HOSPITALS - PART 1: The arrival
I
have been hospitalized three times over the past two years due to
mental health concerns.
The
first was a month or so after I initially reached out to my family
doctor. The medications we had tried had provided little relief and
my suicide ideation had become very specific. She therefore decided
to Form
1
me which meant I was taken into custody for my own safety and locked
in the psychiatric ward for a minimum of three days. I had not
anticipated this move on her part. I didn't even know such a form
existed. I was terrified at what would happen next.
My
wife was called and she came to my family doctor's office where I was
placed in her custody. We were warned that if I didn't arrive at the
hospital within the hour the police would be called. We drove
straight there and found the ER was expecting us. They already had a
copy of my Form 1. After the initial paperwork was completed I was
escorted into small room. The ER nurse was kind but it quickly became
clear I had lost my freedom. My clothes were taken away and I was
issued an ill-fitting hospital gown which slowed my every move. A
security guard was even posted outside my room to ensure I remained
safe and that I didn't get away. The first guard they posted was
older and I joked to myself I could have probably out run him even
though I was hobbled by the hospital gown. But when his shift was
over, he was replaced by a decidedly more athletic guard. I was
trapped.
Waiting and waiting
The
worse part of the ER was the wait. By triage standards, mental
health is a low priority. Also, it didn't help that there was only
one psychiatrist on call. The ER nurse did her best keep me
comfortable by bringing me some food and checked in on me
periodically. Still I waited and waited. After about 6 hours, a
psychiatrist finally arrived and assessed my condition. He promptly
prescribed new medications and announced that I would be admitted
into the psychiatric ward, or “One West” as they called it. I
noticed that they didn't refer to it as the “mental ward” or the
“psych ward” but rather stuck with the geographically neutral
title of “One West.”
After
the pdoc left I waited another couple of hours for a bed. Finally I
was escorted by my security guard and a hospital porter into the
locked ward. It was late at night and I was exhausted.
The police
The police
My
second visit to the hospital played out basically the same except the
police took me to the ER instead of my wife. My family doctor could
not get hold of me after I left our appointment and fearing the
worst, she called 911.
I
arrived home that day, after having lunch with a friend, to find two
police cruisers on my street. For the most part, the police were
polite until it came time to take me into custody. The larger police
officer warned me that if I tried anything I would regret it. For
someone who sweats over a late library book, this warning terrified
me. He then had me lean against his cruiser with my legs and arms
spread wide open. Next he put on gloves and frisked me from top to
bottom. As “luck” would have it, my neighbours were all arriving
home with their children after school. I was mortified as I was
locked into the backseat of his cruiser and driven away. I hide my
face in shame as everyone looked through the window.
The
police waited with me at the ER until a psychiatrist and hospital bed
were found. My custody was then passed from the police to the
hospital security staff. After a few more hours, I was again
escorted by security and a hospital porter back to One West. The
moral to this story was if you're suicidal make sure your Family
Doctor has your cell number which she can call first instead of 911.
I would have still ended up in One West, it just the ride would not
have been so intense.
The
ambulance
The
third time I was taken to the hospital, I rode in the back of an
ambulance. I don't remember much of the incident other than
answering the front door and collapsing into their arms. I was on
the phone with my family doctor at the time. My therapist had called
me about a half hour before to conduct an exit interview for the
group sessions we had. During our conversation she revealed that
further assistance was unavailable for another 6 months. My mind
collapsed and everything escalated quickly. She sensed my agitation
over the phone and my growing distress. She told me to call my
family doctor and that she herself would call back in fifteen minutes
in case I couldn't get hold of her. I agreed but then as soon as I
hung up I set my plan in motion. If you ask me why I did it, what
was so wrong, the only honest answer I can give is everything and
nothing. My mind was confused and the suicide ideation took over. I
had visualized the steps many times before. The action was well
rehearsed. Every other thought just shut down and it happened. I
overdosed. I can't explain it. The best I can do is direct you to my poems where my distorted thoughts and raw
emotions are better illustrated.
I
remember a few snippets from the ambulance ride and some flash backs
from the ICU but not much else. When my senses had fully recovered,
I found myself in One West for another extended stay. After two
weeks I was strapped to a gurney and rolled into a patient transport
van. A nurse from One West escorted me as I was transferred to a
psychiatric hospital for an additional six weeks. At the new
hospital I was greeted by a security guard and another nurse who
signed for my custody.
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