Detour from Normal (27 page)

In that area were six oak tables with four oak chairs around each for eating and several rows of low-backed armchairs facing the television mounted on the west wall. The television was encased in a protective wooden case painted white with an unbreakable sheet of Lexan screwed to the front to prevent it from being smashed by rogue patients. PAs and nurses were always in the room and had a small table and chairs along the south wall where they congregated to keep a constant eye on everyone. There were always at least two PAs on duty in the area, and often there'd be one or two nurses as well. On the north wall was a row of windows with steel security mesh in front of them. Through the mesh, the view of the outside world was a parking lot. The unit was at ground level, so that's all you could see. Along that wall were several armchairs and a few matching sofas. On the east wall of the area was a long table with a few tattered magazines. Just above that were two well-worn, tan-colored, touch-tone, corded telephones. Next to the table was another sofa and above that sofa was a large chicken wire-reinforced window through which the nursing staff could monitor the area. The nurses' station was always locked. You had to knock on the door and wait for someone to unlock it if you needed anything. Across from the nurses' station on the south side were the double doors of the main entrance. On the south wall, adjacent to the snack room, were the double doors to the outside recreation yard and the group room. On the southwest wall of the main area was a whiteboard with the schedule for the week, and just left of the roll-up window for the snack room was another whiteboard with all the patients' names and their daily goals (if they had any).

Some patients elected to spend much of their time in their rooms, and I rarely saw them. Others were locked in the quiet rooms for misbehaving or if they posed a danger to the rest of us. Since there was little
to do but socialize, watch TV, and eat, I couldn't help but get to know the rest of the patients to some extent. Nearly all of my confinement was spent with those people in that small room. As a consequence, the biggest thing I took away from Gracewood was our stories—some left me in stitches, others were horrible but had silver linings, and a few were just plain inspirational. In the end, life is what you make of it. Though many people would have been horrified to be in my situation, like everyone else at Gracewood, I was there for the duration, so I made the most of my time, making lemonade from the lemons I was handed.

One thing about mania, particularly when you're in a psych unit, is that what day, month, or year it is loses its importance. I was living in the moment. The only day that was really important to me was the day I was to be released. As soon as I knew that day, I paid attention to how close it was. I wouldn't have cared about time if meals, breaks, going outside, and visiting hours weren't tied to it. Although the following short stories are in chronological order, I couldn't tell you exactly what day or time they happened. What mattered most to me were the people or events involved. Each story is a snapshot of something or someone I will always remember from Gracewood.

Hand-me-downs

Not long after I was admitted to Gracewood and had recovered from the seizure, I faced yet another one. As I prepared for the worst, a hand reached out from beyond my range of vision with a small cup of pills.

"What are these?" I asked.

"...and the red one is Ativan" was all I heard as a mystery person rattled off the names of several pills in the cup. I grabbed the small red pill, took the cup of water that was offered to me, and washed it down. Before I knew it, I was dead asleep somewhere in the bowels of a place called Gracewood.

I don't know how many hours passed before I awakened. I didn't know where I was, what day it was, or what time it was, but thankfully I'd gotten some sleep and was through with seizures for a while. I sat up on my bed in the twilight of my new room. A translucent window glowed faintly in a corner of the room, lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside the building.

I took stock of my new surroundings. There were two blue plastic beds with thin, vinyl-covered foam mattresses resting atop them. Each had a fitted sheet, a sheet, and a faded blue blanket. One of the beds was bolted to the floor and the other was movable. There were two doors to the room: one was the entrance, and the other opened to a bathroom shared with a similar room. There were two plastic storage cubbies in the room, one for each occupant. Those were about two feet on a side and had a shelf across the middle. On top of the cubby nearest my bed sat a paper grocery bag.

I stood and searched for a light switch in the room. I found it and squinted after switching the fluorescent lights on as my eyes adjusted. I peered into the bag. It was half full of clothing. I carefully turned it over on the bed and lifted the bag off to reveal a perfect stack of neatly folded clothes. Shockingly, they were
my
clothes. On top of the pile of clothes rested a blue plastic tube containing
my
travel toothbrush. It seemed impossible that anyone had a clue as to where I was with all the events that had gotten me there. I certainly had no idea. In my manic mindset, I could only conclude that they were a gift from God.

As I sorted through my pile of clothing, I couldn't help but try it all on. It was wonderful to have my own things. As I tried on various items, I was surprised that so few of them fit me, particularly my pants. Pants that used to fit me comfortably fell right off. I'd forgotten how much weight I'd lost because of my surgery, and perhaps I'd lost more since then. I also noticed that some of the T-shirts in the stack were among my least favorite.
What was God thinking giving me this odd collection of clothing?
I wondered silently to myself.

I divided the clothes into two stacks, the ones I liked and that fit (a very small stack) and the rest (a substantially larger stack). When I was finished, I carefully tucked the two stacks of clothes onto the top shelf of my cubby with the intention that the top shelf would be my "clean clothes" shelf, and later the bottom would be for dirty ones.

The day after my arrival, I was assigned a roommate. His name was Rich, and he seemed fairly normal. He and I got along well and spent a lot of time together when he first arrived. He was quick to notice my stacks of clothes, since all he had was what he was wearing. I told him about the strange appearance of the bag of clothes and informed him of the fact that most of them didn't fit me. Before long he was stripped to his skivvies and trying on my clothes. Surprisingly, Rich was the same size as the old me: everything fit him perfectly. I generously offered him any of the clothes he wanted, figuring that they were a gift to me anyway, and he soon made off with a goodly portion of them.

Eventually, word spread about all the unused clothes I had stashed in my room, and the clothes that God had so generously provided made their way to new owners: a shirt here, some pants there. One girl got two pairs of shorts from me. It was strange seeing her wearing my shorts. Some days she even wore my T-shirts with them.

One day Beth came to visit me. As we talked, she noticed a familiar shirt pass by.

"Hey, that guy has a T-shirt just like yours," she exclaimed.

"That's because it is mine. And those are my pants. He's probably wearing my underwear and socks, too."

Beth turned to me incredulously. "You mean I went to all the trouble to bring you nice, neatly ironed and folded clothes and you gave them away?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked, confused.

"I brought those for you when you were admitted."

I smiled but didn't say anything. Things suddenly made sense, but I had to admit, I liked the idea better that God had given me clothes that didn't fit and that I didn't want so that I could share them with those less fortunate than me.

Covering for myself, I explained to Beth the clothing situation there, making it seem as dire as possible. During our conversation, one of the other patients, Sandra, joined us. She and I had talked a bit and I'd told her Beth was coming by for a visit. She wanted to meet her. She quickly confirmed the clothing situation, and surprisingly, Beth, noticing they were close to the same size, offered to help her.

The next day when Beth visited, she brought a paper bag with freshly cleaned, ironed, and folded clothes for Sandra that she had personally hand-picked for her from her own clothes and from a local Goodwill. The clothes ended up fitting Sandra perfectly. She was delighted and wore them nearly every day for the remainder of the time I was at Gracewood.

As far as my own clothing situation, I quickly learned that the laundry services at Gracewood left a lot to be desired. You'd leave your crumpled, dirty clothes in a bag by your door at night with your name
on it, and by morning you'd have crumpled clean clothes returned in the same bag. The crumpled clean clothes looked worse than the dirty ones. Rather than deal with that, I instead decided to wear scrubs. You could get a clean pair of neatly folded scrubs any time. Unfortunately, the scrubs pants didn't fit me—they were either too tight and too short, or too baggy and too long. So I wore the same pair of khaki pants nearly all the time I was at Gracewood. I did, however, have my underwear and socks cleaned regularly.

The Best Pillow

It was tough to get a good night's sleep at Gracewood. It was tough because they had the worst pillows in the world. I wasn't alone in that fate. Everyone had the same dreadful pillow. The pillows were made of a solid piece of polyethylene foam with a sealed vinyl cover. They reminded me of an inflatable pool toy. Not only were they uncomfortable but they were also hot. When I laid my head on mine, it began sweating in no time.

After the first night, I'd had enough of my pillow. I began to brainstorm how to make a better pillow from what I had on hand, which was almost nothing. I looked around my room at the two identical plastic bed frames that appeared to be made out of the same material as the blue garbage recycling bins that we used in my neighborhood. Then there were the matching blue cubbies. There was nothing else in the room. I happened to notice that the second bed, which was not yet occupied, had dirty sheets, a blanket, and a pillowcase on the pillow. It occurred to me that perhaps I could trade those for something I could make into a better
pillow. I collected the dirty linens, took them to a PA, and asked where I could get clean ones. He walked with me to the linen storage room and asked me what I wanted. I asked him if I could get four sheets and two pillowcases. He must have assumed that I was changing both beds in the room because he handed them to me without hesitation. I was delighted and quickly headed back to do some engineering.

I took each of the four neatly folded sheets, unfolded them, crumpled them loosely, and stuffed them into a pillowcase. When that was finished, I took my newly formed pillow and stuffed it open end first into the other pillowcase. That kept the sheets from falling out the open end of the first pillowcase. It was the most comfortable pillow imaginable and had the benefit of staying cool because it was so breathable.

I used that pillow the entire time I was at Gracewood. It brought me countless extra hours of sleep, something that was always a necessity. On my last day, I disassembled it and deposited the sheets and pillowcases in a hamper. I didn't want someone to find it and get in trouble for having a non-standard pillow, even though I wanted to let everyone in on the secret so they too could share a little luxury in a place where there was none.

Girlie Pics

One thing that struck me about Gracewood was the lack of anything hanging on the walls. That was pretty standard at all the places I had been, so I shouldn't have been surprised. I was determined to make my own secret statement, however, to add a little color and spice to the place. On the table by the two phones in the main area was a stack of
well-worn magazines. With little better to do, I'd often find myself flipping through one of them.

I'd been leafing through one of the women's magazines one day and had been particularly drawn to the makeup ads. The models for the ads were very pretty. I decided that was just the spice I needed. I took the magazine to my room and carefully ripped out a page with a model's photo on it, then tried to figure out how and where to mount it. I probably could have asked the nurses for some tape, but it was most likely forbidden—I could probably suffocate or strangle myself with it. So instead I got creative. I noticed that on every door, there were pieces of masking tape with patients' names written on them. The position of the tape on the door indicated which bed they slept in. Some of the pieces of tape were extra long, so I tore off a bit of the extra and used it to mount my picture on the back of our room door where it was unlikely anyone would see it.

I showed Rich the photo and he was so inspired that he rushed out to do the same. In no time he had his own dream girl taped to the back of the door. I thought it would be fun to have a competition with him and fill the door with pictures. I went a little overboard on the endeavor, carefully tearing out many pictures to try to beat Rich. After acquiring a small stack of pictures, I carefully went around to all the rooms and pilfered small pieces of tape from everyone's names.

The only problem was that Rich was so dreamy eyed over his one girl that he had no further interest in the game. I was unstoppable, though, and soon our door was half-covered with photos of models, and the magazines on the table were equally empty of them. Finally, I stood back and admired our accomplishments: Rich's one babe and my countless ones. Not only was it a good day's work, our room undeniably had some color.

The Bad Cuff

Grace was a real fixture at Gracewood. I don't know how long she'd been there, but everyone knew her and catered to her. I always jokingly called her "Your Grace," and the wheelchair I often wheeled her around in was "Your Rolls," but she stubbornly preferred Cadillacs, so that's what I ended up calling it. She was a feisty, redheaded Irish woman if I was to believe her stories, but if her hair had ever been red, it had long ago faded to white.