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).
May 4, 2005
“The only way that we can help you is if you cooperate and agree to release your records,” Dorothy said.
I thought about that. I knew that I was in the hospital in order to receive the extra attention that would help me move on from my depression. I wanted to feel better. I was desperate for anything that would help.
I resented being told to cooperate, though. I knew I had the right to refuse, and I felt like that privilege was not being taken seriously.
“The sooner you sign the form, the sooner we can begin treatment and get you out of the hospital. You want that, right?” she asked.
I nodded in agreement, though I was unsure and in a daze. Then, I took the pen and began to sign the form, writing slowly to give myself a chance to back out. As I was writing my signature, Dorothy held her hands out, ready to pull the clipboard away.
“Thank you,” Dorothy said when I had completed my signature. She took the clipboard and pen from me, and before I could say anything, she had left the room.
May 1, 2005
Someone knocked on the half-closed door. “Come in,” I said, expecting it to be Meg.
I was startled to find that it was someone else. “Hi, Aurora,” a middle-aged woman said. “I need you to sign this release form,” she said, as she handed me a pen and clipboard.
“I’m Dorothy, by the way,” she said. “I’m one of the two nurses in charge of medications here.”
I looked at the form. I was sure that I didn’t want to sign it. I didn’t want Dr. Mossman to look at my records without giving me a chance to explain my situation first. I had never felt comfortable with my old psychiatrist, and I knew that the notes about me in my records were shallow and didn’t represent me the right way.
“I can’t sign this,” I said.
It was strangely comfortable to have my bed raised so high off the ground. I felt like a child in a bunk bed.
I hated my childhood, but somehow this experience of lying in a high bed was pleasant.
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.
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