Admission to hospital:
My husband observes my sullen manner. I am depressed for the moment, yet may perhaps shift into gear and ascend towards a “high” the next moment. Worried, he brings me to the ER. These processes are not new to me and swear I could get ready the admitting paperwork myself.
I wait patiently in the ER, seated in a paint-peeling-off-the-ceiling examining room. Two hours pass. A doctor, but only the ER attending physician, at last sees me. I explain my setback to him and told I have to see the psychiatrist on call, which means a further 1 ½ wait. Finally, the psychiatrist shows up and I attempt to make clear what has been going on and his diagnosis: bipolar rapid cycling (this is cycling from low to high mood or high to low mood, at times once per day, sometimes more often). He leaves the room – another hour ticks by. He returns and announces that it would be sensible to be admitted to hospital for observation and possible medication changes. I have to wait yet again while he inquires whether they have a bed for me. Yes they do, but I have to wait for a porter. After waiting a total of 5 hours, I am at last escorted to the psychiatric floor. I am a long-suffering patient of the system.
Greeted by a friendly nurse who ushers me to the Nurses Room where I am weighed, blood pressure and pulse taken. Scouring the intake sheet points out the numerous medications I am presently taking. I am instructed and shown to where my room is, as well as, the showers, bathrooms, dining and entertainment rooms. I recollect all of this as I’ve been on this ward before. My room is a double, however on this admission one bed remains empty. It’s late at night, time for bed. It’s not easy to sleep in the hospital – occasionally you have a patient who snores or at times prefers to read and therefore the light remains on. My rapid cycling is playing havoc with my sleep, as soaring, racing thoughts tumble towards a depressive low. But as the evening heads towards midnight, the meds are kicking in and I float off into slumber.
My sleep last night was fitful, and was awake at various intervals.
Daybreak. I gather my breakfast tray and head to the dining room. The room is deserted except for one older woman who is seated and I join her. She loves to chat and shares loving memories about her children and grandchildren. She has been in and out of hospitals more than I have, and was diagnosed with major depression, which is the explanation for this admission.
I drop off my tray and revisit my room. The nurses are in rounds and medications should be ready in one hour. I do have ‘street clothes’ privileges, however, I feel lethargic so far and will stay put in my hospital gown.
It’s 9:30 a.m. My favourite nurse has been assigned to me today and proceeds to dole out medication. She motions “we’ll talk later”.
This nurse has been extraordinary to me and her care during prior admissions has been detrimental in successful recoveries.
Wandering into the TV room, I run into two patients. Arriving yesterday also, they are not afraid of chatter. One younger woman is a smoker and is completely irritated and using profanities due to the ‘no-smoking’ ban on our floor. She cannot leave the floor per doctor’s instructions, so she is stuck here. The other patient is my age, coincidentally shares the same ill health, is experiencing mania and doesn’t wish it to end. Her father brought her in.
I unwearyingly await my psychiatrist’s visit, but informed he is off today. The resident sees me. He is a man of few words, but agrees with the rapid cycling diagnosis based on the mood swings. I must wait until my own doctor returns before any medications are adjusted, however, the resident does prescribe some anti-anxiety meds for the mania.
Suppertime. The dining room is jam-packed. No seats are vacant at the table, just as well, I am feeling rather depressed and don’t really yearn for conversation. I have a meal quietly in my room.
I share encouraging talk with my nurse, and assured that I am strong, have battled this before and will yet again. She shares a little of her life which is comforting to me.
My husband arrives with my clothes, CD player and a few diet Cokes. He’s bothered, but has been through this before. I’m chatting ‘a mile a minute’ and motions me to slow down. The ‘high’ side of me is presenting itself.
Nightfall brings boredom. I may possibly hang about in my room and listen to CD’s, but decide to link up with the other patients in the TV area. For some reason, I am targeted, as the individual people want to share their lives with. One lanky teen relates her life as a teenage mother. She has two children, no husband or boyfriend and is maintaining life by welfare’s rules. Another lady, so very depressed and sobbing, talks almost in a whispered voice and has been in hospital for a month. She feels hopeless. I feel helpless. The television is blaring and therefore return to my room.
I am told of this wonderful psychiatrist on staff and yearn to be his patient. But, I am to learn that his patient load is full. My own doctor visits and doesn’t say a great deal, just mumbles that I am cycling and will adjust the mood stabilizers. I don’t feel confidence in this doctor. Under his care I have endured endless hospitalizations, ECT (shock therapy) and a myriad of medications. With a doctor shortage in my city, what’s a person to do?
Days pass. I begin to improve. The nurses have been my savior. Throughout my crying spells, they knew just what to say.
The ‘teenage mother’ is bawling on the phone. They choose to take away her children from her custody. She falls to the ground and the nurses come running. I stand there feeling powerless and told to return to my room.
A day passes and I am discharged. Cycling has dissipated for the meantime and under control. Handed a prescription, I bundle up my belongings, bid good-bye to the patients and nurses and stroll by the guard. I am headed for home.
Written by: Me
My husband observes my sullen manner. I am depressed for the moment, yet may perhaps shift into gear and ascend towards a “high” the next moment. Worried, he brings me to the ER. These processes are not new to me and swear I could get ready the admitting paperwork myself.
I wait patiently in the ER, seated in a paint-peeling-off-the-ceiling examining room. Two hours pass. A doctor, but only the ER attending physician, at last sees me. I explain my setback to him and told I have to see the psychiatrist on call, which means a further 1 ½ wait. Finally, the psychiatrist shows up and I attempt to make clear what has been going on and his diagnosis: bipolar rapid cycling (this is cycling from low to high mood or high to low mood, at times once per day, sometimes more often). He leaves the room – another hour ticks by. He returns and announces that it would be sensible to be admitted to hospital for observation and possible medication changes. I have to wait yet again while he inquires whether they have a bed for me. Yes they do, but I have to wait for a porter. After waiting a total of 5 hours, I am at last escorted to the psychiatric floor. I am a long-suffering patient of the system.
Greeted by a friendly nurse who ushers me to the Nurses Room where I am weighed, blood pressure and pulse taken. Scouring the intake sheet points out the numerous medications I am presently taking. I am instructed and shown to where my room is, as well as, the showers, bathrooms, dining and entertainment rooms. I recollect all of this as I’ve been on this ward before. My room is a double, however on this admission one bed remains empty. It’s late at night, time for bed. It’s not easy to sleep in the hospital – occasionally you have a patient who snores or at times prefers to read and therefore the light remains on. My rapid cycling is playing havoc with my sleep, as soaring, racing thoughts tumble towards a depressive low. But as the evening heads towards midnight, the meds are kicking in and I float off into slumber.
My sleep last night was fitful, and was awake at various intervals.
Daybreak. I gather my breakfast tray and head to the dining room. The room is deserted except for one older woman who is seated and I join her. She loves to chat and shares loving memories about her children and grandchildren. She has been in and out of hospitals more than I have, and was diagnosed with major depression, which is the explanation for this admission.
I drop off my tray and revisit my room. The nurses are in rounds and medications should be ready in one hour. I do have ‘street clothes’ privileges, however, I feel lethargic so far and will stay put in my hospital gown.
It’s 9:30 a.m. My favourite nurse has been assigned to me today and proceeds to dole out medication. She motions “we’ll talk later”.
This nurse has been extraordinary to me and her care during prior admissions has been detrimental in successful recoveries.
Wandering into the TV room, I run into two patients. Arriving yesterday also, they are not afraid of chatter. One younger woman is a smoker and is completely irritated and using profanities due to the ‘no-smoking’ ban on our floor. She cannot leave the floor per doctor’s instructions, so she is stuck here. The other patient is my age, coincidentally shares the same ill health, is experiencing mania and doesn’t wish it to end. Her father brought her in.
I unwearyingly await my psychiatrist’s visit, but informed he is off today. The resident sees me. He is a man of few words, but agrees with the rapid cycling diagnosis based on the mood swings. I must wait until my own doctor returns before any medications are adjusted, however, the resident does prescribe some anti-anxiety meds for the mania.
Suppertime. The dining room is jam-packed. No seats are vacant at the table, just as well, I am feeling rather depressed and don’t really yearn for conversation. I have a meal quietly in my room.
I share encouraging talk with my nurse, and assured that I am strong, have battled this before and will yet again. She shares a little of her life which is comforting to me.
My husband arrives with my clothes, CD player and a few diet Cokes. He’s bothered, but has been through this before. I’m chatting ‘a mile a minute’ and motions me to slow down. The ‘high’ side of me is presenting itself.
Nightfall brings boredom. I may possibly hang about in my room and listen to CD’s, but decide to link up with the other patients in the TV area. For some reason, I am targeted, as the individual people want to share their lives with. One lanky teen relates her life as a teenage mother. She has two children, no husband or boyfriend and is maintaining life by welfare’s rules. Another lady, so very depressed and sobbing, talks almost in a whispered voice and has been in hospital for a month. She feels hopeless. I feel helpless. The television is blaring and therefore return to my room.
I am told of this wonderful psychiatrist on staff and yearn to be his patient. But, I am to learn that his patient load is full. My own doctor visits and doesn’t say a great deal, just mumbles that I am cycling and will adjust the mood stabilizers. I don’t feel confidence in this doctor. Under his care I have endured endless hospitalizations, ECT (shock therapy) and a myriad of medications. With a doctor shortage in my city, what’s a person to do?
Days pass. I begin to improve. The nurses have been my savior. Throughout my crying spells, they knew just what to say.
The ‘teenage mother’ is bawling on the phone. They choose to take away her children from her custody. She falls to the ground and the nurses come running. I stand there feeling powerless and told to return to my room.
A day passes and I am discharged. Cycling has dissipated for the meantime and under control. Handed a prescription, I bundle up my belongings, bid good-bye to the patients and nurses and stroll by the guard. I am headed for home.
Written by: Me
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