Ward

    This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives, but then it happened. I need therapy, the doctors and nurses told me I need therapy, but I’m a doer and therapy’s expensive and dangerous.  My parents said they’re still proud of me and we can always try again.  After all, trying is the fun part, right?  Yes, but it’s the herd mentality.  Everyone else has one, so we should have one, too. What a weird world.   My colleagues have jobs, so do I, they have houses, and so do I.   This is what every family dreams of, and now it’s over.  Over. 

    So, i went to church to ask the pastor the meaning of Job.  Why suffering from God? Need to stay out of the Moon Bin.   Otherwise, the other doctors will take away my shoelaces and I like shoelaces.  They keep my shoes on.   So, when they (the nurses) ask me, “On a scale of 1-10, with one being the absolute worst, and 10 being the best, where would you rank yourself?” I give the incorrect number.  Think of it like a job application where the future employer asks, “Do you think it’s ok to smoke recreational pot the night before work?”  Anyone honest about that, won’t be employed, but this is the opposite:  I don’t want to be admitted.   Then, there’s the bullshit Psych questions:?  What day is it? Where are you?   What would you do if you came home and saw your door was jammed open and the lock was broken?

     The real answer to these questions is what answer do I need to give to get out of here?   The nurses say this is standard procedure for letting someone out of the hospital after this kind of loss and to just be honest, so they can help me and my wife.  Bullshit.  They want to Baker Act both of us so they can get a warrant for our home. How would somebody sane answer this question or how would somebody who THEY think is sane answer this question?   That’s what the real question is.   The nurse tells me these are standard questions after this kind of loss and the nurses and doctors are just trying to help me.  

      These are the same kind of doctors and nurses who gave syphilis to Black People to see what would happen.  These are the same nurses who gave Native Americans blankets with plague because the were racists.  I have to remember not to eat any food, because they hide the meds in the food, so I’ll consume it without knowing it.  Trust no one.  Believe nothing.   They say these are normal questions after this kind of loss, but they’re  not, just like they say medical records are destroyed every ten years, but we know that’s bullshit.   The feds have them stacked away in the warehouses.   Everyone knows that, so I have to try to think like a nurse, to see what the answer is they want.   How would I answer this if I was speaking to a nurse and I was sane?  

     One question at a time:   Do you see dead people?   Yes, I do, so answer no.   Have you had thoughts of hurting yourself or others? Yes, so answer no.   Have you ever been on anti-depressants?   No, so answer yes, or answer no?  Better answer no, in case they ask what kind.   Tell the staff nothing.  Remember, worse case scenario, I can get out by filling out an AMA (Against Medical Advice) form.   Then, I can get out of this hospital.   Standard questions indeed.   Do you have a support system to contact that you’d feel comfortable reaching out to?   No, only the dead listen, can’t even trust the Mrs., so answer yes, then they’ll let me home.   Home.   Not the home, my home.   No more Moon Bins.  Ever.  

     I’d call the police if my house was broken into.   Bullshit, I’d get my gun and shoot the SOBs and get my stuff back.  I have a carry permit, which will be revoked if I go back to the Moon Bin.   No cell phone there either, in case I’d electrocute myself.  

     The nurses tell me they can hug me if I want a hug and there are more families going through these situations and there are now support groups and grievance counselors to help me cope with my loss.  Right.  These always have board certified psychiatrists who want to put me back in the Bunny Barn.  The only good thing about that place is women can’t wear bras because they’ve tried to hang themselves with their underwires.   Dog food tastes better than the food in the Bunny Bin.  

       They tell me crying Is okay.   Let it out.  They want emotional defenselessness.   Right.  Then, they can “help me”.  Keep trying to think like a psyche nurse.  They ask what my name is and I say the truth.   They ask my address and I tell them the truth.   Everything else is fabricated.  

 *

    Then, I meet my wife.  She’s crying so I comfort her, before whispering to her to not trust the feds and that BB is watching (read “1984”).  I see the “security cameras” and I know what’s going on.  

      There’s no baby, which is what my wife thinks this is about and it is, but the feds saw this as an opportunity.   They know I can communicate with my dead daughter.  They know.   They think they know what’s in my house, but they don’t and as long as I answer this questionnaire correctly, they never will. 

     The nurses and doctors want to keep her (my wife) a few more days to make sure there isn’t excessive bleeding.   Maybe they snuck something into her body so BB could monitor her body functions and spy on me.  You know, they have teddy bears with cameras in the eyeballs to spy on spies.  My wife’s eyeballs probably have cameras in them.  I’ll have to get a metal detector to get them out.  

      My wife starts to pull herself together and stops crying, she starts to speak and tells me she’s feeling sad. Considering what she’s been through, it makes sense.   Someone lived inside her for nine months and they’re gone.   She’s lonely.   Then, though, she tells me the nurses and doctors feel, after reading her survey, that she should be moved to the Bunny Bin for a few days, just to be safe.  I tried whispering to her that this was a trick to get her to tell the government what we had in our home, but the nurses unlocked her bed and start moving my wife to the Bunny Farm and I tried to stop them, but by then it was too late.