(I don’t remember much about my four-day stay in the Inpatient Behavioral Health Unit at the hospital, but I do have some “pictures” in my head to help me recall pieces of it. Even today, lots of it are just fuzzy memories.) 

I checked into the psych ward on Sunday. I know that on Monday, I went to the nurses’ station near the Commons area. This area was enclosed by glass windows, and there was always someone standing outside of it, like a guard. I asked to use the phone and called my church. I think I told the receptionist that I was in the hospital and asked if Pastor Andy could visit me. As clergy, he wasn’t restricted to visiting hours, so he came and met with me later that day, I think. There was a small room off the Commons area where patients could meet “privately” (with as much privacy as is allowed in a psych ward, anyway.) My pastor met me there; I have no idea what I said. I asked him a few weeks later, just to be certain that I hadn’t done or said anything to embarrass myself or him. He assured me that I hadn’t. I had wanted to see him so that he could assure me I would be ok, that Jesus understood and was with me, and I’m sure he prayed for me.

I had two friends who visited one evening. They brought me cozy fleece pants, and confirmed to me that I was doing the right thing by getting help. I remember feeling very comforted by good friends who cared enough to see me in an uncomfortable place.

My husband came for every visiting hour.

And my kids came once, I think one of them came twice. I don’t remember asking my husband to bring them, but it seems that I did. Very quickly, I regretted that I had. I still wish they had never seen me there. The trauma of going through two locked doors was too much – and my flat affect, my lack of energy or any enthusiasm whatsoever – I don’t think they had known how sick I was, but they couldn’t miss it when seeing me on the psych ward. It must have been pretty awful for them. I’m very sorry I put them through that.

At some point, I remember seeing Dr. Larson. It might have been the first or second day – I’m not sure, since time blurred together. He was in my room, and I was looking right at him but couldn’t see his face because he was leaning up against the window and all I could see was his silhouette as the sun shone through from behind him. He was completely in shadow. But I know it was him – I knew his gentle voice. He was telling me about the different medicines we were trying. I remember thinking that I just wanted to go back to sleep. I’m still not sure what I said “Yes” to.

My last night there, I had a roommate. I was in bed when she came in – she laid down and was crying. I tried to say Hi, and she responded, but I ended up leaving the room for a while so she could have some privacy. When I came back in, I packed my things and went to bed.

I slept almost the entire time I was in the hospital. I later learned that’s exactly what has to happen for the brain to heal. The over-saturation of serotonin created a type of brain injury – there is no way to help it get better without sleeping. Dr. Larson gave special permission (Karen told me this later) to sleep all I wanted – no more group attendance requirements. No wonder everything blurs together – I think I slept through it all. But I know I didn’t dream it.

I don’t regret going to the psych ward – I think it was the best thing I could have done for myself. I actually tried to go several years later, when another medication caused a negative brain chemical reaction. Because I had been helped the first time, I knew it was the right thing to do. (I was unable to enter the ward because all of the beds were full – but that’s for another blog post.)

(I don’t remember much about my four-day stay in the Inpatient Behavioral Health Unit at the hospital, but I do have some “pictures” in my head to help me recall pieces of it. Even today, most of it is just a fuzzy memory.)

I checked into the hospital on Sunday. The rest of the four days are blurry: I slept a lot. 

I had to go to “Group” – twice, I think. The first time, Group was me and a young man, meeting at a low round table with a nurse who read through some pages and a booklet. All I heard was Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Waa waaa wa waaa.” The second time I went to Group, it was just me and the nurse, hardly a “group.” When she asked if I understood, I said, “Yes” so that she would let me leave and go back to bed. It was weeks after getting out of the hospital that I reread all of the materials I was given from my stay. As I was reading, I had a vague recollection of sitting at the table with her. Blurry memory, though.

I recall being awakened once by a nurse who seemed irritated that I was sleeping; she told me I had to get up and go to Recreational Therapy. As I stepped out into the hall, I was completely surprised to see Karen walking by – she was the Rec therapist! I greeted her like the old friend she was, and wondered if it shocked her to see me in the psych ward. We had become friends through our daughters and story time at the library 13 years before! I hadn’t seen her in a very long time – probably 4 years before this. It ended up being ok that I had to go to Rec Therapy, because Karen and I got to talk, filling each other in on our daughters’ lives. The young guy was there, too. I made a small stuffed fleece pillow – the tie kind (I gave it to my dog when I got home). Karen sought me out later in the day and gave me my lip balm (it had my name on it) – she had found my little pouch.

I remember a couple of meal times – my goodness, it was an odd bunch in the Commons. I didn’t see the young man, but I remember an older woman, an older man, a middle-aged lady, maybe another man, perhaps a total of six of us. I think we sat with two or three of us per round table, but I also remember being alone. Or maybe that’s just how we all felt – alone in the group. The TV was on, but no one was really watching – not even the nurses – I think they had their own TV. There was someone yelling, then screaming – down the hall. People rushed in his direction. Maybe it was the young man.

One time that I was out of my room and in the Commons, I tried to do some coloring. I think I worked on a puzzle too, but it was too hard to concentrate, and I couldn’t see well enough for the detail in the pieces. The young man was there, with people who I’m assuming were his parents, and he was crying hard. The man with him looked angry. The boy ended up yelling at them.