The Psych Ward

“She said I did WHAT?!” Matt asked, appalled on the phone.

​“She said that you slept with her sister last Thanksgiving.” Sarah hesitated, fidgeting with her sleeve and glancing at the wall before meeting Matt’s eyes. “But listen, nobody really paid attention. She was really wasted, and whatever she was saying didn’t make rational sense. We could barely piece together what she was talking about,” she said, her concern crossing her face in a fleeting grimace.

​He said, “And you’re sure that she was talking about that? I never did that; she has no sister. Where the hell is my wife?”

​“We got her admitted to the psych ward, Matt. She really has no sister. It makes just as much sense without a sister. Just a paranoid freak out,” she explained.

​

Diedre awoke in a strange place. For an instant, she did not know where she was. The roughness of a thin sheet pressed under her chin, and her cheek felt the cool patch where her breath had dampened it in the night. She became aware of the persistent humming overhead—a fluorescent light, faintly flickering behind her eyelids. The smell reminded her first of that antiseptic smell the blankets have, mixed with a sharp tang of hospital cleaner and something stale underneath. The air tasted sterile and dry in her mouth. It was almost comforting. How much safer could she be? Yesterday, she had felt so unsafe, but she certainly wasn’t feeling the same today. Her mind, foggy and slow, seemed to float just above her body—as if thoughts were coming in faint smudges rather than words. She was not her usual self either. Then the memory struck: she was confined to the psych ward, the emergency psychiatric unit. She was admitted and voluntarily committed.

​

She’d agreed to stay until they were satisfied with her state of mind, and she had a plan in place. It was official: she was committed and would need a “psych plan” just like some of the people she used to care for on the Alzheimer’s ward. Now she was on her own, confined to a ward of her own.

​

There was a weight to the idea, and she felt the shame and stigma of it, but it was sort of fitting that she see the other side of being confined for her own protection and health—just like the people she cared for at work. She just lay there, feeling soft and smooth on the clean sheets, wondering when she last washed her own sheets, painted her toenails, or took time to do anything like that. She was trying to think: how long had she been grinding through days with no feeling in her, just barely making her basic obligations?

She heard carts in the hall, and someone called out that breakfast was there. The smell of scrambled eggs, coffee, and orange juice made her stomach churn with hunger, and she wondered what those pills really did to her. They had warned her that she might gain weight. She jumped out of bed, eager for breakfast, and not concerned with her weight for the first time in years.

Some of the other patients had already been talking. One man who appeared to be around sixty was telling a younger woman that he wasn’t that nuts; he was “in for drinking, again.” The lovely younger woman he was eating with “just couldn’t take” how much she had going on. She went from one major responsibility to another: elementary school kids, ailing parents, and a job in medical science that was truly life-or-death, although she did not say outright what she did.

Diedre sat at a table with an elderly woman who didn’t look like she wanted to talk. The two just smiled at each other, meekly, and dove into breakfast wholeheartedly. Diedre wondered if the woman was enjoying it the way she was.

Matt asked, “Hello? Sarah?”

“Yes, this is her. What’s up?”

Matt said, “They say I can’t talk to her on the phone. Why can’t I talk to my own wife? What are they really going to do to her down there? Pills? Electroshock? What condition will she be in? I’m worried fucking sick over here.”

“Relax,” Sarah said. “They mostly just feed her, give her a place to sleep, and observe and evaluate her for medication. Nobody is going to electroshock Diedre. That stuff is for very stubborn problems! She will probably be just fine. Eventually, she will make a list of people whom she will allow to call her, but she needs to rest before all the regular stress that’s gotten to her gets right back in her head. She should be able to call you if she wants to, and she may be seeing a doctor right now.”

Matt asked, “So she can make phone calls in there?”

“Usually, yes, people can make phone calls…”

Diedre went to the morning group. The man who led them all had a reading from a story about a woman who had lost part of her brain, but the brain healed, and she was basically alright. Diedre felt she was going to doze off for most of the time. She felt she understood where they were going with the reading, but she did not raise her hand to share. She felt a bit woozy after they gave her the morning medication. She was still waiting to see the doctor, and when she did, she was told that everything they had been giving her would be explained.

​Diedre had an hour before lunch, and she felt ready to talk to Matt. Her memories of the last night were hazy. She had not eaten or slept for the last few days. What she was trying to say, she hardly knew—but she could not stop talking. Nobody understood her point. Least of all her. Her chest just got tighter and tighter as the anxiety built. It drove her crazy. It felt like she imagined what altitude sickness may feel like for those who suffer from it. Her head felt like it was in the clouds, and she could not get enough air. That’s how it felt. Now she was swimming in peace. A tense, lonely peace.