis we are training Baldr (the husky/lab/pit mix) to act as my service dog. After we get through the Notes From the Ward section (which is entirely skip-able if you are not comfortable with a recounting of what gave me medical induced PTSD) we will go to the on going training of Baldr Heathen. This blog will also contain reading suggestions as well as links to local laws regarding service dogs.

With that in mind, grab a seat, grab a coping mechanism, and lets begin.

Introduction and day 1:

Allow me to preface by saying that yes I did need help. I had made a plan to kill myself, yet snapped before I had planned and made a half-hearted attempt about a week before I’d intended to end my life. A lot has been written about the subject of suicide so I do not intend to explore why I decided to end my life, nor do I intend to get into the politics or morals of suicide. What is relevant to this essay is that on May 14, 2014 I left my office intent on walking until I dropped dead on someone’s front lawn or found a blind enough turn in the road to walk into traffic without cars being able to stop before hitting me. I’d texted my husband the password to my computer, told him I was sorry, and started walking.

My boss left work looking for me. She talked me down and got me into her car and took me back to the office. My husband had called the police. They were waiting when we got there. I confirmed what my husband had told them. That sealed my fate according to my state laws. They called the local Crisis Center. I was given the option of going with the social worker of my own free will, or being slapped with a ticket and being taken there in the back of a police car. I got into the social worker’s car. I was numb, but my husband and I were broke so I knew he couldn’t afford to pay for my ticket.

The Crisis Center is a sort of free range emergency room. You need to be let in by two employee/volunteers. The doors lock, both of them, there’s no way in or out without being let there. The patients who have already seen the doctors are in the same room mingling with those who haven’t been admitted yet. It’s a holding pen for the mentally unstable until a bed opens up at a real hospital. I arrived there at about 1 or 2 in the afternoon. I was left in the waiting room until about 4pm, I’m not sure of exact times as there were no clocks.

Then I was interviewed by a doctor. They tried to force my husband away from me, but I was not facing that inquisition alone. We were taken to a small, white, concrete room with a table and chairs that were bolted to the floor. So began the perpetual questioning. “Why are you depressed?” “Why did you want to die?” “Do you regret your actions?” Over the course of the next week I’d lost count of how many times I had to answer those same questions. They asked if I was willing to be admitted to seek treatment. I said no. I asked for out patient treatment. They asked if I’d be willing to take medication. I stated I would not.

They sent me back into the waiting room.

By about 6 or 7pm they pulled me back into the tiny room and told me I was being involuntarily admitted. I was to remain trapped in Crisis until there was a bed opened at the nearest hospital. I refused, I’d agreed to out patient. They told me I had no choice. My husband and I requested I be taken to the hospital closer to my house, instead of the one a half hour drive away. They said they would try. To my knowledge they never even called. My husband asked to be called when I was moved to the hospital so he would know where I was. He gave them his cell phone number and went home to get me clothing, my hair brush, and a few other odds and ends. I utterly shut down and refused to speak.

It was here that I began to be treated like a particularly slow child. The nurse only spoke to me in tones reserved for toddlers who don’t want to take a nap. He came by every few minutes shaking a little cup with some pills in it. I’d already refused medication, repeatedly. He wandered off, then came back a few minutes later. I credit being numb with the fact that I did not attack him. I was offended, both by his tone and treatment, and by my commitment.

My husband returned with my things and to sit with me until visiting hours were over. We couldn’t get a straight answer as to when visiting hours ended, apparently it was when the nurse said they were done. My husband asked how long I was admitted for. We were told that I was there for at least 72 hours, and I’d need a court order to get out after that. But I’d need to prove in court that I didn’t need to be there any more. I started crying.

By this time my back, which I have chronic pain in to begin with, was screaming. I was in tears. Normally I took 600mg of ibuprofen and 500mg of extra strength tylenol every 4 hours to manage my pain. Since I’d been in Crisis I’d been given one 600mg ibuprofen tablet. I’d asked for what I normally take, they refused and sent me to lie on a thin, hard hospital cot. My husband was sent home, since he wasn’t allowed in the rooms where the beds were. He swore he’d meet me, wherever I was, first thing in the morning.They also denied me my cane, as I could have used it for a weapon. They went through my things and took my chapstick. No idea why, the nurse who took it didn’t even know, she only knew I couldn’t have it.

They moved me at 2am, staggering and clinging to the walls into an SUV with police glass between the front and back seats. They took me, not to the hospital my husband and I had requested, but to the one over half an hour from our home. I tried to have my husband called like he asked, but they brought me my cell phone number, not his, and told me that was the only one they had.

When we got to the hospital I was forced to stand, back pain be damned, so a security guard could frisk me and wave a metal detecting wand over me. They thankfully gave me a wheelchair to take me up to the ward itself. I was taken up a back way, though locked elevators that required a key card and passcode to open. For good measure they took me up backwards so I couldn’t see what floor I was going to be on. All too soon the nurse turned me around and I saw what was to be my new ‘home’.

If you have never seen the inside of a psych ward count yourself lucky. I have visited prisons where the inmates were treated with more respect, and had more lax security. The walls are bare white or beige, with florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. Their cold, clinical light only serving to emphasize the emptiness. Because I was brought in at night the whole place was half lit. Providing alternating patches of light and dark. It looked like something out of a horror film. I never understood why so many horror stories took place in asylums. Now I know. The whole place stank of antiseptic and  despair.

I was wheeled into a room. The stereotype. The room everyone pictures when you say ‘asylum’. Here it was called the ‘quiet room’. It was a ten by ten cell. There were no windows, save those in the door so the one inside can be watched. The walls, floor and ceiling, were coated in beige rubber. The door itself was a foot thick and coated in the same rubber, save where the window was cut. In the exact center was a green rubber cot bolted to the floor. With restraints attached. I have panic attacks when restrained. To the point where I got in that room and began hyperventilating. It was stifling, claustrophobic, terrifying.

A female nurse came in and told me to strip. She had to do a visual inspection and catalog all tattoos, piercings, cuts, bruises, marks, ect. To do so I needed to stand naked in that beige hell, under security cameras. Otherwise they would sedate me and do it anyway. I was terrified of what would happen if I was sedated in that room, so I did as I was told. Utterly humiliated, exhausted, and afraid. And still I was spoken to as if I were a toddler. I was given a hospital gown as yet more people went through my things.

I was triaged again. My blood pressure was taken and again I was asked the same questions. “Why are you depressed? Why did you want to die?” Again I answered. I also reiterated my objections to being given medication, as well as my discomfort with group therapy due to my hearing problems. I was told that neither of those would be a problem, and I could refuse whatever treatment I was uncomfortable with. I asked how long I would be there. I was told that I would see the doctor in the morning, and they couldn’t keep me more than 72 hours without a court order. I asked for out patient, explaining that I am uncomfortable in hospitals. I also, again, explained my back pain, telling the nurse that I could not sleep on hospital cots and be expected to walk. They reiterated that I’d see the doctor in the morning. They wheeled me into a different room and left me for the night.

I cried until I passed out.