My experiences in the Emergency Room, Part 1

My brain has gotten me to the hospital emergency room more than the rest of my body. I’ve been twice, both in 2011. I read an article about people who had bad experiences in the ER with their mental health so I thought it might be good to share what’s happened to me. There is a range of experiences in emergency rooms for those with mental health issues. You never know what might happen, so it’s always good to go if you’re feeling as though you may harm yourself.

At the end of 2010 my psychiatrist and I changed up my medication and things weren’t going so well. I had intense suicidal ideation and didn’t feel safe so in February 2011 I went to the ER at a local hospital in Boston that also had a mental health ward. My insurance provider’s website directed me there. I had no context to know whether it would be a good fit so it was pretty much like throwing a dart at a list.
 
The content below is an excerpt from my memoir, Fiercely Lonely, which will be released at some future date.

The entry to the emergency room was smooth and the wait time non-existent. I felt calm and casual with my conversation with the nurse and intake worker. As I went through the check-in process and found my way into a bed in the emergency room, I actually felt pretty good, all things considered. I received my own room with my own bed within the ER. There was a nurse’s station outside that watched over all the rooms. Once ensconced I changed into a gown and received a blanket and lay down while Valerie (my girlfriend) sat in a chair next to me. A nurse came in and asked what I had planned to do to kill myself. At first I thought that was none of her business, but I realized that she was asking so that she could keep an eye on me.

There was a window where a woman sat and looked at me every few seconds but otherwise kept her head down in a book or crossword puzzle. I didn’t understand why she kept looking at me, as I thought she was a nurse. But I soon realized she was the person making sure I didn’t kill myself. That was her only job: making sure I stayed alive.

Throughout the evening a psych doctor came to ask me questions. She was very calm and gentle in her presentation and with the manner in which she queried about my condition. The typical questions were: Do you want to kill yourself? Do you have a history of mental illness? Have you tried to kill yourself before? She spoke without belying a sense of happiness or sadness. Her manner was direct. I felt uncomfortable with her because she appeared embarrassed to be around me. Was it because she wasn’t used to handling mentally ill patients? Or was I being too sensitive?

The psych doctor didn’t have many answers at that time; they were looking to see if there would be an opening in the ward for me the next day. If not, I would spend the day in the ER once again. I couldn’t imagine sleeping on that bed for more than one night. It wasn’t made for any sense of comfort, cushioned but without much depth, the vinyl feeling unnatural against my skin. I didn’t want to get up too much and worry the nurse and the woman watching me. I was, even at my worst, more concerned with others instead of my own sense of well-being.

With my future placement in question, I did the best I could to make myself comfortable. My clothes and other items went into a locker. My sense of suicide and depression was still hovering in the background. It was waiting for an opportunity to make itself known once the newness of my situation had worn off.

I tried to sleep as my guardian peered into my living space to make sure I still existed. I received water, and nurses checked my blood pressure and vitals throughout the night. I felt as comfortable as one could in that situation. It was the best they could do, all things considered. I wondered if everyone I had so far encountered deemed my rather cheery albeit somewhat tempered disposition confusing.

I woke up in the middle of the night a couple of times to go to the bathroom (located down the hall). Both times I exited my room I noticed that the woman set to watch me had fallen asleep. One time, as I left the room, she woke up, startled, and stared at me, mouth agape with a surprised look on her face. It was as though she was looking at an angelic apparition and yet at that moment I was far from any sense of perfection.

Outside my room, the nurse at the ER station looked up from reading her magazine and asked me, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just need to go to the bathroom,” I replied with an upbeat tone in my voice.

“Okay honey,” she said and went back to her magazine.

When I got up the next morning, I turned on the TV encased behind Plexiglas. I kept track of what was occurring with the latest round of riots in the Middle East. My sense of self-destruction failed to silence my curiosity with what was going on in the world.

The same doctor from the previous evening was still on duty the following morning. After the routine blood pressure check by the nurse, staff told me there was a room for me in the psych ward. This hospital was a preferred provider by my insurance, a perk in my situation. I learned later that at other hospitals people often spent two or three days in the ER before receiving a transfer to a psych ward. People were falling apart all over the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. ​