A Quiet Strong Voice

Entering a Foreign World

On Monday, October 24, 2004 we meet with a psychiatrist. Within ten minutes he determines that I must be admitted to the psychiatric ward. He instructs Neil to take me to Emergency at the hospital where we can wait until a bed becomes available. When we arrive at Emergency, we are ushered into a private room, which to my horror, looks just like a room in the movies: a cold white cell with minimal furniture and with cameras. Instantly I feel ill and my breathing becomes horribly labored.

“Oh, my God, what has happened to me, Neil?” I ask him desperately.

Neil tries continually to lighten my spirits by making jokes but nothing works. I am petrified of the unknown and I am wondering what is going to happen to me. We wait and wait and wait for what seems an eternity. After some time Neil tells me he must go back to work. Now here I am in this cold place, left alone with the door locked from the outside, a frightened little girl in a woman’s body. “It must be a nightmare.” I say to myself, “What am I doing here? I don’t need to be here. Please, Neil, come and get me and take me home. I have to get out of here!”

At last, I am led to the psychiatric ward where I am placed on twenty-four hour supervision, which means that I may not leave the ward. I feel as though I am entering a foreign world and I am overwhelmed with fear and anxiety. I am taken to my room and I collapse on the bed in a heap and sob helplessly. Eventually I get up and walk aimlessly up and down the corridor, pacing, crying and not knowing what to do, where to go or to whom to talk to. I feel trapped and alone and my mind keeps telling me, “I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong here. I need to get out of here!” I fall to the ground at the nurses’ station, still crying uncontrollably, terrified of not knowing what lies ahead for me.

Patients crying on the floor must be a regular occurrence because no one is coming to my aid or even paying attention to me; patients and staff just walk past me as though I am a piece of furniture. I turn to the only friends I seem to have – my cigarettes – and spend most of the day in the secure outdoor smoking area attached to the ward. I light smoke after smoke, and withdraw and hide completely.

On my second day in the ward, I meet with my designated psychiatrist. Immediately I judge this woman as being cold, uncaring, matter-of-fact and lacking compassion. I decide she has absolutely no idea what it is I am experiencing or feeling and I fight her help with everything in me. It seems to me that every question she asks me is rehearsed, as though she is simply going through the motions. I think to myself, “What does she really care how I think and feel? She can’t possibly understand.”

Nighttime is unbearably slow in coming and as it does I begin to panic because I know what lies ahead. Ward curfew and lights out is set for 10:00 p.m., but for me sleep is something in the past. When the night nurse comes in each hour to check on the patients, flashlight shining on each person in turn, I thrust up my hand in sarcasm, anger and frustration. I spend hour after hour without sleep. I am averaging two hours of interrupted sleep; nothing is helping.

Finally, after two long, drawn-out, miserable nights, they add another drug to the cocktail that they hope will help me sleep. Mercifully, it works and sleep comes at last.

I am having an awful pain in my ribs and slowly it is getting worse and becoming unbearable. Now I am not sleeping again because it is impossible to get comfortable and the pain prods me awake. As if I need another enemy in the battle for sleep. I am experiencing increasing shortness of breath and pain each time I breathe in. The pain is incredible and I am yelling at the nurses to get me an x-ray, but they refuse.

I am finally sent for an x-ray, I think, in part, because I am complaining constantly of pain. Nothing abnormal shows on the x-ray: ribs, shoulders and chest – all are fine. I demand to see a chiropractor, insisting pig-headedly that the x-rays are wrong. There is something wrong. Once again, my request is refused. Fortunately, my sister-in-law, Debbie, takes me to a chiropractor, since clearly I cannot drive myself and I have never been to one before. As I fill out the forms I find myself overcome by deep fear from the warnings that say, “We are not responsible for possible injuries that may result.” Debbie sees the fear in my eyes but reassures me. She puts her arms around me and tells me I need not go in if I don’t want to see the chiropractor, but I decide to go. The chiropractor is extraordinarily gentle and kind. He tells me that at least four of my ribs are out of alignment. He works around my skin and bones to do all that he can to help me. He gives me some relief from the awful pain.