She requested, "Can I leave a message for someone to call me back?"
Her message was noted.
Four hours passed. She began to wonder why no one returned her call. She nervously picked up the phone and called again. She was patched through to the nurse immediately who claimed to never have gotten the message. Her fury escalated.
The side effects were explained to the nurse who calmed her and within minutes, the psychiatrist on call, called her back.
"You need to wait until Dr. Psych returns next week to adjust your medications," she stated.
She went on to suggest taking two of five of the medications in the morning rather than at night. Didn't she hear the girl when she said she had tried that and instant depression ensued? Was this fill-in doctor already on holiday and not listening?
Later that same day, she searched for local facilities to contact for advice. One local facility, at the hospital, was listed. The woman called for information.
"We're an in treatment facility. We have no out patient resources," the receptionist stated.
"I'm just looking for someone to adjust my meds. My psych is on vacation and the psych on call won't help me in the way I need," she replied.
"Go to the ER. Tell them you're there for a psych evaluation and you'll see a psychiatrist who can help," she suggested.
The woman took this advice after speaking with her husband.
Once in the ER, an announcement was made that there were multiple traumas and everyone waiting would have to wait longer. Her name was called shortly after. Finally some progress!
She was escorted through several locked doors by a security guard. During the long haul, the woman anxiously asked, "Does everyone get door to door treatment?" He wasn't amused.
Finally, they reached the double doors to where the sign read "Psych Ward". The girl assumed the psychiatrist would be behind those doors in a plush office waiting to speak with her. Wrong.
Through the double doors she was guided to a nurse who promptly asked, "Do you have anything in your pockets?"
"A barrette," the girl shakily replied.
She was instructed to hand it over along with her purse. The woman was escorted to a room where she was told it would be thirty minutes before anyone stopped in.
The room appeared to be cement from floor to ceiling. It was painted in a taupe color. The bed was a platform style bed, bolted to the floor. Only a fitted sheet covered the bed and the pillow. Did the ward assume someone would go suicidal using the pillow and that's why it too was bound down?
Alone with her racing thoughts, sounds of screaming drowned the halls. People shrieking, "Help me" and "Leave me alone" took her thoughts to a new level of dread.
"I don't belong here," she whispered to the camera above the bed. With courage, she reached out to push on the wall, which wasn't cement after all. It was rubber. She blinked away the tears, which then turned to a full on break down.
Within that half hour window, a nurse arrived to take her vital signs and ask a few questions. This part was rushed and straight faced. Before the nurse exited, the woman asked to use the restroom.
Upon entry to the restroom, she was given a cup to deposit her specimen into. The toilet was metal and cold, like that which you would find in a prison. She finished as quickly as possible and returned to the bolted down bed in that vile room.
Two hours after entering the ER, that same nurse returned to the room. She was whispering and ducking under the window telling the woman she didn't think she belonged here either. She pulled some strings and within moments, a physician's assistant made her way into the rubber room and asked a series of questions.
"Are you suicidal? Are you homicidal? Do you want to harm your children or husband?"
"Of course not," she desperately responded, tears continuously running down her face.
"Get the release paperwork," the P.A. ordered the nurse.
The woman signed a release stating she wouldn't commit suicide after leaving the facility. It was overwhelming that this sheet of paper was now part of her permanent hospital record.
It was a long drive home that night.
She and her husband discussed the horrifying events and put together a plan to get in touch with the woman's general practitioner the following day. It was time for someone new to step in and confirm that yes, she was in fact being over medicated.
The night passed into a new day. Waiting, waiting, waiting for the G.P. to call back. The woman always plays the waiting game.
The woman, is me....
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