The only thing that wakes me is a cold wind intruding on the warm, late night air of my hospital room. The change in temperature is noticeable, like oil in water. A bright light from the hall. A nurse, curly haired and round, pokes her head in, makes a note on a clipboard, and then vanishes behind a closed door again.
Fifteen-minute wellness checks grow tedious.
I shut my eyes against the darkness and roll onto my other side. Windows look out onto a dusty parking lot. Empty of the many cars the daylight would bring. In the morning the hospital would be full of doctors and nurses. People would go and come. But I would remain for, at least, a week. That’s what my doctor had told me, at least a week.
Tomorrow would bring art therapy group and CBT. I’d meet with a doctor. Be given medications. And work with a caseworker about a discharge plan. When I’d be leaving, where I’d be going, what my new medication regime would look like.
I sighed opening and closing my eyes again. I didn’t want to stay for another week. The monotony of the place ironically maddening. I threw my arm over my eyes, the crook of my elbow settling across my forehead. I bit at my lips. And then, as I finally felt sleep close by, another column of light slunk into my room and the same nurse looked in.
“Please!” I groaned, “Leave me alone!”
“Just doing my job dear.”
In the hall, I heard two nurses in an exchange. A midnight but ultimately momentary admittance would arrive. They were not to remove his restraints. I thought back to my own admittance. Cowering beneath a tan Egyptian cotton blanket. Arms restrained to the stretcher which I was brought in on. Legs left free and pulled inward.
I begged for sleep, the nurses chattering on outside my door. The Zolpidem which they had given me to help me sleep had since worn off.
“I guess this guy is gonna be committed, we just have to hold him for the night.”
With my eyes shut I wrinkled my brow. Committed…?
“He killed his parents,” and I felt my mouth run dry, “said something about them being the devil’s work.”
I rolled back over, away from the door.
“Found him covered in his parent’s blood.”
A third voice now, “All the people that come through here are fucking psychos. If you ask me they should all be committed.”
My pulse, already high, threatened to break my ribs. I felt a hot bed of tears beginning to form at the edge of my eyes. I wasn’t in the right place to hear any of this. I was the youngest crazy kid on the adult psychiatric ward. Confused, distraught, suicidal, irrational, and impulsive. I thought, in that moment, that maybe I was destined to become the guy who would murder my parents. Maybe some day I’d show up covered in the blood of someone I loved. Maybe it was only a matter of time before I went crazy enough. In a silent rage, I brought the pillow from above my head over my face and screamed into. Emptying my lungs and then my throat, leaving my respiratory tract scratched and raw. I couldn’t have known I had five more of these hospitalizations ahead of me. That I’d almost die. That I was Schizoaffective. I couldn’t have known all the sad music views I’d see from my hospital windows, all the sad music scenes I’d see, all the sad music medicine I’d take before I found the one that worked…
Just as I went in for a second scream there was a commotion in the hall. The sound of a stretcher, a sound I’d never forget, rattling down the hall. Its thin wheels sounded like skeleton bones, poorly oiled, on the clean hospital lelonium. Click, click, squeak.
My next fifteen-minute wellness check came just as the stretcher made it’s way past my door. And in the hall, I saw a man pass by. His hands, though tightly bound, were clean hands. Pale Maine hands. His face empty, eyes empty. A lost look plastered to him like a missing person’s ad. And as the entire stretcher passed my door I didn’t see a single drop of blood.