At 7.30 p.m. I was introduced to an agency nurse called Lenny. He took me down to the tearoom and gave me a run down of the daily routine in the hospital. It was difficult to make conversation with him, mainly because of the bloody row coming from some of the other patients. Most of the guys involved looked like extras that had been rejected from the Michael Jackson video, Thriller.
It was a woeful sight this place, it really was, and a huge culture shock to me. Unless you have ever visited a mental hospital you can’t fully appreciate just how terribly sad places like these are. I had been plucked out of public life for my own health and safety, and voluntarily signed myself into this hellhole.
At eight o’clock Lenny took me back to the ward. The door was locked behind us. I asked him why it was locked. He said, “It was a standard security procedure.” I remember thinking at the time, whose security? Who in their right mind would try breaking into this place? I went back into the day room and sat down to survey my new surroundings. I didn’t like what I saw.
There was a bunch of what looked like child molester’s playing cards at one of the tables. A nurse and a patient playing table tennis, and at the other end of this huge room, were a group of Charles Manson look-a-likes playing darts. What prat gave them a set of pointy sharp things!?!
One of them piped up, “I’ve got implants in my head you know. The Russians put them in there!” Oh fuck, I could see it was going to be one of ‘those’ nights. None of the people on the ward looked capable of offering up much in the way of stimulating conversation, except for the staff of course.
The toilets reeked of cheap pungent cleaning fluid, the bathroom was cold and uninviting, and my bedroom had no privacy whatsoever. My bed was hard and the mattress was covered in plastic, in case of an incontinent patient. The sheets were thick, starched and cold and the pillows were uncomfortably big. To round off this five star accommodation for the mentally challenged; my bed had a blanket on it that wouldn’t have kept a baby warm, let alone an adult. I could see I wasn’t going to get much sleep on my first night in the slammer.
The staff on my ward did their best to help me settle into the daily routine of hospital life. I had already been put on anti-depressants, but after four days I wanted to know why I didn’t feel any better? I asked the nurse in charge of the medication why the tablets were not working. He answered with a smile, “Don’t worry, they take two to four weeks to get in your system.”
They’ve got me now, I thought, my fourteen-day sentence had just doubled in the time it took to swallow a tablet. I’ve seen this scenario before somewhere; the only things missing were the men in white coats. I wished I’d never asked the bloody question in the first place. I couldn’t help feeling as though I had been ganged up on. Now I was scared to ask any more questions in case my stay in the funny farm was extended any further. I was thirty-three years of age but I felt like a frightened child who had just lost his mum in the high street.
On day five I was informed I would soon begin a course of E.C.T. “Oh great!” I exclaimed, “I can hardly wait.” Gingerly I asked what E.C.T. stood for. I just knew it was going to be something I didn’t like the sound of. “Electro-convulsive therapy,” the nurse replied. See what I mean! “Well, I’m okay with the therapy part,” I said, “but I’m not to chuffed with the words ‘convulsive’ or ‘electro.’”
It sounded too much like a Hammer House of Horror film. Trisha, the head nurse on the day shift, did her best to reduce my doubts about this form of treatment. She then proceeded to tell me one step at a time, how E.C.T. is administered to patients. Trish took her time explaining the process, and answered all of my questions to settle my nerves. Even so I still went away with a nagging fear in the back of my mind. (Why do we say that? Is the cerebellum where all of my worrying starts?).
The fateful day arrived. A group of us assembled outside the ward office. We were led down a maze of poorly lit corridors towards the E.C.T. room. We looked like a bunch of P.O.W’s being taken down to the cells to be experimented on by the SS. We were shown into a small blue painted waiting room, just big enough to seat all twelve of us. A few silent moments had passed by, when a nurse came in with a small hot water bottle for each of us.
“That’s very nice of you,” I said “but I couldn’t eat another thing thanks!” She smiled and explained that they were for us to keep our hands warm. The heat makes your veins stand up which gives the anaesthetist something to aim at, before she puts you under. Still smiling, she disappeared back into the E.C.T. room. So there we sat, the lucky dozen crammed into a room the size of a rabbit hutch, all waiting with bated breath for a swift surge of the National Grid!
One member of the group piped up, “I wonder if we’ll get charged for this on our next electricity bill?” Needless to say, we all had a bloody good laugh at this bloke’s sharp wit. That was the first time I had cracked a smile in ten months.
To have lost my sense of humour was heartbreaking for me; I now know it’s one of my finest qualities. Most of us in that room couldn’t boil an egg, let alone crack a joke (pun unintended.) Yet faced with a largely unknown situation, we all did our best to make humorous small talk to pass the time. I now know it’s the brain’s natural defence mechanism against blind fear.
Our names were being called out every ten minutes. Now there were just five of us left, and the small-talk had all but diminished. We all sat there starring vaguely into space waiting for our turn. Then I heard my name called. “Oh shit,” I thought, “here we go,” and a nurse led me into the E.C.T. room. It was large and brightly lit. Inside five other nurses were laughing and talking to each other. It wasn’t quite the Nazi torture chamber that I had envisaged.
In fact it had a nice calming effect on me. For the first time that day, I slowly began to relax. The nurse that brought me in asked if I would like another run through of the treatment. I said, “Yes please.” She was so understanding and kind, and could see that I was scared stiff. The explanation of the treatment is a lot easier to take in with all of the equipment in front you. “Are you ready?” She asked. “Not really,” I replied nervously. “It will be fine, honestly,” still trying to reassure me. “Come on then,” I said, “let’s get it over with.”
“Okay, first take off your shoes and socks and then lay on the bed Neil. I will take you through it one step at a time.” At this point the other nurses gathered around the four corners of my bed. They carried on talking away as if they were down the supermarket. On reflection, it was this bedside manner that put me at ease with the situation I now found myself in. There wasn’t a dull face in the room, except mine of course.
“You will feel a slight jab in your hand,” the nurse said, “that’s the needle going in for the anaesthetic. You will be asleep for about ten minutes. While you’re under, I will place some electrodes on each temple and give you a measured shock of electricity. This throws your brain into an epileptic fit.”
Oh, I could hardly contain myself. “The nurses around you will prevent you from putting any joints out of place by holding down your limbs as your body convulses.” Sounds like a wonderful experience doesn’t it! “Here we go – ready?” I winked at her and took a sharp intake of breath as the needle punctured the skin and vein on the back of my left hand.
Last part next week…
Comments
Powered by Facebook Comments