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T HERE ARE SEVERAL THINGS that surprise you about the psychiatric ward. Or perhaps ‘surprise’ is not the right word. After all, surprise suggests a level of preconception that is then challenged. And you didn’t really have any preconceptions. Or if you did, they were all from that film with the screaming.
From what you can tell, the ward is not big. It is pretty much just one long corridor, with little cell-like rooms going off it. What’s more, even though it’s broad daylight outside, it’s very dark inside. As a result, the big lights are on everywhere – hurting your eyes and, presumably, everyone else’s too.
There is no screaming in this corridor-ward, at least not currently. There is shouting, though. Specifically, a man is shouting down the corridor. His shouting is not nice. It is loud and rambling, like a pop song that never ends. It also isn’t very effective. It communicates his rage, but doesn’t communicate anything else. His words and their meanings are lost in the volume.
You try to ignore him, and focus on the most important thing: your mum is standing before you, looking the way she always does except maybe even happier. She is wearing a scruffy T-shirt and jeans and flip-flops. She didn’t know you were coming. When you come through the entrance door, she gives you a series of enthusiastic forehead kisses and keeps telling you she didn’t know you were coming.
‘I didn’t know you were coming. I didn’t know, I didn’t know.’
You are half tempted to recoil from the intensity of the kisses, wipe away the slobber. But you also like that she is being nice. So you do your best to accept the kisses without protestation or any visible sign of slobber-based disgust.
‘Why are you here?’ you ask, once she has stopped kissing you and instead has you in a kind of permanent sideways hug. ‘What happened?’
She looks at you sadly, chucks you under the chin. ‘Oh, just a misunderstanding,’ she says. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
Eventually, a member of staff comes over to you. She is wearing round glasses, carries a clipboard, and sports a serious sort of frown. Her expression reminds you of a head teacher you once had. Apart from that, she seems totally unfamiliar.
‘How old’s this one?’ the member of staff asks your dad – gesturing at you.
Your dad hesitates. ‘Um,’ he says. He knows how old you are – he’s not that bad a dad – but he doesn’t know how old you are supposed to be for the purpose of this visit.
The member of staff doesn’t wait for a response. ‘The thing is, we’ve got a no-children policy. She shouldn’t really be here.’
‘I didn’t want to leave her in the car.’
‘Why not?’
Your dad looks at you – not as though you’re a person, but as though you are something to be examined. ‘She gets bored,’ he says finally, shaking his head slowly. ‘Really, really bored. She can’t handle it.’
The member of staff raises her eyebrows in a way that suggests she doesn’t think this is a serious response. ‘She can’t stay here,’ she says. ‘She can’t even be here.’
‘We’re not staying. We’re taking my wife and her mum on a walk.’
‘What?’ The member of staff seems confused. ‘Who else are you taking on a walk? Are you her mum or his wife?’
Your mum opens her mouth to speak.
‘She’s my wife,’ your dad says, pointing at his own chest, ‘and her mum,’ he adds, now pointing at you. ‘She is one person fulfilling both of these roles.’
‘Ah, I see. You’re both a mother and a wife. I didn’t know.’ The member of staff clears her throat. ‘Well, I don’t know if this walk has been pre-approved. We can’t just let you leave without permission.’
‘Oh, really?’ your dad says, in a tone of voice that confuses you.
‘Yes. You didn’t know that?’
‘I didn’t know,’ your dad says, in the same confusing tone of voice.
‘Well, sorry. We’ll have to ask about the walk in the next ward round.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Thursday.’
‘That’s ages away. This one is really excited about the walk,’ he says – pointing at you now. ‘She hasn’t seen her mum in ages.’
The three of them turn to look at you. You don’t know whether to affect a smile (as if excited by the prospect of a walk) or try to look sad (as if disappointed at the prospect of no walk). In the end, you do neither. Instead, you simply peer at the member of staff with your face.
‘I see,’ the member of staff says. ‘All right, then. But you’ll have to be quick. Where are you going?’
‘We’re going for a walk on the beach.’
‘The beach, OK. And when will you come back?’
‘In about two hours.’
‘Two hours walking?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a long walk. I definitely need to write this down.’
Then the member of staff asks your dad the same things so she can write it down: where you are going, when you’ll be back, how you are all related to each other. Your dad is very nice with her and about the situation at hand – even when patients interrupt the question–answer session to enquire about their own needs.
‘Can we have some milk?’ another patient asks.
‘We’ve run out,’ the member of staff says.
‘Where’s the remote?’ another patient asks.
‘It’s in the staff room.’
‘Who’s this small woman? Is she a doctor or a patient?’
‘She’s someone’s child.’
These interruptions apparently derail the member of staff’s train of thought. ‘I’ve lost my train of thought,’ she says. ‘Where are you going again?’ she asks your dad.
Just witnessing this conversation is tiring. When it becomes apparent that the member of staff has to start all over again, you take a seat on a nearby chair and focus your gaze on a poster tacked to the wall. The poster looks home-made. It depicts a rainbow but also perhaps a dog. You wonder if the poster was made by a patient. You think it wouldn’t really be home-made in that case. It would be hospital-made.
‘OK, that’s all done,’ the member of staff says.
‘Great,’ your dad says. ‘Can we go now?’
‘I just have to write down what your mum is wearing.’
‘She’s not my mum,’ your dad reminds her. ‘She’s my wife.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Why do you have to write down what she’s wearing? She’s wearing clothes.’
‘In case she absconds. Then we know what to look for.’
‘Right.’
The member of staff frowns. ‘I’m doing you a favour, you know? I don’t have to let you out.’
‘Of course.’
‘Now,’ the member of staff says, ‘would you describe yourself as a white female?’
‘God help me,’ your dad says, under his breath.
‘Yes,’ your mum answers, ignoring your dad.
Eventually, the member of staff settles on ‘white female in a pink T-shirt and blue jeans and green flip-flops’ and you are finally allowed to leave.
On the way back out, you wonder what ‘abscond’ means. You wonder this because – despite your advanced interest in language – your knowledge is still uneven. Sometimes, you will know the etymology of a word such as ‘sea’. Other times, you won’t know the meaning of a word such as ‘abscond’.
‘What’s “abscond”, Mum?’ you ask, as you abscond with her down the stairs.
‘It means running away.’
‘Whoa,’ you say, bouncing a little as you hold her hand and exit via the main entrance. When you’re outside, you let your lungs take deep breaths of fresh air. It really was stuffy in there. You are glad to be out. Your mum is elated.
‘First time out,’ she says, springing herself hither and thither, a big grin slapped on her face. ‘Can you imagine?’
Though it’s unclear if she’s talking to you or your dad or God, your dad shakes his head disapprovingly. ‘Sounds awful,’ he says, rummaging in his pockets for his keys. ‘But let’s have a really nice two-hour walk on the beach anyway.’
You get in. Your dad starts the car engine. ‘That was a joke by the way,’ he adds. ‘About the walk on the beach.’
You emit a courtesy laugh. Your mum forces one out too.
But soon enough, your fake laughter turns into real laughter. And you find that you are laughing – truly and genuinely and actually – even though your dad’s joke wasn’t really a joke, not even vaguely funny at all. Before you know it, your mum is laughing too, then even your dad joins in.
Happy as clams.
Loopy as anything.
And just like that, you abscond. Out of the car park, over the bridge, and around the roundabout – the three of you together and free.
Further reading:
A is for Abscond, B is for Bipolar, C is for Crisis