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.
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