If this is your first time here, you might want to read in reverse order, from the beginning. "Testing Depression" is my true story about being hospitalized for depression.
A quick summary up to this point:
I arrived at the hospital in a police car. I was examined by the entry
nurse, and then by a doctor on the unit. I met two nurses, Meg and Dorothy, and two other patients, Charlie and Louisa. I was on fifteen-minute checks. I struggled to remember the causes of my depression. My only medication at this point was Ortho-Tricyclen (birth control pills).
April 27, 2005
I returned to my patient room. I was relieved to find it empty, even though I was lonely. I did not want to meet my roommate yet.
I closed the door and then sat on my bed again. I felt awfully depressed. I had a feeling that I wasn’t going to get along with Dr. Mossman.
After what seemed like just a couple of minutes, there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” I said loudly.
It was Meg. “Just checking on you,” she said. “I’ll be back to say hi again every fifteen minutes.” I smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“Do you know that you can adjust your bed?” she asked. “No,” I said.
Meg came to the side of my bed and bent down to look for something. “Here it is,” she said as she picked up a funny-looking plastic remote. It was attached to the foot of the bed by a long, black cable.
“I think these buttons bring you to an angle so that you can sit and read in bed,” she said. She held down one button, and my bed began to hum. The top part of the bed rose to a comfortable angle.
She held down another button, and my entire bed started to rise. “These ones let you bring the entire bed up or down,” she said, showing me the controls.
“Thanks,” I said as I took the remote.
Meg left the room without closing the door behind her. For a second I thought to close it, but I realized that she would be back in fifteen minutes anyway.
I brought the angle of my bed down so that it was flat again. Then I raised the entire bed up as far as it would go. Not bad, I thought.
April 26, 2005
Dr. Mossman walked down the corridor at a brisk pace, closing himself off from further interaction with me.
It was a disturbing experience to be pressured to share one’s innermost thoughts and feelings one moment, and then to be cast away like an object immediately.
I felt confused, although I understood. He was a doctor; I was merely one of his patients.
I was lonelier than ever before, knowing that the only people interested in my deepest thoughts were those who were obligated by their professions to cure me rapidly and emotionlessly, and then to move on.
April 25, 2005
“I’d like you to release your medical records to us,” he said. “The nurses will have a form for you to sign later today. It would be to help us understand your situation a little better.”
I nodded uncomfortably, relieved that I didn’t have to sign the form right away.
“I also think it would help us to do some psych testing,” he said. “We have someone who comes in once a week to administer psych tests. I will go ahead and set up an appointment for you to see her.”
He closed my patient chart, smiled awkwardly, and stood up. Taking the cue, I stood up, and he reached out his hand to shake my hand. His hand was cold.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
Dr. Mossman watched me carefully while I looked down at the floor, unable to answer his question. The silence continued for what seemed like an entire minute, after which I grew annoyed. He had been intrigued and fascinated by my embarrassed movements and my lack of words, and he made no effort to help my thoughts flow.
Frustrated, I shifted my eyes from the floor to his eyes. I stared back at him directly, hoping that he would speak. But he only stared back more fiercely, focusing his empty, analytical eyes on mine, and forcing me into a staring contest. Perhaps staring directly at him was a bad move after all.
Finally, I looked away, and he scribbled down some notes in my patient chart.
It sometimes can take me a few days to respond to emails and comments. I am very grateful for them, though, and love to respond; it just takes me a little longer sometimes because I am writing about experiences that I have been afraid to think about for a few years, and often once I write about them I just need a few days to let those memories settle in my mind.
My deepest thanks to all who have left notes for me. I have also been meaning to set up a blogroll so that I can acknowledge and thank new friends, as well as just to show everyone the blogs that I like to visit. I will hopefully do this soon.
April 22, 2005
“You are here because you are depressed. Is that correct?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“Would you like to tell me what is causing your depression?”
I nodded my head, slowly and uneasily. “Everything. Every part of my life has fallen apart.” I paused for a moment, unable to figure out where to begin with my story.
“Go on,” he pressured.
I nervously looked at him. My thoughts froze, leaving me with nothing to say. It was the opposite of “seeing your life flash before your eyes”; during that long moment, I could not remember a single detail about my life.
Not knowing what else to say or do, I looked down and waited for him to say the next words in the conversation. I wanted it to be his turn to talk. I hoped that he would forget his question and move on to another one.
April 21, 2005
A man in a white coat walked into the waiting area. He approached me as soon as he saw me. I wondered how he knew my face despite never having seen me before.
He extended his hand. “You must be Aurora?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, and I shook his hand.
“Come this way, please,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. He stepped back and pointed his arm toward the corridor in front of us. I understood that he wanted me to lead the way. I walked all the way down the corridor to the end, where there were four vinyl-covered chairs and two large, bright windows. He followed me.
Choosing which chair to sit in seemed like a deliberate test. I sat down in a chair along the corridor wall, so that I could see both down the corridor and out the windows at once. He sat down in a chair against the windows.
“My name is Dr. Mossman,” he said.
A knock on the partly-open door startled me and brought me out of my thoughts.
“Aurora?” the voice asked.
“Come in,” I said. I quickly sat up in my bed, my back straight against the wall.
It was Meg the nurse. She stepped into the room. Standing beside the door, she said, “Dr. Mossman will be on the unit in a few minutes. He wants to meet you.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Just come to the main waiting area when you’re ready,” she said. She stepped back out of the room.
I got out of bed and put on my shoes. Then I turned off the lights in my room and went to the waiting room. There, I sat in a different chair from the one which I had waited in before.
As I waited for the doctor, I studied the whiteboard for the second time. It was more interesting now that my name was written on it.
**
Note: I thought “Dr. Spaceman” sounded too silly, so I have now renamed my doctor as “Dr. Mossman”, from my mental comparison between him and green, soft moss.
April 20, 2005
I pulled down the covers and sat on the bed.
There was nothing to do but think. It felt good, because during the months before I entered the hospital, there was hardly time to think. It eased my fears a little, knowing that I was there to relax and to think.
At the same time, it was scary and surreal. I looked around at the white walls of my room. I pulled the cold, white sheet and white blanket over my cold legs.
Half an hour later, I was still thinking in my bed.
I still felt cold. I knew I would have to ask for extra blankets later.
April 19, 2005
A tall man was sitting in the main patient lounge, reading a newspaper. His right foot was crossed over his left knee. He was probably in his sixties.
Meg the nurse introduced him to me. “Charlie, this is Aurora. She just got here today, so make her feel welcome,” she said.
I didn’t understand who this guy was; I thought he might be a nurse, but I was not sure. He smiled and said a friendly “Hello” and then returned to reading his paper.
I was feeling a little disoriented. Meg brought me back to my room, to settle in and to have some time to myself. “Come and get me or any of the other nurses if you need anything,” she said.
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