It was Friday around 8 p.m., and my husband had the worst headache of his life. Worst headache of your life means you go to the ED, I informed him snappily, all the while mulling over my suicide plan. That’s how my husband and I ended up on a Friday night date at the hospital.
He registered first, but soon after, the migraine pills I’d made him swallow kicked in and he signed out. Meanwhile, I recited my suicide plan like a really bad poem to the intake nurse: a poem recited without a shred of emotion.
Immediately, observation began. First, an awkward employee was handed a clipboard but, apparently, no instructions, because they looked a lot more lost than I felt, even though this was my first time coming to the ED with a plan.
Next, I got put in a room devoid of anything other than a white bed. Even the usual medical monitoring equipment was stored away behind a thick glass pane. I was told to undress, put on the gown and hand over everything in my possession. Thankfully, I’d heard enough accounts of the dehumanization that happens when you present to the ED with a mental health concern, so nothing was surprising to me; it unfolded exactly as I expected. Which isn’t to say that it wasn’t traumatizing, but at least it felt familiar.
Finally, the doctor came. Based on a cursory glance of my chart, he assumed that this wasn’t my first rodeo. He asked me to recite my plan again, but then he said he didn’t care, since I was going to be hospitalized regardless. When I told him I’d never been a psych patient before, his response was disbelief. I asked him why he was so surprised, and he said he just figured, with my diagnoses . . .
I had to remind him that there’s a first time for everything.
Jude Jones
Cambridge, Massachusetts