Finally. I hear the cart creak in, see the flashlight. It must be 6am. Time for vitals. Not that I’m excited about getting my blood pressure taken and my heart listened to, but this means my night of lying in bed, staring at the locked window next to my cot and listening to my roommate peacefully snoring while sleep escapes me is over. The arrival of the cart means I can get up, go have a decaf coffee in the Day Room(no “real” coffee til 8) and watch the news, without staff writing up a report that I’m restless, or worse, manic. . Now I’ve learned if I get up in the middle of the night to have a good reason. Last night it was that I had menstrual cramps and needed Tylenol and a hot water bottle. All lies. I just couldn’t stand to lie here on this cot another minute. I was thinking too much about the windows being sealed shut. No fresh air.
But now I can get up. I take my tiny hospital-issued bar of soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and towel to the sink in the middle of the room with the mirror above it and wash up. No make-up. My Mom hadn’t dropped that off for me, and besides, I don’t really want to look attractive here. I comb my hair—no blowdryer—I guess you can kill yourself with one, so they’re not allowed. Then I went into the bathroom to change into my clothes, black jeans and an oversized-sweater. It was a large bathroom, sterile, with nothing but a toilet and sink. I heard my name called over the loudspeaker for bloodwork. Damn. You couldn’t have any coffee before bloodwork. Oh well, it was a good reason to be up. So I left my still-snoring roommate Judy, and went to the room set up for bloodwork at the other end of the corridor. There was a skinhead punk guy and an old wild-haired woman who reportedly had orgasms if she touched any male ahead of me. I studied the bland paintings on the wall. My turn. “If you don’t give me orange juice directly after drawing blood, I’ll pass out,” I tell them. They send someone to get my orange-juice, acting all put out,like I’m a prima donna. I tell the phlebotomist that I hope she’s gentle as I’m afraid of needles. “I try to be”, she says grimly. I turn my head, I cannot bear to look at the needle in my arm, and soon it’s over. The assistant gives me one of those little sample cups of orange juice. Now I can go to the Day Room. I wonder if Michael is there. There he is, sitting up near the TV, looking like he’s totally mesmerized by the News. Michael is the only attractive male patient on the floor. He is very handsome in a wasted sort of way. He has clear blue eyes , is tall and thin, and has longish curling brown hair.The only bad thing is he’s a paranoid schizophrenic and totally keeps to himself. My roommate has a huge crush on him, and calls him #37—he’s always wearing one of those over-sized athletic number shirts. Lot’s of girls have tried to approach him, but he just ignores them or moves to another table. I can tell he’s not conceited. He just knows he’s totally screwed up and doesn’t care about popularity or girls. I’ve heard he has nowhere to go when he’s released. I make a note in my head to make friends with him today. He fascinates me. But then the messed up ones always do.
Decaf only. Real coffee from 8-2. And their “real coffee” is just that instant Nescafe crap. The Day Room is the only room on the Third Floor with any color. It is decorated in bright blue and orange. There are paintings on the walls. Big windows looking out over the Detroit River. I asked one of the attendants the other day why the rest of the floor and rooms were so grey and depressing and he said that bright colours were known to cause mania in bipolar patients.. I take a seat over by the window and gaze out at the boats on the river. At least there’s a beautiful view from the Day Room. Michael and I are the only patients up. There are two staff members sitting in the back of the room, talking about last night’s Red Wings game. No doubt they have made notes on their clipboards that we’re up earlier than the rest.
The TV is the focal point in the Day Room. It is on all day except for when there are “activities” or meetings. TV is almost impossible for me to watch. Any violence is like a kick in the stomach. I fear any sexy stuff because there are so many sex-starved men on the ward that could be “triggered” I even found out yesterday from one of the staff that now they’re sending inmates from the state prison to the ward to come off drugs like heroin and crack cocaine. Before they had a separate ward for them. Now, because of all the cuts the government’s made , here they are, possibly sleeping in a room next to me. No regular security guards on duty.
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