solved

Inpatient: A Psychiatric Story
Day 1
You’ve spent a week lying in bed, getting up intermittently to feed yourself. When the phone rings, you ignore it. You don’t know if you still have a job, and you don’t particularly care either. The world is too draining for that.
You lost a friend two weeks ago. Your cat, Cassandra, passed away. There were signs of sickness the night before, but you decided you would take her to the vet the following day if it still looked bad.
She died in the middle of the night.
You’re in a spiral of indifference and hate, as even the most basic of your routines – waking up, checking her food and water – have been interrupted. Occasionally you move in the direction of her food, only to remember. You’ve spent days upon days remembering.
Your feelings are too intense to rely on their messages. You’ve lost hope. You’re suicidal, and the last place to turn is a hospital.
You pick a hospital. Somewhere you aren’t known – somewhere you haven’t been before. You call a taxi.
You’re there.
The walls are adorned with large colourful murals. One section is a picturesque landscape with the word “RECOVERY” in a bold font. You can barely remember the events of the day or how you made it here.
The receptionist sits behind a glass window, and she looks to you. “How may I help you?”
You stutter for a moment, struggling to find words. “I, um, need to talk to a doctor.”
You exchange basic information and provide proof of health insurance. She verifies your address and emergency contacts. A large man takes your bag and leads you to an isolated area in the hospital. He wears a blue shirt with “Protection Services” written on the back. The security guard raises his ID to a sensor beside the wide door. It beeps, and he opens the door. You walk in, and it shuts behind you.
You just arrived in the ER. You know you’re going to wait a while – but you don’t know how long.
The room is bland and empty with many rows of chairs. Each chair is divided by an arm rest. A single TV on the wall plays a repetitive 24-hour news station. Opposite the TV is the nursing station – a wall lined with windows and a locked door.
There is a woman sitting cross-legged underneath the TV. She stares at her phone, and a charger is plugged into a wall outlet beside her.
You grab yourself a seat and give the wall a good stare.
As you fixate on the wall, or nothing in particular, your mind wanders. You try to piece together what is happening and why you came in. The further back you reach into your mind, the harder it is to recall.
Things aren’t that bad, afterall, are they? Wouldn’t it be nice to go home and take a nap?
You long for the doors to be opened so that you can be free. However, you know from experience that they won’t let you leave until you’ve seen a doctor.
Each memory you discover gets lost in the moment, except for the times when you get lost in the memory. You start to wish you had a pen and some paper to write this down, because your recall won’t likely improve by the time you see a doctor.
You have no idea why this is triggering your anxiety. You want to leave. You want to stay. You’re not sure what you’ll say.
Perhaps a nurse has some paper and a pen.
You’ve been in the ER for almost an hour. You hope they haven’t forgotten you.
The TV blares as usual. You think you’ve watched the news cycle repeat at least 5 times so far. You wonder if you can change the channel, but you don’t feel motivated to ask.
You sit down in one of the chairs and pick up one of the newspapers. It’s the free periodical they give out to commuters. You flip through a few pages trying to find something of interest to you.
You try to read, but your mind is too foggy to concentrate. The words melt off the page. You’re better off staring at a wall – it’s way harder to screw that up.
You’ve been in the ER for 2 hours. The boredom and frustration is building, but for the most part you manage to ignore it.
You have fully tuned out the TV. It’s just background noise now. You start to wish you had a handheld video game to play with. You wish you had something that could occupy your mind.
You look through the window in the nursing station. Around 8 people are inside, and they appear to be having a conversation amongst themselves. One of the male nurses laughs as he talks, though you cannot hear what he is laughing about.
How will you get their attention?
You gently knock on the door. You look inside – none of the nurses looked up. It seems that they haven’t even noticed.
You knock again, slightly harder. Still nothing.
You look through the window in the nursing station. Around 8 people are inside, and they appear to be having a conversation amongst themselves. One of the male nurses laughs as he talks, though you cannot hear what he is laughing about.
How will you get their attention?
You slam your fist on the window once.
“What are you doing?!”
A woman with long, dark hair looks up for a moment. She rolls her eyes and stands up. She approaches the door and opens it.
“How can I help you?” she asks, with a superficial cheeriness.
You try to explain, “I am really, really anxious. I’ve been waiting for a long time and I just thought if I could have–”
“We can’t give you Ativan. You have to wait for the doctor to order it for you.”
You shake your head. “I don’t want an Ativan. Can you please listen?”
While you’re talking, the nurse walks back inside and slams the door. You consider slamming your fists and screaming again, but it doesn’t seem like it would help.
A nurse approaches you and tells you that the psychiatrist will see you now. You breathe a sigh of relief and prepare to speak with him.
You follow the nurse to one of the side rooms with an open door and a table in the centre. There are two chairs. You step inside.
“Have a seat. Doctor Marion will be with you shortly.”
Wordlessly, you lower yourself into one of the chairs. You try to shift it gently towards the table, but the chair is quite heavy – perhaps deliberately weighed down. The armrests have no gap between the arm and the seat of that chair. You shrug your shoulders.
A young woman enters the room. Dr. Marion, you presume.
“Hello there, Jessica. I’m Dr. Marion, the resident psychiatrist. I hear you’re not having the best day.”
You nod.
“Tell me a little bit about what brings you in here.”
You respond, “I’m … it’s very hard to say.”
You break eye-contact because connection is too much. You’d rather dissociate yourself away from the situation than face it head-on.
Dr. Marion nods patiently. “Take your time. It’s all right.”
This is your final chance to leave. You can say whatever you want. Once the secret is out, you’ll likely be admitted as an involuntary patient. But if you say too little, you may be denied any help or support at all.
You take a deep breath.
With your eyes fixed on the floor, you try to summon the courage to say something. You are acutely aware of the power the psychiatrist has over you, and the next words you say could get you detained.
It isn’t that you honestly want that. You just don’t know what else to do. And yet at the same time, the part of you that wants to die is fighting the urge to say it.
You force it out. “I… I want to kill myself.”
She nods again. “OK. You want to kill yourself. How long have you felt this way?” Her nonchalant approach would normally seem quite odd, but nothing is normal about this conversation.
It feels like forever, but you know that isn’t true. “A few weeks,” you respond.
“All right. This is very important, so I’m going to ask you a few questions about it.”
Dr. Marion asks, “Why do you want to die?”

You take a deep breath. “I just don’t see another way. Life hurts so much, all the time, and I can’t handle it anymore.”

She responds, “Are there specifics? What makes your life this painful?”

You struggle to find words. Your heart races, and you are overtaken by a heavy shame. As the feeling settles in, you close your arms into your belly and look to the ground.

Dr. Marion says, “I know this is hard to talk about. Take your time.”

You nod slowly. It feels as though your larynx is swelling. You don’t want to say it. You don’t even want to think it.
Dr. Marion asks, “Why do you want to die?”
You take a deep breath. “I just don’t see another way. Life hurts so much, all the time, and I can’t handle it anymore.”
She responds, “Are there specifics? What makes your life this painful?”
You struggle to find words. Your heart races, and you are overtaken by a heavy shame. As the feeling settles in, you close your arms into your belly and look to the ground.
Dr. Marion says, “I know this is hard to talk about. Take your time.”
You nod slowly. It feels as though your larynx is swelling. You don’t want to say it. You don’t even want to think it.
It seems easier to talk around it than to actually talk about it, and if you get the same result – a safe place to rest for a few days – then there is no real upside to talking about it.
“It’s just hard. It’s so hard. I hate myself, and I want it to be over, and I don’t see any reason to go on.”
Dr. Marion nods. “I can see that you’re in a lot of pain. Is there more you can say about that?”
You can’t bear to look at her. “Cassandra was sick. I didn’t take her to the vet in time. She died, and it’s all my fault. I hate myself.”
Dr. Marion nods. “These things can happen, Jessica.”
“You don’t understand. She died because of me. She was the only thing keeping me going, and she died because of me.” You’re shaking now and finding it hard to focus.
“It sounds like you really cared about Cassandra. Pets are like family.”
“You don’t understand,” you say with a trembling voice. “She was the only reason I woke up in the morning. The only reason I didn’t kill myself was because she would end up at a shelter. Now that she’s gone I… I just don’t care anymore.”
“What about the rest of your family?” she asks.
You shake your head. All you can think to say is that they’ll be better off without you. You’ve made enough dramatics for now. You shake your head again, and again.
“Are you close to your parents? Siblings?”
“They will be better off without me,” you retort.
Dr. Marion jots a few things down and then looks at you again. “Do you have any plans to kill yourself?”
You nod, and she asks what it is. You take a deep breath and slowly explain the plan you had. You already own what you need, and you already wrote a note to your loved ones. The only thing left was to go home and do it.
“I think I know what we need to do right now. The most important thing, I think, is to keep you safe tonight.”
Dr. Marion frowns and looks at you sympathetically. “All right. Do you know what a Form 1 is?”
Of course you know what a Form 1 is. You’ve been formed so many times in the past that you couldn’t not know.
She continues, “A Form 1 is a 72-hour psychiatric evaluation. I’m concerned about you, and I think this is the best way to keep you safe. We can work on safety planning and medication while you’re here, and remember that it’s just 72 hours. Not forever.”
Dr. Marion says, “Your nurse will be with you shortly.” She leaves the room. You allow your mind to drift. Being formed used to be a novelty. You remember the first time. You were so terrified of what would happen to you. You were afraid you would never leave the hospital again. Yet, as time moved on with more life and experience, you came to realize that 72 hours was nothing. A couple sleeps, and you’ll head home.
You rest your back against the chair and wait for your nurse. A half-hour rolls by as you stare at the wall. Knowing that you’re somewhere safe for the night brings you a small amount of relief – confusing relief to be honest, as you still want to kill yourself. On some level it is nice to know that people will make sure you stay alive.
The security guard you met earlier walks in holding your backpack and purse. “I need to search and catalogue your belongings. When we’re done, they will stay behind the nursing station to ensure that you’re safe.”
You nod. He puts on two latex gloves and begins rummaging through your belongings. As he removes each clothing item he makes a small note of it on a piece of paper. Underwear here, bra there. He picks out a pair of pyjama pants and puts it in a separate pile. “You can’t have anything with a drawstring,” he says.
He takes your smartphone and charger, and puts it in a small plastic bag. You suppress a laugh when you notice the biohazard symbol on it.
“The laces from your shoes, please.”
The laces? You sigh and proceed to delace your shoes.
“Are you wearing a belt?” he asks.
You nod, and hand the belt over to him too. Your pants are barely clinging to your waist as you use your hands to hold them up.
“OK miss, one last thing.”
Another man who you didn’t see approaches you with a handheld metal detector. “Stand with your arms out,” he orders.
You consider your options.
You nod slowly. You don’t like being ordered around, but snapping at him won’t help.
This entire process always gets you. Supposedly it’s for your own safety, but you don’t normally care in the moment. You turn your eyes and head down to the floor, stretch your arms out, and let him proceed.
You close your eyes as the metal detector passes over your legs and arms. You always hate this part – always. It can’t be over soon enough.
A young white woman walks out of the nursing station and approaches you. “Hi Jessica, I’m Chanelle. I’ll be your nurse until 11:00.”
“Hi Chanelle,” you say while taking one quick glance at her face before watching the floor beneath you again.
She begins walking and you follow her footsteps. “Is this your first time in hospital?” she asks as you approach a pair of locked doors.
You shake your head. “First time at this one,” you say.
“OK. Hopefully here it’s not too different,” she says, seemingly without regard for your past experiences.
She holds her employee ID up to a card reader. It beeps, and she opens the door, holding it for you. You walk ahead of her, and the door slams shut.
“You won’t be down here for too long,” she says. “This is our crisis ER. We’ll try to transfer you soon, but for now you can stay down here.”
The walls are all coated in a dull white paint. As you’re walking you see some doodles and pencil marks on the wall. You follow Chanelle through a simple hallway. You glance into an open room while walking by. There are a few rows of tables, and a few soft chairs. The soft chairs are directed at a television. The TV sits behind a locked glass panel, and it’s currently turned off.
She stops at a door on the other end of the hallway and gestures for you to walk in. You do so. There is a small bed in this room.
You gently lower yourself on to the bed, and you fold your hands together. You fix your eyes on the floor in front of her feet.
Chanelle starts. “I just want to welcome you to the Crisis ER. Here we see patients who are in acute crisis. The first step is stabilizing your crisis. Dr. Marion gave me a quick overview but I always like hearing things directly from the patient.”
“I…” – you pause, you stutter. It has barely sunk in that this is really happening, and yet you’re being asked to tell your story again. You wonder why she can’t just read the notes. “I’m tired,” you say.
“Can you say more about that?” she responds.
You take a deep breath before responding. “My cat is dead. I’m locked in this prison for the next three days. I hate myself. I hate everything about myself, and I don’t see the point of living.”
Chanelle nods. “Right. So you’re having thoughts of suicide?”
“Yes,” you respond quietly.
“Do you have a plan for how you would do it?” she asks.
You find it difficult to explain again – you have forgotten by now how many people asked you this question. Your set your eyes onto the tiled floor as you explain your detailed plan. It takes about a minute to go over the usual “where, when, how” questions. You’re grateful when it’s over.
“That sounds like a really serious plan. How do you think your family would react if you did this?”
Family? You shrug your shoulders. “I figure they’re better off without me.”
“Do you think you’ll try to hurt yourself inside the hospital?”
You think for a moment about how you might accomplish this – you come up with a few creative, plausible solutions. But, would you? You think for a moment more and respond, “No, I don’t think so. Not with everyone watching me.”
Chanelle nods. “I’m very glad you came in. It sounds like you’re dealing with a lot right now. Dr. Marion ordered some Ativan for you. Just come get me if you need any.”
With that, she walks out of the room. You wonder if she found you abrasive. She did leave relatively quickly, but your overall impression is that she’s a kind
In particular, what did you think of the patient’s interactions with the nursing staff?

******CLICK ORDER NOW BELOW AND OUR WRITERS WILL WRITE AN ANSWER TO THIS ASSIGNMENT OR ANY OTHER ASSIGNMENT, DISCUSSION, ESSAY, HOMEWORK OR QUESTION YOU MAY HAVE. OUR PAPERS ARE PLAGIARISM FREE.*******."