“Yes, I’m here to get
ECT.”
Standing in the hall, the
receiver of the wall-mounted phone pressed to my ear, I tried not to think about
the germs that were likely crawling all over it. Who knows when the last time
was that the phone saw a Lysol wipe, I thought to myself as the phone rang,
once, twice, three times.
Clay answered on the
other end.
“Clay, this place is like
a prison,” I began. Might as well get straight to the point.
I felt like Piper Chapman from “Orange is the
New Black’. My small room was sterile and cell-like. Harsh white walls devoid
of any decorative touches or flourishes. The sparse furnishings and empty walls
were a reflection of the one main objective; to prevent any possibility of
self-harm or harm to others. Afterall, a framed picture hanging up could be
taken apart and used for the sharp glass. No curtains or blinds; the pull cords
could be an obvious hazard. Two twin-sized beds sat on either side of the room.
The only other furniture was one shelf for a couple sets of clothing. Only two
changes of clothing were allowed since clothes can be tied together. And
nothing with drawstrings. Shoes could not have laces.
There was no television
in the room, and no cell phones allowed at any time. The book I had brought to
read was not permitted because it was hard cover. The pencil that the nurse
brought me for journaling could bend. Even the lead could bend. She
demonstrated for me how it was impossible for her to stab herself with it. It
was also nearly impossible to write with it.
The bathroom adjoining
the room had a padded door that closed with a strip of velcro. At least the
bathroom seemed decently clean.
The food was another
issue altogether and added to the prison vibe. After my first bite was nearly
unpalatable, I took comfort in the thought that people can survive for weeks without food.
It was hard to believe
that I had in fact signed up for this. It was all part of the deal. If I wanted
electroconvulsive therapy (which seems like a crazy thing to want, no pun
intended), the doctor insisted that the first two treatments be inpatient, in
case I didn’t tolerate it well. There would be up to ten additional treatments
done outpatient. That meant I would be enjoying the lovely accommodations at
the mental hospital for at least five days. I figured I could endure anything
for five days, especially if it would ultimately benefit my children.
I knew that after my
first two treatments, I could possibly experience confusion, disorientation,
and memory loss. Because of this, and how unpleasant the environment turned out
to be, I felt I had an urgent message to get to Clay that day.
“You have to make sure I
get out of here on Friday”, I told him. “That is when the second treatment will
be done and you have to make sure that I remember
that I want to leave that day. If the doctor wants to keep me longer for
some reason, you have to tell him that I’m fine and you have to take me home,
no matter what. Please promise me that I will be home on Friday.”
I had no idea if I would
even remember who I was after treatment, but I knew it would be worlds better
to be totally confused at home than to be totally confused in the hospital.
He responded, “Of course,
Love”. Clay always calls me ‘Love’.
