I recently told this story to my mom, who is great, but is always complaining about her kids. I finally decided that her daughters are not that bad, and maybe she needs to realize this too. After this story, my mom shut right up, and hasn't complained since.
I received a new admission and as soon as we were done with the whole admission process, which includes physical exam, bloodwork, IQ testing and so on, I realized I forgot to ask the most vital question. Normally, I get to read the admission packet before the patient arrives, but being that this was a busy night (becoming quite the norm), I didn't know anything about this patient.
She was young, with a kind face and very patient with our previous questioning. She didn't seem to be on drugs and her appearance was kempt. She had good eye contact and seemed like any girl who could be friends with my younger sister.
"So, why do you think you are here?" I asked the routine last question, meant to see how much insight a patient has.
"Well, I know why I'm here." She looked down, ashamed. My eyebrows raised. "I chased my mom with a knife."
"Ohh," It wasn't the strangest thing I had heard.
"And then, I chased her down the street with it," she continued. I looked at the psychiatrist and he looked at me, and then we both kept writing. After all, just another day, and like I said, it was not the strangest thing I have heard.
Ok so this is the latest story, be prepared it's something I could not even make up. Once again, just when I have thought I have seen it ALL, one of my patients have once again proved me wrong. I have one patient named Betsy, who is just crazy. The motto at my hospital is "think recovery" and while that is a fine motto, some patients will never recover. Betsy is one of those. Crazy as a loon, as in one flew over the coo-coo's nest. Nuts!!! This is a story about her.
I was doing my hourly rounds when I found Betsy in the bathroom with a Totes slipper sock. You know the ones I am referring to, they have non-stick pads on the bottom. She was using the slipper sock as a washcloth to wash her "powder puff" for lack of a better word. "Betsy," I asked apprehensively, "why are you using a slipper sock to wash your privates?" "Miss Megan, I always do this, don't worry. It's how I stay fresh." I should have left her comment at that, but of course I had to know more. I always say, careful what you ask for, however, often I do not take my own advice. "Betsy, what are you doing!!" I was mortified as I saw her slip the sock on as if it was a glove and insert her entire hand into her vagina. "I'm getting it out," Betsy replied cool as a cucumber. "Getting what out?" I didn't want to know, but felt compelled to ask. "The meat." Betsy continued to dig. "The meat??" I hoped there was a miscommunication. "Yea, the meat!" Betsy stressed. "What meat?" Again I didn't want to ask, but I had to know...what was she talking about. "I got the pus in there and the meat absorbs it. You are the nurse why am I tellin' you?" "I'm sorry," I didn't understand. "You know," She was getting agitated, "I got the pus in my vagina, the meat absorbs it and then I pull it out." "WHAT MEAT?" She was not speaking coherently. "The meatball I put up there to absorb the puss." "You put a meatball up there?" I had to hear confirmation to believe it. "Yea, the meat absorbs it all. How many times I got to tell you??" My eyes must have been pounding out of their sockets because she continued her explanation, "I put it in at lunch and now I take it out after dinner." "Betsy, today for lunch you had soup." "Oh well maybe I put it in yesterday then."
I just read a newspaper article that reported that someone broke into the hospital where I work, and took a dump on the new hospital model and then left. How CRAZY is THAT!?
It's awful what mental illness can do to the brain. I know I've said that time and time again, but it really is. However, on the lighter side of things sometimes the confusion it brings can be lighthearted amusement for those who normally want to throw their hands up in despair when dealing with their patients.
I have a patient, Craig, who is simply out of his mind. It is almost as if the particles of his mental illness have slowly eaten away his brain over time. I imagine that his brain is like a secada, the sensible thoughts hatching long ago and leaving only a remnant of what once was, in the form of a dried up shell. He talks to the TV, screams at shadows, pisses on his bed and tries to sleep in the bathroom. More times than not, his clothes are on backwards.
Recently, Craig came out of his room, screaming, "Someone is in my room! I got beat up!" I didn't panick because this is a fairly common occurence. "What do you mean someone is in your room, Craig?" "I said, someone is in my room and just beat me up." "Craig, go back to bed now." As usual, I was too busy for games. "I am NOT going back in that broke ass room unprotected." His voice was becoming louder. "Ok then, what if I go back with you to make sure everything is ok," I was trying to compromise. He nodded in agreement.
Being that I have done this before, I knew what Craig wanted me to do. I walked into the room and yelled, "Leave him alone or I will call the cops! Get out of this room NOW!" Then I pretended to chase someone out. I noticed Craig's eyes got wider and wider.
"Oh shit!" he exclaimed with surprise. "What is it?" I wanted to know. "That's my cousin!!!!" Craig answered looking into the air. My silent laughter threw my body into convulsions. "Well can she stay?" "Hell no, I gotta get some rest."
I have one patient, Sharon, who is mentally retarded. She doesn't have down syndrome, but her IQ is so low she is classified as being mentally retarded. She is constantly asking questions. Questions that usually start with "what makes". What makes a tree? What makes a turnip? What makes paper? What makes hair? Her mind is constantly going.
I shouldn't have been surprised by last week's events. But I was. Sharon came into the common area with blood falling down her forehead. She walked over to me and said, "what makes death?" Taken aback by her wound, I lead her quickly by the elbow to the treatment room, where I bandaged her cut.
"What happened?" I asked.
"What makes death?" she responded. I then realized I ignored her initial question.
"Sharon, tell me first. What happened?"
She looked at me, "I wanted to kill myself but I forgot what makes death."
As I was trying to think of what to say another patient responded, "slitting your wrist makes death. Not your forehead, you idiot."
"Oh!" Sharon sighed as if a light just flashed on in her head.
I'm so upset tonight I can't explain it. I have a knot in my throat and a bigger one in my stomach. I'm anxious and can't sit still. So what do I do? I call my best friendboy. I can't remember if we are fighting or not. It's been a while. Typical to my character, I flaked out recently and for all I know he's still pissed.
I weigh the pros and cons and dial up anyway. After 1 ring it goes to voicemail. Yea, he definitely pressed the 'F U button' on me. I leave a message and somewhere in the middle my voice cracks. I'm exhausted yet my heart is racing. 90 seconds later, the phone rings.
"Yes," he sounds ridiculously arrogant. "Hi," I manage to reply. That's all I get out before I start crying. Well that's a lie. Not crying, more like sobbing. Snot is everywhere. My vision strongly resembles watercolors smeared on a canvas. He doesn't say a word. I'm not a crier. In fact, this may be the first time this year I have shed tears. He doesn't ask me what's wrong or why I'm crying. He never does, but that's a good thing because I can't pinpoint the exact reason. It's more like an avalanche of reasons.
He waits patiently. I blow my nose and it sounds like a trumpet. We both laugh. Then I begin to tell him the story. I don't have to go into much detail, I just tell him the facts. He immediately picks up on what has me upset. This is why I love him. He doesn't try to fix my problem, or offer me advise. He simply listens.
The thing is, he knows me so well. Perhaps even better than my own sister. We have exchanged the deepest of secrets. We have seen each other's good and bad and even god awful side. When I say there is nothing in the world i would not do for him I mean it literally. Nothing.
He cracks a joke and I laugh. He's well aware that sarcasm always brightens my spirits. We both know this call was not about catching up, it was strictly for me to vent. "It's gonna be fine," he says reassuringly, in preparation to hang up.
"Hey," I say, "I'm sorry for flaking out." "Shhh..Shhh...Baby girl, it's nothing." And for some reason, that's all I need to feel completely at ease.
It's all relative. It's more than a cliche; It's gospel, especially when referring to a psychiatric hospital. I have long lost count over how many times I have had to explain to others, the unit is a microcosm, you truly can't understand it until you are there. Things that appear bizarre to others have become the norm for me. After much absence, I've decided I'll continue these stories. Not for anyone else, primarily for myself.
The charmer says a few weeks ago, "I was reading your old blogs when I realized what is so great about them, they really captured the moment. It's true. This year has been insane and I mean INSANE...it's nice to look back and have a recollection on the way things were. I will start with one simple antidote.
Kate came into the dayroom clapping super enthusiastically. It didn't take long for the rest of the patients to begin clapping too, even the deaf ones. The noise drove me out of my office, where I saw Kate bowing repetitively. "What's going on?" I asked.
"Ohhh..," Kate replied, her smile so strong it was hard to understand her. "I finally did it!" "What did you do?" I should have known better than to ask. "I moved my bowels!!!" She was ecstatic. I just walked away.
My friends, my co-workers and even my grandparents are always asking me what I'm looking for in a "boy". I've thought about it and decided...
I'm looking for a boy who....
*Gladly gives me all the covers *Surprises me with homemade 3 course meals "just because" *Makes me roar with laughter *Spends Sundays lying in bed with me *Takes me home when I've had too much to drink *Goes the extra mile for my friends *Doesn't mind if the puppy shows me more attention than him *Doesn't mind when I interrupt him *Volunteers at the animal shelter just because I do too *Showers me with constant, yet thoughtful, gifts *Can tolerate my moodiness, messiness and ravenous appetite *Will tell me how much he loves me, even if he's unsure how I will respond *Laughs at the insanity that is my family *Rubs my head until I fall asleep *Loves my cats because I do *Will bring his lunch to save money for "something important" *Is crazy for all the junk in my trunk *Knows exactly what I like *Knows all my imperfections--and still loves me anyway
"Where have you been, stranger?" you ask. "Why, did you miss me?" I ask sarcastically ,without even thinking of the implications. "Yes. Yes, I did." Your voice is deadpan and it makes me uncomfortable.
Then somehow it starts. I can't recall how or why, but somehow we always seem to end up at the same place. Perhaps I might have said you should have thought about that before you decided you'd be better off alone. Perhaps you asked how the "old man" was. I don't remember, but this time you raised the bet. This time you went way over the line we had mutually agreed upon.
"You'll be back," you state very matter of factly. "Excuse me." I am stunned. Speechless. Infuriated. Ironically amazed by your audacity, which is, in fact, one of the main characteristics that drew me to you in the first place. Never in my life have I ever met such a self absorbed prick, which is exactly what you are. Never in my life have I met someone like you.
"You love me. It's that simple." My eyes widen in disbelief of your words. I don't want to hear another word from you. I certainly can not even comment on the thought that I might give you another chance. My stomach starts to turn. I hang up without saying anything. I have nothing left to give.
My friend Pete jokes that I am obsessed with bowel movements, for lack of a better term. He says that most of my work stories involve some aspect of patients bodily fluids, primarily feces. He may be right but honestly, since I took this job I had no idea there were so many ways to shit or so many things one could do with their feces.
"I don't know how you do it," the 31 year old says over and over again. 'It's part of the job, after a while nothing phases you." It's more than a response, it's the truth. Sometimes however a antidote comes along that makes me laugh.
One such incident was recently with Cassy. She's old, loud, and is constantly crying or misbehaving, but everyone who works on my unit has an affection towards her for that reason alone. It was a quiet night when a scream broke through the silence. "Meggggggggan! Meeeeegan! Maaaaayyyyyyyygggggin!" It was coming from the shower. Please don't let her be on the floor, I thought. I apprehensively opened the door and found Cassy sitting on the shower chair. She was half clothed.
"I can't take my pants off." She whined. "Do you want me to help you?" I already knew the answer. 'Pull them off!" she demanded. "But don't hurt me," she continued. "Ok," I didn't exactly try hard not to sound patronizing. "Oh wait, put gloves on....I have poo-poo in my panties." I shook my head. While I was thankful for the warning, I couldn't help but think ,6 years of college to do this.
I was reading somewhere that it takes 10 minutes for a woman decide whether or not she would like to be friends with another female. I was saying this to my new favorite friend, Tini, when she replied, "I think it takes less than that." After a moment of thought, I decided she was probably right.
Thinking about time and about timing is sometimes too much for me. The right time verses the wrong time, just the way things work out sometimes amaze me. I knew within minutes of meeting Tini that I wanted to be her friend. I can't pinpoint precisely what it is about her, but I knew I liked her within minutes. We have lots in common, a mutual love for cats and naps, we both surround ourselves with mostly male friends, and we both love to eat. It's amazing how sometimes you just know things. When I was in college, Post-It was my freshman year crush. While we had a class together, we never spoke. Even though I had no idea what type of person he was, I knew one thing..he was the type of person I liked. Years later, when I was actually dating him, I found my first instincts were right. Not only was he the type of person I would like, he was the type of person I would love.
My two long-time best friends are perfect examples of just knowing as well. I still remember the very first time I laid eyes on Chopper, partly because I have never had that feeling since and partly for reasons I can't explain. I just knew that we would be great friends. He was absolutely gorgeous but it was more than that. I knew there was a connection. He was moving into his freshman dorm when I told my then roommate, "I LOVE that boy." She rolled her eyes. Little did she know. I can still remember meeting Noelle for the first time in the nurses' office in 7th grade. She was being funny dramatically holding an ice pack to her forehead. She had on blue leggings and keds. Don't ask me how I remember, but I do. Again, I knew she was someone I wanted to be friends with.
"It's funny the way life works itself out," the 31 year old says to me not so long ago. I smile because I know just what he means. When I was crushing over Post-It he was living with the mother of his newborn. Seven years later, he was single and well adjusted to being a father. When I first met the Charmer I considered him a rebound. Now, a year later, I consider him one of my all time best friends. For almost a decade I never took the 31 year old seriously. He was guaranteed fun and that's about it, now I'm starting to consider him something more.
When all is said and done I think it's a cycle. You can't think in terms of 10 minutes, 20 minutes, a year. You have to think of time in terms of a lifetime, because after all, that's all we have.
It's a brilliant idea! Why don't you stop trying to change my password and leave me alone. I'm very flattered that you are so interested in my life, but honey, I swear to you...I'm boring. Nothing exciting here, so move on. I'm sure your efforts will be much better served somewhere else. Why don't you volunteer for an animal shelter or nursing home and put all that energy to good use!
And before I even know it, another Christmas Season is amongst us. They say it's the "most wonderful time of the year." That may be true for boys and girls who anxiously await Santa's gifts under the tree, or for those of us that anticipate another series of Holidays spent with family and friends. That is not the case for my patients. I can even be more general and say that is not the case for any patient spending the Holidays alone, without friends and family, in a psychiatric ward.
They say the average nurse walks between four and five miles during her shift. I can vouch for that just from the way my legs ache when I hand over to the oncoming nurse. I am a big believer in hourly rounds, meaning every hour my patients spend awake I check on each and every one of them. Sometimes by the time I finish checking on all twenty, it's time for me to start again, but it's worth it to know that all my patients are aware that someone cares for them. That someone will be back to check on them in one hour, even if it's only the nurse, at least she cares. It's especially important this month of December. The 31 year old says I'm a bit under emotional. He doesn't understand that it's not me, it's just what happens to any seasoned nurse. You see your patients go through so many heartbreaking moments that sometimes you just become desensitized to it all.
Now and then, as any nurse will tell you, you can't help but get a soft spot for certain patients. They may make you laugh, remind you of a friend or family, or amaze you with their courage or complete dependency. Either way, something makes you fairly certain that this particular patient you will never forget.
Bonnie is one of those patients. She is kind, friendly and extremely articulate. Suffering from severe clinical depression, there is nothing I do for her that she does not appreciate. On Thursday we waved goodbye and she left to spend the holidays with her family, which included her two daughters whom she has not seen in months. She spent hours picking out just the right outfit to wear and one of my staff members braided her hair for her. She really looked beautiful. She began crying when she saw her little girls, leaving me to blink away tears of my own.
Five hours later, Bonnie was back on the unit. She walked past me, to her bedroom, as I approached her mother. "Bonnie wasn't expected back until next week, what happened?" "I just can't handle her, so I dropped her back off tonight." Her mother sounded annoyed. "But Christmas isn't for another 2 days. She was really looking forward to spending the Holiday with her daughters." I didn't understand what could have happened to make her mother want to return her. "Well she should have thought about that before she started crying." "Well, crying is a symptom of her disease, just like high blood sugar is a symptom of diabetes." I try very hard not to judge, but ignorant family members piss me off. "You try dealing with it for a day." She said as she turned to exit. I wanted to laugh. Deal with it for a day, let's try I have made a career out of it.
I continued on my hourly rounds. While I was in the dayroom, Bonnie entered where other patients were watching a movie. She wasn't crying, she was hysterical. She fell to the floor and began convulsing into sobs. "I just wanted to see my daughters unwrap their gifts on Christmas. I just wanted to hug them and give them their gifts." Her words were mumbled, yet high pitched. Barely audible. It took five of us to carry her to her room, where the sobbing continued. "This place is killing me. I'd rather be dead. I can't even hug my daughters. I just want to feel alive again. I want my family back." Tears, mucous, and vomit covered her.
I cradled her in my arms while I waited for the medication nurse to draw up a sedative. "Shh..Shh," I brushed back the soaked strands of hair that covered her face. My shirt was now soaked with tears, mucous and her vomit as well. I didn't care. She continued to sob, "Can you imagine never seeing your girls unwrap gifts from Santa? Do you know what it's like to spend Christmas here, alone? Can you imagine your own mother bringing you back here purposely?" If my heart has broken on this unit 100 times, make this 101.
During the rest of the tour, my staff sat in silence. No one said a word. At this point, it was late, my patients were all well into their dreams, as we sat in the Dayroom listening to the radio, drinking hot chocolate. The radio was on and softly I heard the chorus....it's the most wonderful time of the year..... We looked at each other, shaking our heads at the irony of it all. I didn't cry, I didn't even feel like crying. What I felt was far different. And then it hit me, maybe the 31 year old is right, maybe I am a bit under-emotional, but working in a place like this, do I really have any other choice?
The Detective, who has been renamed as Post It (for obvious reasons), called me this weekend. Around 8pm on Saturday night my phone rang and I did a double take. We have not spoken in so long I had to blink and look again. But sure enough, it was his number. I picked up apprehensively. "Hey Meg, what are you doing tonight?" I swear I could recognize his voice in a crowd of thousands of people.
"Umm....Umm" A million thoughts entered my mind at once. Are you drunk? Is this a booty call? Are you serious? And then, after a moment of recollecting myself, you can't be serious. "Well it's 8pm on a Saturday, I'm on my way out."
"Oh you have plans?" His voice does something to me. I can't explain what exact affect it has on me, but I can't decide to hang up right then and there or to listen to what else transpires between us. Not surprisingly, I don't hang up. He doesn't wait for me to respond, but instead continues with "I guess that means you can't meet up."
"No, I guess not." I'm practically rendered speechless. In fact, I am amazed I could even get those four words out.
"Well, if you change your mind, call me." He says the last sentence very slow, as if to say, are you sure?
"Mmm Hmm." I hang up the phone. Then I do something that even shocks me, I continue with the rest of my night. I don't spend any time wondering what, if anything, was behind the call. I do, however, think he has some nerve to really think at 8pm on a Saturday I was going to drop everything and meet up with him. I laugh, because I realize, this is one of the reasons why I adore him so much in the first place. Then, I smile proudly. I realize something that makes me feel good. A few months ago that is exactly what I would have done. I would have dropped everything at the chance of seeing him. While it was good to hear his voice, for now I'm doing things differently. Much differently.
*****UPDATE***** After I posted this entry, I received an email from Post It that read....."Missed a good time on sat, would've rocked your world"
I don't even have a comment on that one. I'm left to just smile and shake my head in amusement.
Actions speak louder than words. I agree with that statement, but sometimes words can be just as important. One sentence is all it took for the most charming man I know, to become not so charming at all. One sentence that he threw out there, oblivious to what the implications would be. A second where he spat out a sentence without thinking about what he was actually saying.
He mentioned that he had slept with this girl who had also slept with the Detective. It wasn't that he had been with someone else, as we are no longer together. It was the fact that he had to mention the Detective. What purpose did that serve? The only one I can think of is to purposely hurt my feelings, something which he has never done before. It shouldn't bother me. But it does. Knowing there is another girl out there who has dated both the Charmer and Detective. Two complete strangers from different states. "I guess the Detective and I have similar tastes," he adds with a touch of humor in his voice. I'm not amused.
All I can think of is Seriously what are the chances???? Things like this don't happen to everyday people. They happen to me. Not only that, but they happen to me time and time again. After that second things change. He's no longer super charming. I no longer hold him above everyone else. He's back in the pool with the rest of my friendboys. That does not mean I don't have any affection for him, nor that I have any ill feelings towards him. I still think very highly of him, I even enjoy his company very much. Not so long after, he made me dinner. It was nice. He made me smile with his usual antics. But this time it was different. I wasn't charmed. Instead, I was just catching up with a boy from my past.
I love Sunday afternoons. Napping, watching 80's movies, eating homemade pasta and football. There is nothing that makes me happier than watching a Sunday afternoon game, except maybe watching the game at the local watering hole. While most people take for granted luxuriating during the last few weekend hours, I never do. My Sundays of luxuriating are few and far between, as I usually end up working. "That really sucks," the Charmer said long ago, as I left for work one Sunday afternoon. It's not great, but I wouldn't say it sucks. At least not during football season. The thing is, me and my patients have something in common, we both love the Giants. Sunday games are almost religious with no one acting up, no one causing trouble. Everyone sits glued to the television. Yesterday, Artie signed, "this is a disgrace!" He was furious and so was I. What was our team doing? "They deserve to loose," I signed back in disgust. Just as I finished that sentence the Titans scored their third touchdown. Artie lunged for the television. Oh no, please no, I thought. Convinced he was going to pull the TV from the wall, I lunged back. Instead he stopped right in front of the 42 inch screen and gave the TV the bird. There he was screaming and thrusting his middle finger in front of the TV. The look on his face was pure frustration. I've talked about universal communication before and this was no exception. Without any formal language, I knew exactly what he meant.
You get this look when you're deep in thought. I imagine it to be quite similar to my "concentration" look only more serious. With that look, you ask me, "now what?" I smile. I know exactly what you mean.
Now what.....I let down my guard? Now what.....you stop being a tough guy? Now what.....things go back to the way they were?
I don't know what to say. It's not an easy question.
Now what....I start to trust you more than anyone? Now what....you notice when other guys check me out? Now what....we stop playing games?
It's a little late for that.
I don't have any good answers. I can tell you this though...everytime time you wrap your massive arms around my tiny body, my heart melts. Now what...is a girl supposed to do about that?
My patients are my livelihood. If I only had a dollar for everytime someone asked me, "how do you work in such a dangerous place?" The answer is simple, I love my patients. For the most part, their families have deserted them and they are long forgotten by society. They have no choice but to make this creepy institution their home, and the staff their family. The 31 year old asks, "are they like one flew over the coo coo's nest?" That is precisely what they are like. This 31 year old doesn't understand, as he has never worked with this type of population. It was a bond I shared with the Detective and the Charmer, both police officers, who know too well the dark side of humanity. This job has taught me so much about humanity, human behavior, compassion and fear. Make no mistake, I do not fear any of my patients. My unit is filled with child molesters, rapists, murders, and everything in between but never do I fear any of them. I do however always keep my guard up. I have learned that the golden rule is to expect the unexpected. My patients are not locked up, there are no cells, they are free roaming on my unit. It's my 5 foot, 110 lb frame and them. They could ravage me in moments if they wanted to. They don't. Instead they defend me in the most protective manner. My favorite supervisor once told me, "to work here you need two things, good reflexes and to always remember it will be your favorite patient who will be first to assault you." At the time, I had no idea how valuable those words of wisdom would be. It's no secret that Kate and Artie are my favorite patients. Compassion, not sympathy, pours out of my heart, like blood, for both of them. Likewise, they are the two that give me the most grief. I was making unit rounds when I found Artie with a huge styrofoam cup. He is a polydipsic and is well aware cups are contraband for him. "Give it to me," I firmly signed. He refused to make eye contact. "I'm only going to ask you one more time, are you going to give me the cup or not? It's your choice." I could see him peering at me through the corner of his eye. I don't have to tell him what the two choices are. He knows. "Ok, fine." I knew better than to turn my back, but I did a side step to prepare the injection. In one swift move he threw the cup and picked up a chair. We stood face to face, him with a chair over his head, physically threatening to throw it at me. "Put it down," I moved closer to show that I wasn't intimidated. Where are my staff when I need them, is what I was thinking. "Now." I continued. I was tired and not about to play games like this. Then something unexpected happened, another patient slammed his door causing me to turn my head slightly. Shit, I thought, I know better than to take my eyes off an agitated patient. In slow motion I saw Artie release his grip from the chair. Without thinking, my reflexes kicked in and I ducked, the chair missing me by centimeters. The chair hit the ground and split in half, he threw it with such force. Within moments, my staff surrounded him and we dealt with the situation. "Miss Megan, you are lucky you didn't get hurt," one of my nurses said in a tsk-tsk voice, as in, you should know better. "I'm just lucky I'm young and have quick reflexes." She shook her head and smiled.
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megazoid10's journal
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