The Staff, Part 2: My Doctor

 From Getty Images. Photo by Val Loh.

What do I see? 

I see a bat.

Why? 

Because my Doctor is a goddamn vampire, that's why.

I'm pretty sure that My Doctor at Ward 3A was a vampire.

Besides a general air of creepiness and a piercing stare that unnerved me, I never saw him during the day.

But wait, Patient H, you might say. What if he just has a private practice during the day, like a normal psychiatrist, and just does his hospital work during the evenings?

"Well," I say to you, gentle reader, "That rationale isn't nearly as interesting. So let's go with the vampire thing."

While a patient's Nurse and Therapist varies from shift to shift, a patient's Doctor is an invariable factor. You only see your Doctor once a day, so shifts aren't an issue. You have one Doctor for your whole stay. Because of that, I can only speak knowledgeably about one Doctor -- mine, because he was all that I was able to observe.

The Doctors of the ward are creatures of mystery and autonomy. They waltz in whenever they want, completely violating the rest of the staff's attempts at maintaining a reliable schedule, and pull their patients aside one by one to suck their blood to talk privately in one of the tiny offices.

Tiny offices that never had any tissues. Ever.

That makes no sense to me. A psychiatrist requires only three items to practice their craft. They require a pen, something to write on, and tissues. While crying is an upsetting act in and of itself, I was always frustrated by my own tears, on top of all the other emotions experienced, because there was nothing with which to staunch the tears and other facial leakage. My Doctor would usually reach out to shake my hand after every session, but once I had to beg off because of -- as I actually said to him -- "snotty hands." That was embarrassing. (He did apologize for the lack of tissues, though. At least he seemed to realize that it was an unacceptable absence of necessities.)

Creatures of mystery, autonomy, and power. It doesn't matter what great progress you've made with any of your Therapists or Nurses. It's your Doctor that holds the key to your release or continued confinement. Only when The Doctor sees you as fit to leave do you get to leave. Therefore it's important to make a sane impression whenever your Doctor pulls you aside to chat. (Making a sane impression -- it's like making a good impression, just more urgently important.) I always made sure I was clean, decently dressed, politely alert, and calm. It didn't matter if I'd been crying only minutes before. If the Doctor showed up, I was all polite smiles and reasonable responses. Yep, there'd be no screaming tantrums or hysterical sobs from me! You might get that from other patients, but not little ol' me.

I am a Reasonable, Cooperative, Polite, and Generally All-Around Well-Behaved Patient, I tried to say in everything I did. I shouldn't be here. Don't you think I shouldn't be here? I should go home now.

Of course I tried to behave in a similar fashion for all the Nurses and Therapists, but it was more important with The Doctor. There were more consequences than just social niceties with The Doctor. You be nice to the Nurses and Therapists because you should be nice to everyone on principle. (And if anyone deserves a little pleasantness, it's them.) You be nice to The Doctor because there's an agenda.

But, as you might know, vampires have a heightened sensitivity to these things.

I'd been hoping to go home before the weekend. It was Friday and I was so ready to be discharged. (I had a birthday coming up the following week. I didn't want to spend my birthday in a loony bin.) I waited all day for my Doctor to show up so I could do my song and dance of reasonableness for him. I waited. And waited. And waited. I asked various Therapists when he might come in. They shrugged. I asked various Nurses when he might come in. They just rolled their eyes. I waited and waited in an ever-increasing fervor of need to show how goddamn sane I was (which probably wasn't very sane, now that I think about it). The Nurses and Therapists were all on my side by now. They were rooting for me, the good patient. I just had to convince The Doctor, and I was practically bursting with my need to do so.

He didn't show up until after 7:00 pm. Because he's a vampire.

Or because he has a private practice during the day. Whichever. I'm still voting for vampire theory.

"You look well," he finally said after he moseyed on in, careless of the anxiety I'd felt in waiting for him all day. Then added, "But, of course, you could be acting."

Damn sneaky vampires.

(What makes it particularly funny is that I was a theatre major in college. Acting? Who, me?)

But I wasn't acting! I really am a reasonable, cooperative, polite, and generally all-around well-behaved person. Even in real life, when I'm a person rather than a patient. It wasn't acting. It was... emphasis.

Needless to say, I didn't get out of the hospital before the weekend.

Because of the vampire.

From the Petrified Collection at Getty Images.

Do you see the vampire in this picture?

No, of course you don't.

Because vampires can become invisible. Duh.

Accommodation

 A typical psych unit room, this one from Cedar Hills. 

Note the uncomfortably thin mattress, which is standard to the field.

Picture taken from the The Oregonian.

It's hard to imagine a hospital bedroom in a psychiatric unit is anything but what it is. There's not much in way of "character," and the character there is only reaffirms the truth of the matter. You are in a psych ward. You are crazy. You are likely a danger to yourself, if not also to others. If nothing else, you somehow disrupt the normal flow of society. The world cannot accommodate your Otherness, so adjustments must be made -- for your own safety, of course.

There is no mirror in the bathroom, for mirrors are easily broken and broken mirror shards make good weapons. The result of this is that everyone's hair looks terrible.

Someone, at some point, had written in Chinese on the wall next to my bed, likely in crayon. It had been painted over again, but in certain light the texture of the letters still show up, a stark matte against a clean, gleaming surface.

I also spent the first few days of my stay being jealous of my roommate, who had two of the substandard pillows instead of just one, and two substandard pillows comes closer to a real pillow than just one, at least in terms of depth measurement. One just has to ignore the weird plastic covering that crinkles with any movement.

The curtains aren't bad, though. They're blackout curtains, so when you completely close them and turn off all the lights, you can't even see your hand in front of your face. Not so good if you're terrified of your roommate standing over you while you sleep, but good if you're a sensitive-to-light sleeper.

If you stay too long in your room, the staff views it as a Bad Sign. They like to coax us out into the open of the unit common area, which is the radial space around the island that is the nurses' station. Ragged books, games and puzzles with pieces missing, uncomfortable chairs -- gee, I wonder why I don't like hanging out in the common area. I'd prefer to stay in my room, 308.