Going Down Swinging

by Billie Livingston

  When we returned to Mrs. Hood’s, Lilly (8 years, 3rd Grade) and Wendy (11 years, 6th grade) were there, Mrs. Hood’s own children. I stayed for some time, talked a great deal to both Grace and Mrs. Hood and even played a game of “hockey” with the girls and one of their cats. Grace got along well right away with Lilly and Wendy, and seemed well settled by the time I left.

  I returned to Mrs. H’s apartment and found her on the floor at the bottom of the stairs leading to her apartment. She was very drunk and had fallen down the stairs. I had to help her up to the apartment as she could not make it on her own. She explained that she had spent the day in a hotel on Hastings Street. Mrs. H. was wearing a very short-length, bright yellow, sleeveless dress which mainly served to show off a variety of bruises on her arms, shoulders, and legs. Her face was also slightly ruised and she could not remember how she got the bruises. I had Wanted to take her to V.G.H. that afternoon but could not see how that could be done without carrying her. I explained that I had taken Grace to the foster home and said I could not give her the address or phone number now. I spoke with her for an hour, without making any progress, then left asking her to get some sleep.

  5.11.74 (T. Baker) Sheryl Sugarman called to say that Mrs. H. had called the police last night (after hours of wandering the halls of the building calling “Grace”) to report her daughter missing. Luckily the police saw Mrs. Sugarman first, who briefly explained the situation. Call to Mrs. Hood – everything all right. Arrangements for initial clothing grant made. Mrs. Hood was warned that Mrs. H. may cause trouble at Wolfe, in which case Grace would have to switch schools, to Edith Cavell.

  Spoke to Mr. Pretty – informed of situation, and that Mr. Thompson, principal of Wolfe would call if there is any trouble. Mr. Pretty made some calls and was told that Mrs. H. has a record for soliciting, spent some time in Kingston Penitentiary. He thinks this problem could be solved if a complaint were made, police could arrest her and then detox her. He promised to call Downtown Care Team. I tried to call our Health Care Team-no one available for a referral.

  Later inday, received a call from the Downtown Care Team, who said they would be going out with their G.P., Dr. Klaus. Dr. Klaus later called saying he and Dr. Pantern (Now Mrs. H’s psychiatrist) agreed to put Mrs. H. in V.G. H. and to commit her if necessary.

  At 5 p.m., I received a call from Alice Collingwood (4788 Quebec) who had Mrs. H. with her and was about to take her down to VGH immediately. I said I would take her instead. Mrs. H. was very unsteady but we made it to emergency but were refused admittance for Mrs. H. Only after a two hour wait, when Dr. Klaus showed up, was Mrs. H. admitted.

  Eilleen Eight

  NOVEMBER 197

  VANCOUVER GENERAL, in the basement. Seems like a basement; green walls. Like snake innards. Walking down tinny green-gone-wrong veins of a reptile. Bakers with you. He’s OK. Not so bad. You told him, call-me-Eilleen. Drove you down here—he’s helping you check in, trying to get you well.

  It’s echoey, wandering, nurses and patients all look out of their minds. Weaving, everything’s breathing and weaving until you get to the counter. Baker talks to the nurse there; her smile looks gluey. He’s talking about admittance, this ward and Doctor Graham, referrals, alcoholism, disorientation, blahahaha. Boring. Let smarty-boots take care of all that crap. Your job is to dry out like some boozy old grape. You’ll get Grace back when you’re a raisin again. Kids love raisins.

  Let’s take a look round this rat trap; have a boo. Let them figure out the details. You poke your beak in a room. Jesus, nothing in there but a mattress. And a basin, bleach-bone white. You saunter in, see how the other half lives.

  God almighty, what poor slobs end up in here? Hold tight to your purse, look up and down the box walls. White, everything white. Just a couple tiny smears, splotches, yellow-brown like baby shit. Dents here and there in the door frame; somebody took their boots to it. You get about the middle of the room—Christ knows how that mattress looks under the sheet—turn, swing your head in time to see the white door swing shut. And your heart hiccups, holds still. Oops.

  Hey, you say, heyy-ey. Yoo-hoo. Hey, open the door, you’ve—and no knob on the door. There’s no goddamn doorknob. Like the quiet room at the old Hollywood Hospital. You didn’t do anything. You don’t deserve the quiet room. Hey!ey-ey-ey! And you bang a palm twice. You’ve locked the door here. Open the door. Fist your palm. Hey, open the door! Baker. Baker did this. Fucking Baker—goddamn, let-me-help-you Baker. Yeah, he’ll give you a ride. What a dear. Dear sweet Bastard Baker. Open the f(ee-iz)ucking door before I bust it down. I mean it! And you’re kicking and punching and screaming and nobody’s coming and nobody’s talking, can’t hear anything. Only takes two signatures. Two doctors could lock you away for good. Stand back, kick the door: nobody hears you, make more dents. FuckFuckFuck. Throw something, throw your purse. Slam it. Pick it up and slam it. Slam it again and say Hear Me, you bastards. Screaming, mascara and tears gluing your eyes, can taste blood in your mouth—kick the dents again. Kick them all. You can’t do this. You can’t do this. Nobody hears. They’re going to get you this time. You signed your baby away. You didn’t read the fine print. Let me out, you pigs. You pricks. Can’t do this. What did you sign? You signed something for that nurse, didn’t you? or was that just for Baker? Where did you sign? What did you say?

  You drag your purse back off the floor, hurl it again and the door opens. Beefy boy in white: hospital bouncer—’member them? A nurse stands behind him, tight smile. You’d best quiet down, Mrs. Hoffman, there are other patients on this ward, you know. And he moves in through the doorway, bends down.

  Reason with him.

  I’m not a patient here, I’m not—I didn’t do anything. I’m not nuts. I’m hypoglycemic. And he stands up with your purse in one fisted mitt. You move towards him and stop. He looks like he could twist your arm, snap it off like Barbie’s. You reach out your hand. He nods, passes your purse to the nurse, backs out. That’s—gimme my purse, you—Give Me My Purse! Your voice rakes over the walls as you tackle the smooth door, banging, and trip. Your knees smash the floor. Two signatures, just takes two signatures. Get up, get up, don’t stay down. Find something, a weapon. Baker must be there, he just can’t hear you. You can’t be in the psych ward, you’re not a psych. Just a goddamn lush, that’s all.

  Nothing. No knobs. Think.

  Thinking.

  Fuck. Pace. Pace the room. The basin, grab the basin, make someone hear. Get them to the door. Someone will know when they see you, it’s a mistake.

  Throw it. Harder. Bash the door with the basin. White plastic bomb, banging and flinging itself back on the floor. Pick it up—see what happens, fuckers! I don’t go quietly, rage rage rage against the white. Bash their knobless brains in, pick it up. Hollow plastic bangs and bangs and bangs until the door opens.

  The bouncer’s back, two this time, nurse behind them. He says, You know what, lady, you’re gonna hurt yourself is what, and annoy the hell out of me in the process, and he yanks the plastic rim out of your clutch.

  You wake up to the door opening. Don’t know when it is, must have slept. You’re on the mattress. Sit up. Look down at your prickly shins, salmon-coloured cotton from the knees up. Can’t remember. When did they take your clothes? Did they put you out? Or did you just pretend to be good? A nurse opens your door all the way. She’s smiling that ugly basin smile. Bleach-bone teeth. She’s a new one. Would you like to come out now, Mrs. Hoffman? Hard, fake cashier-smile.

  Be good now. Be a good girl. Show them how docile you are, well-mannered, and bright, not crazy. Not one bit. You stand and hold your gown shut behind, hide your bum at least, dignified is halfway to sane.

  In the hallway, a couple patients walking, heads down, hair stringing, old man’s maggot-white legs wander bony down the hall, wrinkly squish hanging out the back of his gown, shaking his head back and forth. A young pretty thing sits in a metal-legged chair a few yards down, hands folded in her lap, eyes straight ahead. Loo
ks like she’s in primary school—straightest spine gets a gold star. The nurse goes into her station—wonder if she’s the head nurse; must be, she looks stark raving. You sit in the chair outside the quiet room and look well rested and harmless.

  What kind of get-up has she got on? She bustles behind the counter and in front: a brown cape, long brown skirt, starched white blouse, dark stockings, clunky sensible shoes. You want to tell her Florence Nightingale called—she wants her stuff back. Keep your yap shut. Just because you didn’t know the nineteenth century had come back in such a big way … Don’t forget where you are: the booby hatch. Takes one to know one is the rule of thumb, and you are no booby. Convince her lest she descend on you with leeches.

  Butter the bitch up.

  That’s a lovely outfit, and you do something pleasant with your lips. She smiles back, not really at you, just stretching her lips to show the world a well-formed skull, and she says, Thank you, I made it myself. She did? And you think of that head nurse at Hollywood Hospital, years ago; saw her the first time you went in to dry out. Next time you ended up there, there she was again, except this time she was a patient. You look back at Turn-of-the-Century Theresa and her flowing brown skirt, cape flung back, gently kissing the ankles of her dark stockings. Jesus Christ.

  Look away. Yes, start looking.

  Look up, down the hall.

  Look for neon red that smells Exit.

  You stand up. The nurse glances, flesh pulls back to her ears again, just a little teeth this time. Well, you sigh passively, think maybe I’ll go take a walk. She nods, makes a sunny mm sound.

  Now walk. You reach behind again, trying to close the flap. Ridiculous—if they weren’t so busy shooting your ass full of drugs, a person could have a gown that closed in front.

  Find the exit, worry about clothes when you get home. Just nonchalantly, not-making-a-break-for-it. Hum. No, don’t hum; too obvious. Be dazed, aimless.

  EXIT.

  Glance over your shoulder—no reason.

  Quick. Throw your weight into the door.

  It opens. You’re out! It’s a parking lot. Walk straight ahead. Act natural. Think. Now think. No purse. Well, hitchhike then. Surely to god someone will see you are in distress. Get through these cars, get to the road, just get the hell out of here.

  Oh shit, you feel a pressure—patting. A heavy man-hand pats your shoulder. OK, now, and you stop.

  Freeze.

  Orderly. It’s a goddamn orderly. The jig’s up. OK, now, let’s just go back inside, you’re not dressed for socializing Gonna get yourself in trouble out here, and he takes your arm in his huge meathook and you go limp like those wildebeests on Wild Kingdom when they realize they’re dinner. He escorts you back inside.

  She’s waiting for you, brown drape cascading over her mean little breasts now, hiding her shoulders, just her forearms poking out, ring of keys in her hand. She shakes her head at you, makes a tut-tut noise, you bad-bad girl. Turns on her heel, as only a nurse in a cape could do, and you feel like sticking a fork in that bun at the back of her head, letting the steam out. As you are being tossed back in the quiet room, you give her a snide glare. You’re a pretty tough broad, aren’tcha?

  And she slides you the closed-mouth grin of two-hundred-year-old paintings, the one reserved for heathens and heretics, and she says, I’m a tough lady, yes.

  Hoffman, Anne Eilleen

  6.11.74 (T. Baker) Call to Dr. Klaus in morning. He said Mrs. H’s Motivation was lousy, that she had gotten violent in emergency after I had left last night, throwing things around, etc., had left several times, but had come back with him when he went out after her (at one point, she was standing in the middle of 12th Avenue, hitchhiking.) Dr. Klaus had her agree to stay only after he threatened to commit her. He said she was manipulative, looking for support, sympathy, and continuing her dependency. He and Dr. Pantern were going to try to get her into the psych. ward, but did not know if anything could be done as she was uncooperative. If a neighbor would press charges against Mr. H. regarding the knife threatening incident, then a court could order her into a program. Otherwise not much can be done.

  Clothing vouchers made out for Grace. A visit was made to Mrs. Pong, the landlady, re Mrs. H. Mrs. Pang does not want to get involved. I talked to Sheryl Sugarman who seemed uncomfortable with the idea of pressing charges against Mrs. H. and besides had never seen anything that would warrant a charge, except perhaps Mrs. H. ppummeling Mrs. Pong’s door last Friday night.

  Visit to foster home; Grace was taken to see Dr. Lee. Grace showed excess protein in her urine, otherwise everything all right.

  Received call that evening from Julie Smith of Downtown Care Team at V.G.H. We talked a good deal about resources for Mrs. H. but she was rather negative as Mrs. H. was uncooperative and manipulative. Later I received a call from a nurse at VGH emergency who wanted to inform me that Mrs. H. would probably be out by tomorrow morning as she was insistent on signing herself out despite the wishes of her doctor.

  Eilleen Nine

  NOVEMBER 1974

  YOU DON’T HAVE to stay, Eilleen, I just really wish you would … Of course you’re not crazy—I’ve had a talk with them, things just got a little out of hand, on their parts, and maybe yours too or you wouldn’t have ended up here. Calm down. I’m not trying to pull anything on you here, I just want to see you get on your feet so you can get your daughter back. I’ll get you a room upstairs—it’s not like this, I promise, it’s nice.

  That was your shrink talking. Yours, not theirs. You finally got that Cuckoo’s Nest bitch to call your psychiatrist—Just call him, call him yourself and get him down here. You requested your purse for the phone number; truth was, you’d only seen him a couple times, ages ago, and couldn’t remember his name. Went to him at Dr. Graham’s suggestion, when Graham got sick of your face, sick of handing out prescriptions. Pissed you off at the time, but now —thank God for boredom and loneliness, the need to talk. To a man who would say in a smooth gentle voice, And how does that make you feel?

  So you gave in; this time too. Maybe he was right, maybe it was worth staying for a while and letting them look after you. And now you’re upstairs, but only because Doctor—oh hell, why can’t you remember his name: Pasteur, Pastern—anyway, your shrink told their shrinks that you don’t belong downstairs, that you can be by an open window with little risk. Fact is, you just want to get the hell out of here. Want to find your baby. Want to know where they put her. And all you get is the runaround.

  They’ve already sent one of their quacks in—Doctor Klaus—couple hours after you got up here. He sat down, asked a stream of questions and took notes and you tried to be good, be co-operative, but what’s the goddamn point: you’re a drunk, not a mental case. And it’s been over a week; already been through the worst of it: the shakes and pain, the DTS, creeps and gremlins hiding in the corners. All gone. You’re on an upturn now. So you look like shit. It’s what’s inside that counts.

  And all during Klaus’s inquisition, you tried to tell him you’d be better off outside, getting your affairs in order. You have to move and clean up the house and you have to find your little girl. His response? Well, you’re here now and here’s where you’re staying. If you were fit to look after a child, you’d be doing it. And that bony German face registering nothing but the task at hand, the proper channels. So you tried Yes, well you’re right, I was having problems, drinking too much, and now I’m not, I’m sober, so I don’t see the point in staying here. I don’t need a shrink, just a kick in the pants and some AA and you laughed, ha-ha, see how lighthearted I am, not crazy.

  He didn’t look up from his clipboard, stopped scribbling only to scratch his temple with the end of his pen, then, When you feel depressed, do you experience insomnia or do you find yourself lethargic, sleeping a lot?

  When I’m depressed, I find myself depressed. Doctor Paster told me I could leave if I wanted and I’ve decided that I want to.

  If you’re referring to Doctor Pantern
, that’s irrelevant. He’s not your attending physician, I am, I’m your doctor and only I can sign you out, and frankly, I don’t see fit to do that. If I were in your position, Mrs. Hoffman, I’d be doing everything I could to make myself a reliable healthy parent in order to regain custody of my child. At the rate you’re going, you’ll never see her again.

  Is that a threat?

  It’s an evaluation.

  And then he left. And you sat on your bed feeling like someone just clubbed your face in, thinking there’s no fucking way he’s going to keep me here, no fucking way. But scared, heart flitting around like maybe they could do anything they wanted. They could take her permanently, find her father and give her to him.

  You had your regular street clothes back on, so you went and sat in the common room, ended up talking to some guy, kind of a cute old thing, and chatted, and it turned out he’d spent time in Hollywood Hospital too. Said he’d had electric shock treatment. And he wanted it again because it was the only thing that could get him off the booze for any length of time: the dizzy mind-blank and the darkness afterward as if there were nothing but the very moment he was experiencing; he kind of liked it. Said, Christ, maybe I just need it now and then—blots out everything the way booze does me except it clears me out for a while and gets me off the booze, ’cause I’m tellin’ ya, the same as they told me—if I don’t get off for good, it’s gonna be the—pardon my French—fuckin’ death of me. He asked how you were making out, if you needed a Librium or something for the shakes, I got a whole barrel of ’em in my room. He told you his partner brought them by. He and his partner had this scam going where they printed up their own prescriptions with a fake doctor’s name and the number of a phone booth in the east end somewhere. One guy would bring it to a drugstore downtown while his friend waited at the phone in case the pharmacy should call and double-check. It sounded so brilliant yet familiar —Genius: it’s always on the cusp of the obvious.