Communications are very strict and heavily enforced. The telephone lines here in the building are all located in office rooms only and are recorded. Having unmonitored telephones in our bedrooms, dining area, medical rooms, or even the rooms that Mr. Jenkins uses for his therapy sessions can be quite dangerous. That’s why rooms like Dr. Alvarez’s office and Nurse Jackie’s office are the only ones to have telephone lines. This hospital takes our health and safety very seriously; consequently, there are both privileges and limitations here.
Nurse Jackie jotted down the time and my name on a sheet of paper and some other information.
With all the restrictions here, it is actually a bit of a surprise that we are allowed to receive letters—but then again, there is catch to the whole thing. The letters must be opened and read by the guardian of a patient, then read by a faculty member, and finally it gets approved to go to the patient. This is mostly done for safety reasons. Also, if a patient has trouble understanding it, the nurses here help us read the letter or explain the letter for us so that we can understand it better.
The fact is, we are all adults and we are supposed to be undergoing psychiatric treatment, and at the same time, be going through rehabilitation, away from society. Almost like an actual hospital, when someone is trying to get better from a serious injury, they are hospitalized and they don’t go ‘out and about’ because the patient is suppose to stay in the hospital and recover.
We are supposed to be taking a break from the outside world, but sometimes, responsibilities slither their way into our Recovery Center.
Since the Center understands that us patients might have some sort of responsibility, task, or arrangement to take care of from time to time, they allow us to communicate with the outside world, but to a limited degree. If a message is urgent, we are supposed to be contacted through mail, phone lines, or visitation. All of which are limited or conditional. All phone lines are either monitored or recorded. Visitation is only during visiting hours with the approval of a staff member, and lastly, there is the mail system placed here. Any of the mail we get needs to be opened, proofread by our guardian and a staff member, usually by a nurse or, on rare occasions, by a counselor. Although it’s sort of an invasion of privacy, if a letter has enough importance to find itself all the way to our mental hospital, it will go through the procedure. Safety is valued in the psychological and psychiatric fields and if we are introduced to something that can conflict with our treatment, then months of progress can be halted if not disintegrated.
The last thing the hospital wants for us is to read a letter and let our unchecked imagination run rampant and possibly act on unmonitored beliefs; not that it ever happens since everyone here is being medicated. Granted—with this thorough precaution—the main incentive of the double verification of a letter by a guardian and staff member, is to check that there is nothing malicious in the letter itself. Having a wild imagination is one thing, but coming across something malicious in a letter, phone call or visitor alike, is much more serious. The Center does everything in its power to not only treat us, but also, keep us safe.
“Sam,” Nurse Jackie said to me, handing me the already-opened envelope. “Here is your letter. Like I was saying, your grandmother dropped it off while you were eating yesterday. I would assume it’s pretty important if she was willing to go through all of this for you to have it.”
I received the envelope that was held shut by a small piece of tape, as it had already been previously opened. It now had a small black seal that was stamped on to the flap of the envelope. The circular seal simply read Greenwood’s Mental Hospital for Recovering Schizophrenics, also known as the Recovery Center for Schizophrenics, or Center for short.
“Thank you, Nurse Jackie,” I said to her as I clutched onto it.
“No problem, Sam. Also, your grandmother left me a note to give you.” Nurse Jackie pulled a folded piece of paper from under a folder and handed it to me.
“That should be it, Sam,” She explained as she put away a small box of envelopes that were probably business envelopes that belonged to the building, seeing as the patients rarely got letters here.
“Thanks, Jackie,” I said and began walking away from the front office.
I decided I would head back to my room to read the letter and folded note. I walked past the hallway where Mr. Jenkins was holding his second group therapy.
I passed the Commons Area again and saw the young boy from earlier, looking at the same photography book from what I assumed to be the industrial revolution. He didn’t look up, so I simply kept walking.
I passed the dining area where the staff was preparing lunch by wiping down tables and quickly sweeping the glossy floor.
I made my way through the dim stairway and began walking through the hallway where the bedrooms were located. I was a little relieved, because the walls weren’t warping or turning dark, nor were there echoes, or I should better say, any voices coming from my head. I kept walking and heard happy chattering from some of the other patients in their rooms who had their doors opened. I overheard one woman explaining to another about a trip that they had taken to Oregon a few years ago. “I went up there with my husband and my two sons. We visited this lovely forest and ate the most splendid meal there,” she said to the other.
As the distance widened between the two women and I, their voices seemed to subside into an indistinguishable, but still excited, chatter.
I kept walking, scanning the doors till I finally reached my room, ‘6C.’ Holding both the note and letter in one hand, I opened the door and made my way to my bed.
Chapter 18
Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I began to unfold the note. The note was written in pen in my grandma’s penmanship. It said,
“Sam, I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to visit. I have been working at the preschool. You have my number, so please call me more, dear. Also, Maribel sent you this letter.
-Cheryl Grey”
Maribel! I thought to myself. How did she find me?
I looked at the front of the envelope. In the top corner, ‘Maribel Perez’ was written out along with her home address.
The middle portion of the envelope had my grandmother’s address.
I couldn’t believe it. My eyes were intently fixed on the envelope; it felt like nothing could break my attention from it.
I quickly opened the letter. I quickly pealed the tape that had been enclosing the pre-opened envelope. I extracted the single piece of paper that was inside. It was neatly folded into three portions.
I unfolded it and quickly noticed that it had been handwritten.
“09/12/2008” was dated towards the top.
“Dear Sam,” the letter began.
“Hey! It’s been a lot longer than I expected! I know that writing letters is odd and etc., but it’s sort of important.
Anyways, I tried texting and calling you, but I don’t think your line works anymore, it just says that the number is not available. I can’t drive all the way to Greenwood to visit you at your home right now, so I wrote this letter instead.
(I still had your address from when we used to keep in touch, so I’m hoping that this letter does get to you.)
Sam, I want to tell you that I’m leaving to Fresno to study. I got my Associates Degree and I am going to transfer into California State University, Fresno.
Here’s the thing; I don’t think I am going to come back to southern California anymore. I wanted to let you know that I am going to leave on September 23, so that’s on a Tuesday. Sorry if this is too sudden, but I tried to contact you as soon as I could. I will be boarding a train located in Downtown Los Angeles, near a UCLA Extension at Figueroa Courtyard, and from there, it will take me up to Fresno.
Sam, I don’t plan on returning anymore, so this Tuesday will be the last time I will be able to see you. If there is any possible chance that we could meet, I will be at the Los Angeles Union Station, located on 800 N. Alameda St. I will arrive there at 11 P.M.;
however, my departure time is at midnight.
I no longer have a cellular device, and I’m not sure what to do since you haven’t been picking up.
If there is no way you can contact me, I think the train station will be the last time we will be able to see each other.
I will miss you, Sam,
-Maribel Perez
So many thoughts were running through my head. I didn’t know what to do. September 23 was the day after tomorrow.
Chapter 19
Maribel Perez was a woman who I had met a year ago, when I was first hospitalized. I had an injury, and I had to be admitted to a hospital—the one with surgeons, doctors, and patients who are wounded or have a medical condition. The hospital that I was first admitted to is different from the mental hospital that I am in right now. That hospital was called Chickadee Hospital.
I remember early when I arrived, I was paired with another patient who had a torn tendon from cross-country. This girl’s name was Maribel Perez. She was eighteen years old, and I was seventeen at the time.
When I first arrived, I had been sleeping for a very long time. It took me nearly half a day to finally wake up. My grandmother had been there the entire time since my injury. She had requested a chair to sit next to me, and she was holding my hand. She had intertwined her fingers with mine, despite the several tubes that had pierced my arms. The technology that was attached to my body, and the beeping sound that emanated from another machine positioned to my side, made me feel uneasy. However, the contrasting human touch of my grandmother’s hand seemed to give me a small level of security. I had never been to a hospital before then, and I was terrified.
She was still sleeping, and I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to wake her. And the clock adjusted on to the top of one of the walls conveyed that it was around 6 A.M., if I remember correctly.
The subtle ‘beep, beep, beep’ of the machine that stood to the side of my bed seemed to sway me back to sleep. I remember turning my head and feeling a heavy pulse and pain that overwhelmed me. I felt weak. Hoping to avoid any additional discomfort, I refrained from making any further movements.
Eventually, I closed my eyes and the subtle beeping pulled me into a trance that submerged me into a deep sleep again.
I woke up at around 8 A.M. as the sun’s yellow rays broke into the room and ran wild. With that, I soon realized that it was morning and that there was likelihood that others here at the hospital, including my grandmother, would be active.
I turned my head one more time. I felt my head spin and my eyesight lose its focus. And when I finally located the window, my eyes pulsed with pain. It was extremely bright. I had trouble making my surrounding.
I shut my eyes tightly, and then blinked for an entire minute until I adjusted my eyesight. I gently patted a side of my hair and realized that there was a bandage that wrapped around my head.
I heard high-pitched voices that had a rather low volume. It was undeniable; the sound was coming from a T.V. As I looked around, I spotted a thin, plastic curtain that separated me from another section of the room. I stayed still.
Why is there a T.V. on? I asked myself.
I heard some shifting and wheels quickly screeching and grinding against the cold floor. Springs in a bed also produced sounds, as someone was trying to get comfortable.
I lifted myself up a bit, so that my back was on a pillow. What’s going on? I thought. I looked around. I was in a hospital room, the door was open, then there was my bed, then a curtain, and then, what I assumed to be, another person on the other side of the curtain, and finally, the luminous window.
I adjusted my exhausted body, which was compressed against the springs from the thin mattress, followed by my cough.
There was a slight pause, until a voice finally said, “Hey. I think your grandmother went to get coffee downstairs.”
I paused, and didn’t answer. I didn’t know who that voice, or person, was.
“She asked me where she could find some,” the voice added.
I still didn’t answer. I wasn’t too psyched about talking to someone I didn’t know.
Laughter arose from the box-shaped T.V. that was attached onto the wall. I figured that the person on the other side of the curtain was watching a sitcom.
I stayed still, not answering. Suddenly, the voice on the other side of the room manifested into a figure, it was a young girl around my age. She was on crutches and proceeded to move herself across the room and exit. Her movement was awkward and unsystematic and she struggled a lot. That’s when I spotted her leg; it had this plastic device around it, with a series of straps.
She exited the room and the clicks and heavy stepping movement of her single foot across the glossy hospital floor faded into the hall just outside this hospital room.
After a couple of minutes I began watching part of the television show. It seemed pretty humorous. It had to do with this family who lived together and made jokes and occasionally, made fun of each other, but in a loving way.
I was pretty captivated to be honest. And for a few minutes, I had forgotten about the tubes that pierced my arms, the beeping, and the bandage that wrapped around my head.
The door suddenly creaked. I turned my head to the direction where the threshold was to find my grandmother holding a small coffee and a bagel.
“Oh, Sam, sweetie,” she said softly. I smiled, and lifted my head to meet her face.
There was something different in her expression. So often she would greet me every morning with a cheery and gentle disposition, but I realized something was wrong. Among the buzzing voices from the television, the bandages that encircled my head, the tubes that pierced my skin, and the beeps from the machine next to me, it finally hit me that something was very wrong.
And it became completely apparent by my grandmother’s facial expression.
Her eyebrows and forehead were shaped in a way that suggested some sort of pain. She also wore a frown that conveyed disappointment, and perhaps pity, at the same time.
She quickly walked in my direction, setting her coffee and bagel on her chair, and hugged me tightly. At the same time, she was careful not to hurt me, nor to disrupt the tubes around me.
“Sam,” she whispered in a strange way, almost as if she wasn’t sure if there was someone inside of my body—as if I weren’t conscious, or as if I weren’t myself to begin with.
“Sam,” whispered again, as if she was looking for the girl that she once knew.
And then I came to a realization of everything that had led up to that moment.
Part 3
Chapter 20
My entire high school career and everything in between that had led up to that point—overwhelmed me as a flashback.
I remembered all of my successes as a student in my freshman year of high school. I remembered how easy it all was, how attainable the materials were. And when I tried my best, my work was actually considered ‘above and beyond.’
I remembered transitioning into my sophomore year. I went from three honors classes to four. I remembered how I would prioritize my studies over friends and social events, and how I rarely had time to do fun things. My agenda was packed with an unrealistic amount of assignments, due dates, and study times. I remembered how I didn’t talk to as many people, because I was so preoccupied with schoolwork. At times, I felt like I only saw my friends during lunch, but even then, I would often miss out on lunch to go study somewhere quiet. Before or after school, I would find myself studying for classes, either through tutoring with a teacher or by myself.
Junior year was when my academic career began to take serious tolls on my life. I had given up most of my social life during my sophomore year with my four honors classes, but in my junior year—the year where I decided to take three AP courses and two honors courses—was when I started experiencing a wider range of problems. I had very small amounts of friends, I rarely went out, and I was always attached to some textbook, novel, or review book for my courses. I was alw
ays glued to my textbooks studying for my US History Exams, or completing practice FRQ’s for my AP Art History Class. And when I wasn’t reading over textbooks or studying art movements, I was reading articles for research papers for my AP English Language course. And finally, with whatever little time I actually had left over, I was attending tutoring for my Physics Honors and Math Analysis Honors courses before or after school. I was so preoccupied, and everything became so much harder. I saw my friends less and less as the year progressed. I would be invited to watch movies with them, but I almost always declined. If they decided to have a get together, I would never make it. If they wanted to try out something new, I would never be there. Eventually, they had their own little in-group jokes that I was just blatantly not a part of. But they didn’t understand my struggle. I wasn’t ranked 35 in my school for being social. I was ranked 35 because I had the capabilities to be intelligent as well as the willingness to sacrifice things in my life to get the grades that I wanted.
Stand Tall My Sweet Dandelion Girl Page 9