I wished I had a yo-yo, some physical skill I could practice and master. I thought about doing ab exercises, but that seemed like a bad idea in my gown. So I sat on the bed and started stretching. My neck, bit by bit. My arms. My back. I rolled my shoulders. I stood and reached my feet. I pulled up to my tiptoes and down repeatedly, feeling a burn up the back of me. I paced. Anything that wouldn't look too bizarre on camera, the red light blinking from the ceiling. I stretched and stretched. The headache started to fade.
I saw a woman walk by with a security guard. Her fancy sci-fi mask and confident stride told me she was a doctor. I smiled. My psychiatrist had said "overnight." It was Friday, and Josh lets me sleep in on Saturdays. Maybe I wouldn't miss sleep-in day (how could I miss sleep-in day?). I could walk back into my life on the weekend and recover before Monday. It would be fine.
It wasn't fine. She was nice but direct, and I couldn't help the tears and the strained voice. I was also shaking. I felt a little embarrassed talking about my son's having autism and about my stress over his school work, but she seemed to think that was a lot to handle.
"I think you need to stay here for a couple of days. You look too anxious and too sad. I don't want to send you right back to that situation. You'll end up worse. You'll end up back here. Do you agree to stay here for a couple of days?"
"Okay." She was determined; I'd be staying whether I agreed or not.
"I'll work on the admission. Do you have any questions for me?"
"Yes. What was my lithium level?" A therapeutic lithium level is as close to 1 as possible. Too low means ineffective dosing, and too high is toxic. My body metabolizes lithium inconsistently, so my test results vary, and I've been on a range of doses.
"That's a great question." She took out her cell phone. ".54. You've missed some doses."
"That low? I've maybe missed one."
"You're on a good regimen of medication. I don't want to change anything right now. We'll get you back on your meds."
She left. I was frustrated; she thought I'd stopped taking my meds. I don't want to feel bad; I'm not going to stop taking my meds. I have no illusions that I'm better off without my medication. At this point, the disease has certainly progressed, and I don't really want to know who I am without meds. I definitely don't want to expose those I love to that person.
But my mother says I'm the most compliant bipolar person on the planet, and the blood test went against my word. At the same time, I now had a pretty good idea of why I'd started feeling so very bad. Lithium is a mood stabilizer; it regulates the brain, and it especially helps curb suicidal thoughts.
My defenses were down. Way down. And right now, no one was going to build them back up.
And I wasn't going home.
The boredom and loneliness wrapped thickly around me. I didn't know what to hope for. I kept stretching. My body continued to unclench a little.
Lunch came in another Styrofoam box. A nurse came in holding three small cups. Without thinking, I took two of them, and he let me. It looked like iced tea, which I've never liked, but I wasn't complaining. But no, it was ginger ale! Never my favorite, but sweet and bubbly...I couldn't believe my luck.
I didn't expect much from the food. I found cut carrots (which I love cold but not cooked--yes, I'm picky) and mashed potatoes and a thick slice of turkey, both smothered in gravy. I've always avoided gravy. but it and the turkey were totally edible. I slowly cut the meat with the edge of my plastic spoon. I ate all of the turkey and potatoes and as many spoonfuls of the carrots as I could. Breakfast had been inedible, and dinner might be too.
I had more bloodwork, this time to check my thyroid. Everyone always wants to check my thyroid, and it's always fine. It was fine this time too.
A transfer nurse came in. "I already have a room number for you and everything, so we should be leaving soon." I knew that, if nothing else, the psych ward would be different from the psych ED. She gave me a brochure and a list of rights and responsibilities. Written at the top was 5221, my code. Anyone who wanted to contact me would need that code.
A few times, someone would ask if I wanted the TV on. I said no; I couldn't control the channel or volume, and having those wrong would be miserable. Normally, I'd expect my mind to entertain itself. But my mind was a bare, chilly place. Except for those corners.
I slept a little to pass the time. I had no dreams, no treasured thoughts, no comforting images.
"Please, Momma. Please, just let me come home. MOMMA. Don't be like that, Momma. Just let me come HOME. She's gonna call you to make sure I have someplace safe to stay. I swear to Jesus, Momma, I'm gonna change my LIFE. I gotta daughter, Momma. I gotta girlfriend, and she's pregnant. I've been here all night and all day just layin' in the bed, Momma. I'm not even suicidal, Momma. I don't know why I said that. She's gonna be back in a minute! Can I come home or not? MOMMA--"
This went on. And on. People told him he had to be quiet, but the desperation and volume increased. He was probably about my age. I felt for his parents. I kind of felt for him too. I could hear the anguished boredom in his voice.
The transfer nurse never came back.
Dinner appeared to be exactly the same as lunch, which was okay with me. But the meat was actually chicken, which was tough and tasteless. I ate the potatoes and some of the carrots. I had politely taken only one cup of ginger ale, and I drank it slowly.
I was lying down when I heard a voice from the nurse's station. "If she's here, I'll have her call you." For some reason, I perked up.
A security guard appeared at my door, holding a phone and a cord. "Your husband wants you to call him."
The guard plugged in the phone in the hallway. I padded in my gray hospital socks and called the only number I have memorized besides my own. I've heard Josh's voice so many times when one of us was in distress. We've been together almost fifteen years. He was brave and positive, never making me feel guilty for being where I was. I was crying again. I told him what little I knew and gave him the phone number and code. I said I'd try to call him as soon as I moved.
After we hung up, I went back to my room for that yellow sticky note that had somehow passed the inspection when I arrived. The guard was unplugging the phone, but I asked if I could call my mom.
Mom answered after one ring. I was already back to crying. She asked how I was, and I said I'd never been more bored or lonely. I felt ashamed when I said, "I don't want to be here, but I don't really want to go home either." But Mom said that made a lot of sense. I gave her the code, phone number, and address for where I'd eventually be. She said, "I'm so sorry that this has to be part of your story." But she made me feel like I'd been good and responsible.
I saw the "Momma" guy in his doorway, dressed and ready to go home.
Someone turned my TV on, so I had the low drone of football in the background. I realized that I'd been lying in the wrong direction on the bed the whole time, but I wasn't going to change. I wished for a shower and easy access to water. I asked for water, and a nurse brought me the big plastic cup again. I was so excited.
A nurse with a familiar name told me that they were short-staffed, which was why I hadn't moved. I didn't have the energy to be upset about it.
I went to sleep early (at least I think I did). Mom had said that I'd been in the hospital for over 24 hours. I was on my side facing the door when I heard someone in the bathroom and could tell that the door wasn't closed. I told myself to keep my eyes shut.
"You need to close the door," a security guard said.
"You can't make me close the door," the man said. I thought he was the patient who threatened to "piss on the door."
"Wash your hands."
"I don't want to wash my hands."
"It's for our safety and yours."
"Yeah? What about my ---- ain't dirty?"
I heard a struggle but was able to go back to sleep.
I checked once and didn't see anything by the sink, but when I woke up again, breakfast was there. I saw two packets of ketchup and got excited--could that mean hashbrowns? I quickly drank the apple juice again. I found the same scrambled eggs and sausage but also something like chunky mashed potatoes. I put ketchup on the hybrid potatoes and ate them all.
The nurse with the familiar name stopped in. "How did you sleep?"
"Better, I think."
"You were asleep every time I checked." I loved him for having a kind voice and a name I loved.
I was still tired, deep-marrow tired but also light, pillow-headed sleepy. Who would care if I slept more? So I did.
A few hours later, four people blocked the light from from the hall. "Wake up, sleepy head. We're moving."
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