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.
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