We Don't Use That Word Anymore

Day 1

I arrived by ambulance. Actually, it's Night 1. I don't remember if I was rolled or walked in, or why. Well, maybe why.

I had my own room, complete with a bathroom with a

shower stall that didn't work, no curtain, no curtain rod, and no shower head, so I'm guessing, no way to hang myself.

Someone put me to bed, and I drifted off to sleep. Then, bright lights and loud chatter, and raucous laughter woke me. Sorry to the good third-shift workers, but I believe the worst hospital staff are assigned to the night shift. Loud, rude, and dismissive. They seemed to want to put in their hours and get paid for doing nothing. Mental health babysitters, I guess. No matter what your requested, they'd tell you to ask for it tomorrow.

Angry and frustrated, I slipped out of bed, grateful for the non-skid socks, and padded toward the door.

"Can I help you, Alice?" A staff member stood from her chair just outside my door, blocking my exit. "Hello, I'm Sara. Can I help you, Alice?"

That was the moment the reality of the situation hit me.

"I can't sleep; there's so much noise and light." I gestured across the hall.

"I'm sorry. No other rooms are available now, but you can request another tomorrow when you talk with the psychiatrist. I'll have a word with the staff." She then motioned toward the desk.

I felt every cell in my body and they screamed for sleep, for rest, for relief from this God-awful emotional pain. I hadn't eaten for, I don't remember. Two days, maybe? I stepped back into the room and closed the door, hoping for peace and comforting darkness.

As I crawled back into bed, Sara re-opened the door.

"Alice, please leave your door open."

"Why?" My heart began to race, and a headache crept up my neck and gripped my skull with what felt like strong skeletal hands. The beginnings of a migraine.

"It's for your own protection."

"From who?"

"It's doctor's orders, Alice."

"I have a terrible headache. May I at least have some Excedrine?"

"I'm sorry, you need the doctor's order for that. Ask him tomorrow."

So many, 'wait until tomorrow's" going on, but no help. I went into my bathroom and made earplugs with toilet tissue, then back to bed and pulled the covers over my head. I didn't sleep.

DAY 2

The boisterous celebration of shift change began at daybreak, sounding like a New Year's Eve party at midnight. There was no clock in my room, like in Vegas; who cares about time? I pulled the covers over my head and tried to sleep, then heard footsteps approach.

"Good morning Alice; how are you feeling today?"

"Trying to sleep."

"I'm Doctor Shriver, your psychiatrist." His nauseating cologne, a combo of dead skunk and cat pee, made me want to vomit.

A male voice said, "I'd like to talk to you, Alice. Will you come out of there?"

"Let's negotiate."

Another moment of silence, then, "What do you want, Alice?" He kept repeating my name. I'm unsure if it was a psych technique or if he thought I didn't know it.

"I haven't eaten in two days, I have a killer migraine, and I don't know why I'm here. Oh, and that cologne has to go."

There were a few shocked moments of silence. How dare I speak to the Lord Doc on High like that? I didn't care.

"All right, Alice, I'll work on that."

I removed the covers from my head and would have laughed, but I didn't have it in me. He had curly gray hair that might have been a wig, reminding me of Tyler Perry's character Madea.

"Are you the doctor?"

"Yes, how may I help you?"

"I need some Excedrin Migraine. And maybe some Xanax and a cup of coffee with milk."

He had an annoying chirping chuckle. He probably thought, 'Oh goodie, another soul to patronize. "I can order some Tylenol. No Xanax right now and breakfast is being served shortly."

"Tylenol doesn't help with Migraines, Doc. And I have a script for Xanax twice daily, as needed."

He nodded and said, "Why don't you follow me to the common room? They'll give you coffee and breakfast."

I wanted to say, "Why don't you go fuck yourself and remove that stink and fright wig while you're at it." But I didn't. This guy would control my life for as long as I was here. He was God here.

The common room was large, with a long, white plastic dining table and heavy wooden chairs that made a horrifically loud scraping sound when I pulled one out. Then other patients (inmates) shuffled in quietly, wearing their hospital-issue slipper socks.

There were only ten beds in this wing, and everyone was over fifty-five. The others were mostly late-stage dementia. However, Jane and Sylvia were reasonably coherent.

Jane said she was accused of chasing her daughter from her house carrying a paring knife she'd been using while peeling an apple. Her daughter called the police, who put her here rather than in jail.

Sylvia seemed like a person in a rigid comma. She was very sweet when she talked, which was rare. Her family doctor prescribed massive doses of Xanax for her over many years, which she took early and often due to severe trauma-induced anxiety. They were trying to slowly lower her dosages. Although she was reticent, just staring into space, Sylvia said it felt like 'hell's circus' was going on in her head all day, every day. She'd driven her Honda, at a high rate of speed, into a large tree, hoping to end it all. But the airbag and EMS saved her. She was devastated when she woke up, still alive. I had my own suffering and demons, so I understood why she'd practically run to the nurse when it was time for meds. They were giving her a different medication. She said she didn't help at all. Didn't even take the edge off, but she kept hoping for relief.

We received menus to choose the next day's meals. I had yet to turn one in, so I received a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice which looked pretty good. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to egg whites and wheat and have an ulcer which means no acidic orange juice.

I wanted to die. Again. It's a feeling that tries to squeeze your soul to leave your body but can't. Our staff person asked me why I wasn't eating, and I told her. She returned with a banana, tasty sausage links, and decaf. Bless her. The squeeze relented for now

Eating at the communal table was interesting. Elsie, a very scary, angry woman I once saw smack another patient on the back of the head with an open hand. She kept removing her dentures, scraping the food from them onto her plate. My throbbing headache and nausea rose. 'Breathe in, hold, breathe out.

Another patient kept taking things from other's trays, starting a different commotion at every meal. Another poured her orange juice onto her oatmeal, then added sugar packets until the staff moved the container to the other end of the table. Looking back on it, that might have improved the tasteless white goo.

Some of us had apple juice in clear plastic cups, reminding me of urine samples. I avoided looking at them.

The ten of us did our best to eat our meals because the staff recorded what we ate, how much, and which foods. Consuming calories was deemed important. This explained why my empty plastic salad container was always exchanged for someone else's full one. Or they'd ask for my empty one, making it look like they'd eaten theirs. It made no difference to the staff, who were aware of such shenanigans. They hovered nearby with pen and paper, taking notes.

The other half of the common room contained three comfy recliners and other assorted chairs. Jane, Sylvia, and I took the recliners because no one else seemed to want them. Most of them were in a perpetual state of wandering around.

I found the remote, hidden behind the small flat screen, and gave it to Jane and she took it, giving me thumbs up.

Between lunch and dinner, we had some sort of craft project provided by a very kind and upbeat social worker. I'm a painter, so I was vaguely interested, but concentration was nearly impossible. My first day's project was to draw a picture of my family, which was way too overwhelming, so I drew an androgynous stick figure surrounded by question marks, empty circles, and a few lightning bolts to keep them guessing.

After dinner came visiting hours. My poor husband drove an hour and a half each way. He came in looking worried but tried to be upbeat. He had just found out where I'd been for the past two days when the county sheriff visited and told him. Bob had assumed I'd gone to my friend Shelly's house, which I'd done a time or two.

Fight or flight. I didn't want to fight and usually flew to Shelly. I never knew what I was fleeing from, but it was something horrible gaining on me. When I didn't come home the following day, he called Shelly, who told him to call the hospital.

During that first visit, my husband and I didn't talk much. I was too depressed, confused, and in such emotional and physical pain (aka migraine) to do more than hold his hand. He'd been through this before.