A Thankful Heart and an Amazing Announcement

After every storm there comes a rainbow.  This year, Matt and I are thankful for the opportunity to bring Coraline’s brother or sister, our rainbow baby, into the world sometime next summer. :)

Yep - I got my super-duper positive test while we were on our cruise.  So that cut short my boozing and increased my water intake (and subsequent retention).  For those of you who care, yes we planned this and yes we are thrilled/terrified/exhausted/excited and every other emotion in between.

A few preemptive answers to anticipated questions - not that most of my friends and family would ask these, but I’ve been caught off guard before by the unsuspecting stranger (like the jackhole on the cruise).  I felt the need to sort some of these out and come up with snarktastic replies, just in case.

Oh my gosh, you’re pregnant!?  Wow - was this planned?

Are you asking whether we used protection while having consensual sex as married adults in our own home?  Because that’s a pretty invasive question, IMHO.

Is this your first?

No, I have two others - a 10-year-old son and a daughter who was stillborn.

Isn’t it too soon/so long after Coraline?

The timing is right for us, and that’s all that matters.

What are you hoping for?

A healthy baby.  We’ll take a velociraptor, but a healthy baby is ideal.

Aren’t you worried about a repeat of (in hushed tones) last time?

You should be more concerned about my fist repeatedly hitting your face this time.

Are you going to have a baby shower?

No.  We are blessed to have mostly everything we need for a new arrival, with some adjustments after finding out the gender.

Have you picked out any names?

Yes, Archer for a boy and Ingrid for a girl.

Well what about ­________?

No.

Are you sure?  Don’t you like ­­­_________?

No.

You should go with __________.

You should stop talking now.

Are you getting rid of your cats/dogs?

No. They will adjust, and they are part of our family, too.

You should really do (insert old wives pregnancy wisdom).

Thanks, I’ll look into that.  (has no intention of strapping grape leaves to my hands every other Tuesday to relieve RLP)

Are you going to do a water birth/C-section/natural?

Depends on what happens, but I will do whatever it takes to bring a healthy, screaming baby into the world. 

When are you due?

July 4^th.

Oh, born on the Fourth of July!!! How adorable!

Yes, I’m vomiting red, white and blue as a show of patriotism.

I saw an episode of (insert crappy reality medical show here) and that makes me an expert on (insert phase of pregnancy/prenatal care).  Let me give you some advice…

Thanks - I’ve done this twice already.  I’m good.

Oh, you shouldn’t eat that!

Right now, it’s the only thing my body is tolerating.  So piss off unless you want to wear it.

I guess this means you can’t go out drinking…

Yep, also, no more happiness.  Because 9 months is FOREVER and I live for booze. (rolls eyes)


Maybe I just anticipate people will say horrible things because I've experienced it, but I like to be prepared. :)

Invisible handicaps

This past week was amazing - we took our cruise to Mexico, Belize and Isla Roatan.  I got a massage and we sat on the beach drinking rum (well, Matt was) and enjoying the ocean breeze.  It was a great escape from work and responsibility, since we had a couple watching our home and pets and leaving us mostly carefree for a solid week.  Bliss.

Then there was the blind guy.  We chose to dine on “our time”, which meant a different seating arrangement every evening, but no restrictions on time to show up.  One night we end up with an older (50-60s) legally blind gentleman and his wife.  This guy took every opportunity to tell everyone at the table that he was legally blind.  Multiple times.  Even though no one asked.  So he can see shapes and colors but not much beyond that.  

A few days later, we’re in the pool in the adults-only Serenity deck, enjoying the cool water after a long, hot day traipsing around Belize, when Ray Charles shows up.  And begins talking, at great length, about all the places he’s been and things that no one knows but him and his travels and collections and friends and associates because me me me me me I I I I I LOOK AT ME I’M SPECIAL.  Matt and I are comfy and don’t want to get out, so we chat with Me-Monster a bit.

Then he asks the “so ya’ll have kids” question, to which I reply “Yep.  A 10-year-old.  And one on the way.”  And Dickbag goes into a tirade about how we “should have had them at like 3 and 1” or closer together, and “why would you want to have another one now, that’s like starting all over.”  And I’m biting my lip til it bleeds and letting the saltwater from the pool bring even more physical pain to dull the emotional anguish and keep me from punching his detached-retina lights out.  

I explain that Parker is mine, and Matt and I just married 3 years ago.  I explain that our daughter was stillborn last November, to which this incredible asshole, who should know something about the hardships people have to go through, the strange looks and snide comments you get when you have a visible handicap, says to my face “Well, Mother Nature doesn’t make mistakes.”

Excuse the fuck out of me you pretentious prick, but I disrespectfully disagree.

I kindly informed our misinformed co-passenger that my daughter was full-term and perfect.  That it was an accident, and there was nothing wrong with her.  There wasn’t a mistake that “mother nature” felt a need to “correct.”  Matt stepped up and defended her as well.  I wasn’t about to let this guy off the hook without knowing he got his “facts” wrong.  

He then tries to backpedal and makes a comment about “those babies born at like 24 weeks that are like a pound and it’s not right and those kids are never right.”  I’m fuming at this point, looking at my 6-foot, 200+ lb husband who was born prematurely.  According to this guy’s logic, my husband also “wasn’t right” and shouldn’t be here.  I couldn’t even spit out any words without hissing at the guy like a Dilophosaur, so I just said “I’m going to go lay out, now” and removed myself from the pool.

I couldn’t believe this guy was blind in more ways than one.  And yet, underneath my boiling surface, I was actually glad that he was that stupid - because it meant he never had to go through anything like it himself.  He couldn’t possibly understand, and although his words were incredibly insensitive and painful to endure, I’ve endured much, much worse.  I would gladly trade places and be physically blind if it meant I didn’t have the insight I do now, on the other side of loss.

Chapter 8: Peace Out, Bitch

The weekend saw the introduction of a young guy with a crazy laugh who claimed to be a minister with "three funerals to do this weekend."  He insisted he would be leaving the next day by "5:15", a fact he repeated, loudly, until well after the hour had passed.

Sunday didn't shape up to be any better.  Another newcomer, this one a toothless "ex-Marine" with MS/ADD/TBI you-name-it who insisted everyone call her Remy, evidently never learned the shut the f*** up rule.  And blamed her outbursts on her MS/ADD/TBI whatever she thought of at the moment, so we were all just supposed to excuse them and let her dominate every group discussion we had.  So group therapy continually turned into Remy's private platform, and even the craziest among us began to roll eyes and resent her.

To top things off, loudmouth Remy and funky Mattie were roommates.  You can imagine the fun had there - one who can't shut up, the other who may as well be mute, and both claiming to be ex-soldiers who fought in Iraq/Afghanistan.  I call bullshit on Remy cause as far as I know the USMC doesn't take candidates with MS, which she claimed to have since high school.  Mattie, probably true - she looked like she'd seen some shit.

So group session begins, and this young ex-Navy kid I became friends with is about to blow a gasket over Remy's incessant rambling.  He's one of those rare 21-year-olds with an abundance of manners and etiquette, and I appreciated that - we got along great.  So I can see that he's getting frustrated and we're both rolling our eyes over Remy's interruptions when all of a sudden....

Remy:  And how'm I supposed to take caaaaaare of myself? I ain't never had to do that before, I don't know what to do.... (this was a common theme, repeated incessantly)
Mattie:   Join the military and get a job.

Twelve heads snapped to stare at the girl who refused to speak up until now.  Apparently even Crazy Eyes was sick of her roommate.  Remy continued...

Remy:  I was in the military!  I haaaaad a job!  It's not myyyy fault I have MS/ADD/TBI, etc....
Mattie:  (holds up 2 fingers in a 'V') Peace out, BITCH.

The air was sucked out of the room as we all held our breath waiting for the claws and hair to start flying.  Somehow the therapist regained control of the room and we proceeded with the "lesson". 

The following day I was able to conduct my very own "Peace Out, Bitch" as my shrink was releasing me.  Before I left, however, one of the friends I made pulled me aside and showed me a scribbled note he received from Tanya, the 50+ year old handicapped woman with severely dysfunctional attention-seeking habits (like forceful vomiting and fake sneezing so people would say "bless you" 674 times in a row).  I have a sympathetic leaning towards the mentally/physically challenged, but it became apparent that a majority of the things she did, much like Remy, were not due to her handicap, but her constant need for attention.  That shit is irritating.

She gave him a note, scribbled in what looked like a kindergartener's handwriting, inquiring as to the gentleman's proclivity for horizontal relations in the immediate future.  I read that and just stared at him like "uh buh whuuuuu?"  I had no words.  He thought that was the end of it, but she was waiting for him when he finished reading it, like "well?"  He tried to be nice and told her he was dating someone else, and she got embarrassed.  Because you're supposed to be embarrassed soliciting sex from a fellow patient.  Maybe we should have steered her towards Bobcat...

And then he said the words that will stick with me for a long time.  Although he was referring to Tanya specifically, they pretty much sum up my entire experience in the looney bin: 

"If that's the alternative... I need to start making some lifestyle changes."

Amen, brother.  A-freakin-men.

Chapter 7: Love gloves and the Lingering Funk

"Tyrone's back," Arnold said, expecting me to know who he was referring to.  I leaned back in my chair and saw Tyrone Biggums being wheeled in on a stretcher.  He lasted a full day on the outside before ending up back in here.  Amazing.

Turns out Tyrone's return was not the most shocking thing to happen that weekend, or even later that afternoon.

"Daaaaang, mayan!" screamed Duke, stomping into the day room in his size 13 Reeboks. "Ol' girl lay up in da bed wit' dude's kicks on!"

I'll translate:  Duke, a heroin addicted, 6'5" former "escort service coordinator" with a Southern drawl and a love of Affliction t-shirts, came bounding into the day room.  His remark, when clarified, meant that Mattie, the runner, had just been discovered in his roommate, Tyrone's, clothes, asleep in his bed.

Tyrone came into the room sucking his teeth as usual, but with the furrowed brow of a black man who just witnessed two white people doing something unnatural.  Apparently, Mattie was going at it with Bobcat Bravo (Shout) on Tyrone's bed when he barged in on them.  She then put on Tyrone's clothes and crawled in his bed for a little post-nookie nap time.

Duke asked Bobcat how he could do that without protection - he replied that he "used a glove".  Not like a "love glove", an actual latex glove.  Riiiiight.

Despite the fact that all rooms are supposed to be checked every 15 minutes, no nurses or orderlies seemed to be aware/concerned as to the witnessed events.  We were all certain they'd be moved to ESU, but nope - both stayed, making the rest of the women very uncomfortable as we felt Bobcat had taken advantage of someone in a severely disturbed mental state.  Bobcat swaggered around like an un-neutered peacock the rest of the weekend, but because no one who worked there witnessed it, it didn't happen.  Lovely. 

Apparently a shower was not in the cards after the lovebirds freak session, because Mattie was asked (by other mental patients) to leave the day room until she had bathed.  It was as though she absorbed Bobcat's funk along with her own funk, and rolled around in their joint funk on a bed of funk. 

My roommate and I later discovered this for ourselves, when Mattie again wandered into our room seeking....? A bed? Clothes? A humping partner?  I have no idea.  Natalia had been taken to the hospital for an ear infection, so Mattie walked in, investigated the things on her nightstand, sat down on her bed, picked up her cup and began drinking (we later tossed it for fear of whatever contagious funk she had picked up from Bobcat - not even alcoholic Russians need to catch the crab clap from a water bottle...)

Roomie:    Hey, I think you're in the room down the hall.
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)
Roomie:    Want me to help you find it?
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)

Roomie:    Do you need something?
Mattie:    (creepy silence & staring)

I didn't want to leave my other roommate alone, but I also wanted crazy out of our room asap.  I left and found a nurse in the hallway, who rolled her eyes and said "oh, lord" when I told her Mattie was - again - in our room.  Lacking any febreeze or perfume, my roommate and I had to vacate the room until Mattie-funk dissipated - she was there for less than two minutes but her presence lingered for nearly an hour.

She was escorted to her own room, where I hear the fun continued as she railed against her roommate and showered/pissed in the dark because "maintenance doesn't come out on the weekend".  I'm surprised more people don't come out worse than when they went in.

Chapter 6: Weekend Visitors

I grew tired of correcting all the doctors and therapists when they insisted I told the ER doctor I was "going to crash my car."  Instead, I began to talk - and talk and talk and talk.  I felt like I'd been silent for so long, just carrying all that pain and dark around inside of me, not wanting to "burden" anyone else with it.  So I let it out - to my shrink, my assigned therapist, even bits and pieces to my fellow inmates and during group sessions.  I talked about my feelings of shame and guilt and anger and devastation and hopelessness, and how often they all occurred at once.  I realized I may as well make the best of my time there, focus on what I needed to in the first place - getting better for me.

I got to speak with my son by phone, but was adamant that he not come to the facility.  He didn't need to see that.  He tried to put the dog on the phone to say hi.  *sigh* 

Friday was relatively uneventful, aside from stomping the guys in a few rousing games of Scrabble and being allowed to shave my legs (with a female nurse watching). 

Amy:  Can we shave our bikini line?
Nurse:  I'd rather you didn't.

But I called it on Friday evening - "Watch," I told Arnold. "Watch the freaks come out this weekend - everyone is crazy, but on the weekend people lose their goddamn minds."  And my prediction blessedly came true - we began to see more insanity in the next two days than we had all week.

Saturday:

One creeptastic new guy in a nuthouse tuxedo asked everyone to call him "Shout".  Shout, like the verb or the stain remover or the Isley Brothers song.  Shout.  He looked like Bobcat Goldthwait and swaggered around like Johnny Bravo - chest and arms puffed out, neck pulled way back, chin to his throat.  Shout.  Okay then (I promise this is relevant later on).

To get to the cafeteria (where I was now allowed to go eat, huzzah) we had to walk through the courtyard and be escorted across the campus.  The techs began calling role call before we left the ward to make things easier.  One girl in a nuthouse tuxedo who just got there (like 30 minutes prior) decided she wanted to go to dinner with everyone and shoved her way past the door.  The nurse informed her that she'd have to get cleared by the doctor before going to dinner, and her reaction was less than pleasant.  Ignoring her, she walked out into the courtyard, circling the gazebo, fists clenched and lips pursed so tightly I thought she was going to vomit diamonds.  Everyone groaned as the line came to a halt while the techs tried to coax her back inside, like a feral cat.

They re-routed us on the other side of the gazebo so we could avoid running into the tiny temper tantrum, but "Mattie" was still pacing furiously, and now started twitching her fingers back and forth like she was doing air-calculations for NASA or some shit.  We're all standing around baking in the sun, waiting to go to dinner, but they can't open the gate because of the potential escapee.  And then the PA system informed us we'd probably be eating cold pasta: "Attention.  Attention.  Code Gray, North Wing - Code Gray, North Wing."

Many pairs of eyes rolled and many a "here we go" was uttered.  A larger male nurse appeared in an attempt to corral the wild stallion, who was on the verge of a full-fledged fit at this point.  She kept trying to rejoin the line patiently waiting and cleared for cafeteria, and after a solid 10-15 minutes of being really nice about it, force was deemed necessary.  She was snatched up by two techs and physically dragged back into the building, her paper scrubs sliding down around her knees as they did so.

We returned from dinner and I chatted with my other roommate about our kids and anime, because why not.  When in walks - you guessed it - Mattie, looking just as pissed off as ever.  It's like having a bear wander into your campsite, or a T-Rex.  We stayed absolutely still and silent, watching her with only our eyes.  Now, patients aren't allowed in other patients rooms, except for, like, the leg-shaving thing which was monitored and done out of convenience.  So we're already a little wary, and her erratic behavior at dinner didn't put us at ease at all.  She asked us when meds were, we said later that night, she kind of nodded and we held our breath as she ever so slowly made her own way out, like a bug that gets trapped in the car until you roll down the window.  It wouldn't be my final encounter with her that day...

Strangely enough, this was not the person we referred to as Running Man.  That was Mary.  She'd get so amped up that her knees would start bouncing up and down and she'd run in place.  John would stand next to her and race her in place.  I still don't know who won, but he loved to mess with her since she was such a PITA and took about 20 minutes at the med window every night, arguing with the techs about the meds she would/wouldn't take because of the conspiracies against her and the HIPAA-violating medical students.  It was so mean, but some of us started talking about what classes we were taking. 

Chapter 5: Rule 48 and Unwanted Attention

I began writing.  I was at least allowed pen and paper, and my amazing, supportive, don't-know-what-I'd-do-without-him husband brought me two large legal pads.  I used one to write what they asked me to - about Coraline and how her death affected me - and the other to write what you've been reading here.  It kept me busy and gave me something to focus on.  I've always been able to release emotions through writing, so it was a great tool in working through some of my issues.  The meds kicked in quickly and I began to see solutions to my perceived problems, in place of the bottomless pit I previously envisioned.  Things were improving, aside from my continued stay in the "facility."

In addition to all the new “friends” I was making in the doctors and nurses, I gradually grew to know my fellow bunk buddies. There was Natalia, my alcoholic Russian roommate who had zero filter, referred to medication as "cuckoo pills" and whose drink of choice was hand sanitizer.  We had a community meeting one evening going over items not permitted in rooms when she decided to speak up – “and no electronic battery operated devices!”  (imagine Natasha from Rocky & Bullwinkle saying that, that’s exactly what it sounded like).  When the orderly confirmed her statement, she elaborated.

Natalia:   Is just like prison.  Rule 48.

(Several blank stares.)

Orderly:    What is rule 48?

Natalia:   Rule 48?  Is masturbation.

Cue hysterical laughter from most of the room.  But she was totally 100% serious.  Did I mention she was my ROOMMATE!?!

I met several other characters, some of whom became friends.  One guy shared an incident in which he freaked out a dealer riding in his car giving them directions, so they made the guy walk beside the car while they drove 2 mph in the snow.  There was Jaime, there to detox with the explanation “I took one thing to come down off another thing and it just snowballed – I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.”  She was actually very sweet.  They didn’t want her getting out of her bed at the hospital, but she slipped out of the restraints so they put a buzzer on her bed to notify the nurses when she got up.  After that, she bounced up and down on the bed trying to break it.

Arnold had a hearing aid and went on a 24-hour dope bender because of financial stress and his girlfriend’s medical issues.  His roommate John was in a funk because of a family death and his possible expulsion from the military upon a new bipolar diagnosis.  Turns out Tyrone Biggums has 4 kids and THIRTEEN grandkids.  Whoa.  There was a leftover hippie (like a real one) wearing crocs, Lennon glasses, a bandana, board shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt and both his head hair and facial hair in a ponytail.  I called him Chong – at least he kept the coffee (decaf only) flowing.  Gonzo (his self-given nickname) was a lumbering mass of narcissism, with the utterly obnoxious habit of looking at everyone trying to see if they had heard what he just said.  He wandered the hall slump-shouldered, like a hunchback Mystic.  So for reference:

A rather large black man (think MJD size) kept telling me I had a pretty smile.  Actually it was more like “Ay... ay, girl – I like dat smile.”  He also told me he’d like to “suck the teeth out of my head” which I think was a compliment. 

There were characters enough during the day, but at night I was completely alone with my thoughts.  And if I didn't relent to the effects of the sleepy-time trazodone, I found myself stark awake, unable to cry because roommates, and unable to do much of anything because lights out at 10 pm (and rule 48, not that I'd go there anyway).  I spent a lot of time looking up from my bed out the un-frosted portion of our room's completely sealed window, waiting to see the first signs of dawn creep over the crape myrtles, hoping to catch a glimpse of a dragonfly maybe.

It was the third day when Juno began having what I can only describe as a middle-school tantrum.  Pouting because she wasn't getting her way.  She wanted to leave (join the freaking club) and was determined to do so by any (legal) means necessary.  Which meant signing paperwork and going AMA.  Rumors floated about as to the repercussions of such a thing, that insurance wouldn't cover your stay and you'd be stuck with a massive bill.  (My entire stay here cost over eight grand for a week, FMSF2013 was a bonus upgrade apparently)  But she got her paperwork, crookedly signed it and, to the envy of the rest of us waiting for the next smoke break, skipped out the door when her pimply-faced boyfriend appeared.  It was like the strangest summer camp goodbye scene - you're happy for someone else to go, but crushed that you're still there.  I kept telling Matt on the phone "I'm going AMA, I don't care, I need to be out of here by Thursday... Friday... the weekend..."  Reluctantly, I stayed.  

Continued next chapter.

Chapter 4: Shit Starts to Get Real In A Way That's Not Fun For Anyone

"No one listened to me!!!"

"Mary... Mary, calm down.  Mary!"

"No one listened to me when I told them I'd been followed for SIX MONTHS!!!"

These were the dulcid tones I was treated to while waiting for lunch to begin.  I had not been given "cafeteria privileges" yet, despite having eaten in one since 4th grade, so - take-out in the day room.  A large orderly came into the room and was like "uhhhh... we're just gonna wait here until... until things settle down."  I shot him a thumbs up and returned to my copy of American Gods.  Mary continued her tirade against the poor pharmacist just trying to distribute mid-day meds through the window.

"No one listened to me!  My psychiatrist was having me followed for 6 months!  And the medication irritates me!  I'm going to report all of you!  And all the medical students are violating HIPAA!!!"

Now since I didn't have cafeteria privileges, I also couldn't leave to go to the on campus gym.  That kinda bummed me out, since I was then assigned to the alternative activity group which consisted mainly of old farts and people so conked out on meds they wore blankets and brought pillows with them everywhere.  The instructor popped in a video - a VHS, not a DVD - and we were all treated to the delights of.... chair yoga.

The instant I saw it pop up in all its pastel, early 90's aerobics glory, I thought "wow- you guys are just really throwing in the towel here, huh?"  It looked like it had been thrown together in the basement of a church by an overly enthusiastic instructor who probably eventually got tired of trying and just went into porn.  Anyway - chair yoga is just that - yoga while sitting in a chair.  If you're prone to falling or 107 years old.  Everyone else slept through the class except for me and an 86-year-old ex-attorney with hairbrows (eyebrows so long they're growing past his forehead and providing a convincing toupee at this point).

Waiting (again, because all we did was hurry up and wait) in the other day room, a young man in a Guy Harvey shirt, John Deere camo hat, Sperrys and more tribal tattoos than I'm sure I could see or count comes in - a walking Parrothead/redneck/preppy conundrum by the name of Bubba.  Because of course his name was Bubba.  And most of the people in there had attended enough "Hi, my name is (blank) and I'm addicted to (blank)" meetings that the awkward social interactions melted away.  It was a very frank "Hi, what's your name" and moving on with the typically intrusive conversation or questions.

Bubba:  You in for CD?

I had learned a few of the acronyms - ECT was electro-convulsive therapy, PHP was partial hospitalization program, AMA was discharging against medical advice and CD meant chemical dependency.  I shook my head in the negative.

Bubba:   (in a drawl that could have been Middleburg or North Carolina for all I know) My mom says I gotta stay here another 5 days!  And I just paid $500 in rent, ain't that some shit?
Me:   Bummer.
Bubba:   My doctor gave me suboxone, you know what that is? (I shook my head no)  It helps with withdrawals... anyway, he done gimme this stuff, but now he won't give it to me no more.
Me:   Why's that?
Bubba:   (sighs)  I was sellin' em. I mean, he gave me a few chances.  He gave it to me the first time, and I sold 'em.  And then he gave me another chance, and I did it again.  Then he gave me another chance... and I did it again.  He gave me another chance, and I did it again...
Me:   Well, you can't expect him to keep giving it to you then.
Bubba:    Yeah, but this is bullshit - I can sit at home and detox for free, I don't need to be here...

I beg to differ, sir.

I learned many things in my time here, including  how to avoid the cafeteria food and its subsequent gastric side-effects, or what I like to call Fiery Midnight Shit-Fest 2013.  The med-room gestapo won't hand out Imodium unless your shrink prescribes it, so I stopped eating a majority of the cafeteria food after the 3rd day.  Stuck to the prepackaged snacks, bottled water and any fresh fruit they brought in (which did NOT help with Fiery Midnight Shit-Fest 2013).

So now I'm tired from being woken up every 15 minutes at night for "checks", hungry, probably dehydrated from FMSF2013, forced to co-habitate with about 40 straight-off-the-magic-carpet crazies and a handful of "we the jury find the defendant" whackos, cut off from my family and friends and the outside world, and expected to concentrate on my already extremely fragile mental health. And have to do a convincing, creative song-and-dance to try and limit my stay. 

*cracks knuckles*  Good thing I went to theater camp - let's do this.

Chapter 3: In Which Joy Encounters A LEGIT Schizo...

I was woken up before dawn, around 6 am, so a nurse could take my blood pressure and temperature.  I lay in bed for a good hour, unable to go back to sleep but unwilling to get up, until the sun came up.  My roommates never stirred from their drug-aided slumber.  I grabbed a quick shower in the 2 ft x 2 ft stall with the perma-fixed nozzle and surprisingly hot water.  A scratchy washcloth and what I swear was a cat-sized towel were my companions, along with combination shampoo/body wash because state mental health care.  Even though I knew my hair would hate me for reverting to old habits (off the "no-poo" hair cleanse) I did, cause I at least wanted to feel clean.  Oh, and no hair dryers or flat irons meant everyone was treated to my signature caught-in-a-wind-tunnel hairstyle.

I still wasn't allowed to take meals off the ward, so I resigned myself to another Styrofoam container of eggs, toast and sausage.  I'm not the type to venture out in my pajamas, so I dressed completely, but some people stayed in sleepy pants and slippers the entire day. After breakfast, a nurse gathered me from my room, explaining I would need to be evaluated by the medical doctor.  She grabbed the desk chair and told me to wait in the hall outside my door. I could see clear into the dayroom, while meds were being distributed down the hall.  Shaky Hippie was in the day room, tapping her foot off-rhythm and huddled up in a blue blanket, with a look on her face like someone was perpetually about to slap her, kinda like this:

And that was totally inaccurate - only about 67% of the people on the ward wanted to perpetually slap her.

She zeroed in and targeted me:

Shaky Hippie:   You can't be in the hallway during meds!

Me:    They told me to sit here.

Shaky Hippie:   That's a HIPAA violation!  You can't be there!

Me:    They. Told. Me. To. Sit. Here.

Shaky Hippie:   Oh, so you just do everything your told?!?

Me:    Generally, yes. (I wasn't in the mood for bitches bein' all crazy at 9 am)

Shaky Hippie:   Well, aren't you a medical student?

Me:    Ummm... no.

Shaky Hippie:     If you're a medical student, then you should know better!  That's a HIPAA violation!

Me:    Um, I'm not.  Soooo.... yeah.

I was wrong - she wasn't a nice Hippie - she was a rigid and uptight bitch suffering from paranoid schizophrenia, hereinafter referred to as Mary.  A few more people went in and out of the day room, but it wasn't long before she started up again...

Mary:    Don't you have any respect for anyone but yourself???

Me:     (just ignore her, say nothing)
Mary:    You have to be told like a child?!?  You should know better - you're a medical student!

I continued to ignore her, thinking that maybe "medical student" was her own terminology for her fellow "inmates".  Thankfully I was called to the doctor and escaped her line of sight/wrath for the moment.

The medical doc looked at me a bit incredulously as he ran down the list of physical ailments I replied "nay" to.  Apparently, if I'm in perfectly healthy physical condition, mentally I should be fine as well. Because science or something.

My shrink wasn't much better:

Doc:  I think we're going to keep you here for a few days, just to see how you're feeling.
Me:  Do I have a choice?
Doc:  (Double-speak peppered with medical terminology that doesn't answer the question).
Me:  Thanks, you've been helpful.  Bt-dubs, can I eat in the cafeteria?
Doc:  Oh, uh... we'll see.
Me:  Again, super helpful. I'm gonna go now.

Everyone was forced to attend "group" therapy sessions, in which most of those conducting didn't care if you showed up and participated, or slept through the entire damn thing.  During this time, the "dorms" were locked, with one exception for bathroom purposes.  I'll dive into those sessions in the next few chapters.