Explanatory Note: Check-In
This is another partially compted chapter that is needed so readers can understand future events, but I haven't fit well into a chapter yet, nor edited much. It, again, will be a supplement to this week's formal chapter.
My mother and I were lead through a labyrinth of corridors that snaked through the interior of the facility. The place seemed nicely maintained – a carpeted floor, freshly painted walls, well lit corridors and silent – it seemed as if everyone was already asleep at nine o’clock. I noticed that many of the doors we went through required a card to open them – the facility also seemed to be pretty well secured. But it didn’t emanate an uneasy feeling as one would expect to come from a psychiatric hospital.
We finally came upon an area which was introduced to us as the “adolescent ward.” Immediately in front of us was a large circular desk, where several females, who were probably nurses, sat. Beyond the desk, and also to the left of it, were two branching hallways that were lined on either side by doorways. A common area, which had upholstered couches and a television sat to our left –surrounded by clear Plexiglas windows, it could easily be observed from the nurse’s station. And finally, to our immediate left, were two office-like rooms, each with only a desk and three chairs – two in front of the desk, one behind. We were directed to the first such room, and my mother and I sat in front of the desk, while a nurse took a seat behind it.
She talked about the facility for a bit, then started filling out paperwork. I provided my name, my date of birth, my insurance information – she wanted to know if I had a past of any psychological illness (I hadn’t), if I ever had an IQ test (I had, but never found out the results, my mother said that I was somewhere between 130-140, but she didn’t exactly remember the number), and a variety of other questions about my past.
I then had to remove my shoes, as they were not allowed due to the risk shoelaces posed to the suicidal patients, give my wallet and any other valuables to my mother, and then was told I needed to have a physical and formal check-in done by the woman who had originally escorted us in. Hours were set up for a meeting with my parents tomorrow, and visiting hours we discussed. I would receive a room I would have to share with one other patient, who was already checked in.
I said goodbye to my mother, and left with the woman who was supposedly head of the facility. We walked through another maze of doors, till we ended up on the far side of the building, in a room designed to generally resemble a doctor’s office. I sat down on the examining table, and she pulled out some paperwork from a manila folder that already had my name on it.
After conducting a brief physical exam of asking about any previous medical history, taking a set of vital signs, listening to lung sounds and so forth, I was directed to take a seat next to her, where she proceeded with an interview.
I explained to her the chain of events which lead up to me being admitted to the facility, and, unlike her counterpart at the hospital, she listened to my entire story attentively and took notes.
“Well, I don’t see anything wrong with what you did,” she told me.
Finally. Finally someone who understood, someone who was reasonable.
“Everyone can get upset at points, and say things they don’t mean,” she added. “However, I have to fill out this entire form, and I’ve got to ask you all these questions that may not apply to your situation.”
“Sure, I understand,” I told her, now much more relaxed.
“Have you ever hurt yourself intentionally?”
“No.”
“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself or others?”
“No.”
“Have you or has anyone in your family ever been diagnosed with a mental illness?”
“No.”
“Have you ever consumed anything that might have been considered an illegal substance?”
“No.”
The questions continued on for another twenty minutes, after which the woman assured me that I was likely fine.
“You’re probably just a good writer,” she told me, “You’ll probably end up being the next Steven King.”
She escorted me back to the adolescent ward, and to my room, after explaining to me that tomorrow I'd have to be formally checked out by the doctor in the adolescent ward. When I arrived back, my roommate was already sound asleep, along with the rest of the patients at the facility. My mother had placed a few changed of clothes in shopping bags in the corner, and I climbed into the unoccupied bed and fell asleep.
My mother and I were lead through a labyrinth of corridors that snaked through the interior of the facility. The place seemed nicely maintained – a carpeted floor, freshly painted walls, well lit corridors and silent – it seemed as if everyone was already asleep at nine o’clock. I noticed that many of the doors we went through required a card to open them – the facility also seemed to be pretty well secured. But it didn’t emanate an uneasy feeling as one would expect to come from a psychiatric hospital.
We finally came upon an area which was introduced to us as the “adolescent ward.” Immediately in front of us was a large circular desk, where several females, who were probably nurses, sat. Beyond the desk, and also to the left of it, were two branching hallways that were lined on either side by doorways. A common area, which had upholstered couches and a television sat to our left –surrounded by clear Plexiglas windows, it could easily be observed from the nurse’s station. And finally, to our immediate left, were two office-like rooms, each with only a desk and three chairs – two in front of the desk, one behind. We were directed to the first such room, and my mother and I sat in front of the desk, while a nurse took a seat behind it.
She talked about the facility for a bit, then started filling out paperwork. I provided my name, my date of birth, my insurance information – she wanted to know if I had a past of any psychological illness (I hadn’t), if I ever had an IQ test (I had, but never found out the results, my mother said that I was somewhere between 130-140, but she didn’t exactly remember the number), and a variety of other questions about my past.
I then had to remove my shoes, as they were not allowed due to the risk shoelaces posed to the suicidal patients, give my wallet and any other valuables to my mother, and then was told I needed to have a physical and formal check-in done by the woman who had originally escorted us in. Hours were set up for a meeting with my parents tomorrow, and visiting hours we discussed. I would receive a room I would have to share with one other patient, who was already checked in.
I said goodbye to my mother, and left with the woman who was supposedly head of the facility. We walked through another maze of doors, till we ended up on the far side of the building, in a room designed to generally resemble a doctor’s office. I sat down on the examining table, and she pulled out some paperwork from a manila folder that already had my name on it.
After conducting a brief physical exam of asking about any previous medical history, taking a set of vital signs, listening to lung sounds and so forth, I was directed to take a seat next to her, where she proceeded with an interview.
I explained to her the chain of events which lead up to me being admitted to the facility, and, unlike her counterpart at the hospital, she listened to my entire story attentively and took notes.
“Well, I don’t see anything wrong with what you did,” she told me.
Finally. Finally someone who understood, someone who was reasonable.
“Everyone can get upset at points, and say things they don’t mean,” she added. “However, I have to fill out this entire form, and I’ve got to ask you all these questions that may not apply to your situation.”
“Sure, I understand,” I told her, now much more relaxed.
“Have you ever hurt yourself intentionally?”
“No.”
“Have you ever thought about hurting yourself or others?”
“No.”
“Have you or has anyone in your family ever been diagnosed with a mental illness?”
“No.”
“Have you ever consumed anything that might have been considered an illegal substance?”
“No.”
The questions continued on for another twenty minutes, after which the woman assured me that I was likely fine.
“You’re probably just a good writer,” she told me, “You’ll probably end up being the next Steven King.”
She escorted me back to the adolescent ward, and to my room, after explaining to me that tomorrow I'd have to be formally checked out by the doctor in the adolescent ward. When I arrived back, my roommate was already sound asleep, along with the rest of the patients at the facility. My mother had placed a few changed of clothes in shopping bags in the corner, and I climbed into the unoccupied bed and fell asleep.
posted by Ross at 12:10 PM
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