This is what grief looks like: crying because someone asks you to drive.
6
Before we arrive, my mother tells me: ‘Chloe, it’s okay, tell them you’ve been hurting yourself.’
It’s almost midnight in this outer-Sydney hospital, and after four hours of waiting we’re sitting with the nurse who has been assigned the difficult task of triage at the emergency entrance. It is our second visit: the first ended with our being sent home with a letter of recommendation to see a psychologist. Afterwards, my mother asked around about why we were denied entry.
‘She needs to be considered a risk to herself or someone else,’ a family friend told her.
‘Tell them she’s suicidal,’ I overheard someone else say in our living room one evening.
‘How are we today?’ the nurse asks us.
‘She’s suicidal,’ my mother says.
We are sitting behind a small glass counter, beside a nurse with hair the same colour as Carlie’s. I can see, through the perspex, thirty or so other patients waiting, a bright red vending machine, a TV with a night-time chat show and captions scrolling along the bottom.
‘Have you been having suicidal thoughts?’ the nurse asks me.
I don’t feel like I have, because I don’t think I could follow through with anything, but I nod my head yes.
That night, I am admitted to my first psychiatric ward.
When Dad hears I am being admitted to the ward, he comes to the hospital. After the three of us wait quietly for an hour, me lying on a bed in a temporary room, them taking turns to stand and then sit on the edge of the mattress, the nurse leads us through a series of linoleum-covered hallways and heavy doors with small squares of glass in the centre. When we reach the entrance to the adult psych ward the nurse says I have to leave my parents here. Dad smiles, but his hug is tight and quick. You can tell how my father is feeling by how long his hugs last. His eyelids hang heavy in his head, as if he is too exhausted to hold them open.
I begin to cry. It is February 2007. I am eighteen years old and am desperate to feel safe again.
(I text my mother asking about this moment and she says it was one of the hardest things she’s ever had to do. This is a surprise. For me, it was a relief.)
‘It’ll just be for a day or two,’ the nurse says. ‘Then someone will transfer you to the adolescent ward. They have art classes and an exercise courtyard there.’
I hug my parents two, then three times in a row.
The door closes and my parents are on one side, the nurse and I on the other. We wave to each other until I am led around a corner and they disappear from view. I can still picture their facial expressions.
Later, my father tells me he wasn’t there at all: ‘I was away with my netball team on the Gold Coast. I think Dean helped Mum with you, but I’m not sure. I came to visit when I got back.’
A nurse shows me to my room. It is sparse: a bed, a small window at the end.
‘I won’t be here long,’ I tell her, worried I am a burden. ‘I go back to university soon.’
She nods, and I take this as confirmation that my stay is short-term only. I’m sure I’ll be better soon.
I drop my bags and follow her to the common area. Middle-aged and elderly patients fill the chairs scattered throughout. She leaves me then, says she will check on me later but to come to the nurses’ station if I need anything.
I walk outside for a cigarette. There are no regulations on smoking here, other than keeping to the designated area. I take a seat next to a woman who is sitting alone, smoking. I light up, the smoke against my throat a combination of the freedom, expansiveness and relief that hits you after a long hike.
We sit in silence until she begins to talk, a speech that feels like a prepared monologue: ‘My family is young. I’m lucky—I’ve got a full-time job in finance, my husband loves me. But we lost our baby two years ago and now I end up here for a couple of days every few months. I come here for a while, get my meds adjusted, take some time out from the others and build myself back up. I go back to them—my husband and son—with new energy,’ she says. ‘And my visits are getting shorter, the distance between them longer.’
I nod, listen without saying anything.
It feels like I’m on a solo holiday: random stories told by random strangers. An odd mixture of isolation and company without familiarity.
The woman stands, says she’s going inside. I force my hand to stay resting on my thigh—I want to reach out, ask her not to go. Instead, I nod again and watch her leave the smoking area and walk inside to the common room. I am alone, and surprised at the wave of relief that comes over me. The silence feels peaceful.
Later, my mother tells me she cried all the way home.
I watch the curious show around me, feeling intrigue and relief. A woman with thinning grey hair is chain-smoking, her hospital gown dirtied around the edges where it touches the ground. Another woman, with eyes that shift in a series of zigzag movements, mumbles to herself in one corner. Two Mediterranean-looking men sit side by side on a low brick wall, their faces empty, staring ahead. I am a little overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of the situation, but I feel like I can finally breathe, like the world is under control.
I light another cigarette and inhale. I love this feeling. I still do. The coarse smoke singeing my throat’s softness. Like every part of my chest is hardening.
(In traditional Chinese medicine, the lungs are linked to grief. ‘When you smoke,’ a TCM practitioner once told me, ‘you cannot cry.’)
The greying chain-smoker approaches and pulls up a chair beside me. ‘See that one there, the fat guy in the blue shirt. That’s Albert. Albert thinks he’s from Pluto and that he’s been abducted and imprisoned on Earth. And the guy behind us—’
I go to turn my head but she grabs my knee.
‘Don’t look now. That’s Lawrence. Lawrence is a very angry guy. Don’t look at him and you’ll be fine. He mostly punches men, anyway, so it’s a good thing you’ve come here as a girl. Judy, the one talking to herself in the corner, she’s all right. Schizophrenic. Harmless, really. Unless you get stuck in the room next to her. Then she’s not so fun. Talks all night, she does. Really loudly too. But if you get stuck next to her just shout out to shut the fuck up and she’ll quieten down for half an hour. If you’ve had the right sleeping pills, you should fall asleep before she starts up again. What room are you in?’
‘On the right, near the hallway entry.’
‘Oh. You’re a little spoilt now, are you dear? Right near the nurses’ quarters. So the guy with the moustache, sitting on the brick wall? There’s nothing wrong with him. He just likes the food here. And the guy that walked inside, he’s Mr Moustache’s mate. Doesn’t talk much. Bloody rude, if you ask me, dear. I asked him, when he came in, what’s wrong with your brain and he just snorted and said nothing. Like a pig, he is. Always snorting, like it’s a fashion accessory or something.’
‘What did you say your name was again?’
‘I told you dear. I’m the angel.’
‘Sorry, I have a bad memory with names and—’
‘So what’s wrong with you, then? Last I heard they don’t lock you up for having a bad memory.’
‘Um, no I—’
‘Lemme guess. You left- or right-handed?’
‘Right.’
She grabs my left wrist and twists it so my palm faces up. ‘Oh, you chickened out, did you?’
I pull my wrist into my lap and cover the thin scar lines.
‘Don’t worry, love, I won’t hurt you. Just trying to help. I tell you what, if you want a little advice from an old girl like me . . .’
I say nothing, waiting for her to continue.
‘Well, do you dear? You want my advice or not?’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Right. Well, I see you’re smoking ther
e, so you’ve got that going for you. I’ll tell you what to do. When a nurse approaches you outside here, you offer her a cigarette. That means you’re on talking terms, right? Then when you need something—you know, a little extra Valium—you should be good for it if you ask any nurse you’ve offered a cigarette. They never take the cigarette, of course—aren’t allowed, don’t worry about that. But it’s the principle of the thing, right? They like to feel in charge, those nurses. You gotta let them think they are. And the ones that don’t smoke—don’t bother with those ones. Won’t get a Panadol out of them. Trust me dear, I’ve tried. Oh, one more thing, the most important lesson you’ll learn in life. Never turn up late for meds. That’s a suicide wish. Without the reward of dying at the end.’
‘Meds?’
‘Yeah. What are you on?’
‘Like what medication, you mean?’
‘Well of course, dear. What else would I mean? They sure don’t give out weed here. Although, if you’re into that, Larry’s your guy. You haven’t met Larry yet, right? He’s one of the blue boys. Only comes out of his room to eat and exchange the goods, so if you want some you gotta catch him on the way to the dining room. But never when he’s inside the dining room, right?’
‘What are the blue boys?’
‘You know, they’re all blue.’
‘Blue?’
‘Depressed. I got a little of the blue in me, but not so much as them lot. I never seen them smile once. And I been here four months now. Or maybe it’s eight. Doesn’t matter anyway, does it dear? At least the Valium’s free.’
As I’m moving into the adolescent ward, the fire alarm goes off. This is not what I was expecting, but the otherworldliness of it all is a sweet respite. When the siren sounds I am unpacking my bag. I don’t know if it’s a drill or if it’s real so I stop and head out to the living area. A nurse is ticking off a list of names. He’s a large man with grey hair pulled into a ponytail over his shoulder. My eyes fall to the ID tag around his neck. He smiles. With his tattoos and leather jacket he looks like he should be out roaming the streets on a Harley instead of making small talk with the mentally unstable. But his smile looks like he is exactly where he wants to be.
‘Chloe,’ he calls.
‘Yep,’ I say, entering the room filled with fifteen other patients.
The adult ward felt like a jail, whereas this new ward feels like a high-security boarding school. The place is fenced in by buildings, brick walls and barbed wire. The only way out is the way I came in—through two security doors and past a guard.
I take a seat next to a girl with dark curls to her waist, and a small gut protruding over her pants.
‘Hi,’ she says.
‘Hi,’ I say back. ‘I’m Chloe.’
‘Charlotte. What are you in for?’
I don’t know how to answer this question.
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder,’ she says.
I nod. ‘I, I don’t know yet.’ My hand moves to cover the cuts on my left wrist.
‘Uh huh.’ She nods, and goes quiet again.
The nurse continues calling out names, marking people off when they respond with a ‘Yep’ or ‘You bet’ or ‘Yeah, yeah’. Never ‘yes’. The ward is for people aged between sixteen and thirty. We sit while the nurses continue their head count.
‘What happened?’ I ask Charlotte.
‘Dunno. Someone set the fire alarm off, but they can’t find any fire so now they’re checking that everyone’s here.’
Half an hour later, without any explanation, a nurse announces lunch is ready.
The dining room is filled with chatter and laughter, but it’s quiet and measured. Nurses sit alongside the patients—there seems to be no clear divide except for the ID tags around the staff’s necks. To the left of the dining room is a window into the kitchen area where two ladies with hairnets are serving vegetables and lasagne. The room is lit by the sun coming through the glass windows on the far wall. We join the small queue waiting for meals.
‘Which ones do you think are psychotic?’ Charlotte leans forward to whisper in my ear. She is new here too, was transferred across from the adult ward with me earlier that morning.
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. I am worried someone will hear us.
Charlotte and I take our trays and sit at a table where a thin blonde girl is discussing her chicken patty with a nurse.
‘Are you sure it’s only chicken? They didn’t use oil?’
After lunch, the biker-nurse approaches me. ‘Chloe. I’m Jack. How are you doing?’
I nod at him. He sits beside me, settles back in silence. It feels good not being pressured to talk when I don’t feel like it. This has always been a point of tension between my mother and me.
A few minutes later, he says: ‘Smoko time now. One an hour, on the hour, 7 am till 9 pm.’
‘Why one an hour?’ I ask.
‘When we were designing the ward, some of the people involved were pushing for it to be a non-smoking ward. But a few of us felt you were all going through enough of a rough time without the added stress of having to quit smoking. So we came to a compromise. All cigarettes are kept behind the front desk. Each hour everyone gets one cigarette. No sharing allowed. There’s an electric lighter on the wall in the courtyard to light them. Cigarette runs are twice a week but a nurse will find you and take your order when they are going.’
Several patients are lined up at the nurses’ desk.
‘Leo, put one back or you won’t have any,’ a nurse calls out.
‘Can’t I have a fucking smoke in peace?’
‘Yes, but you can have one cigarette in peace.’
I nod at Jack and walk away to join the smokers’ line.
Outside, Charlotte is sitting by herself, squatting against the brick wall where the pavement ends and gives way to the grass. The courtyard is the size of a netball court, flower beds lining the edges, a concrete fence topped with barbed wire on the far side.
I sit next to Charlotte on the cool ground. ‘What are you locked up for?’ I ask.
Her eyes stay on the ground. ‘My friends and I took a trip and I thought I was an angel for three months,’ she laughs.
I’m not sure if I am supposed to laugh with her so I just smile.
‘Yeah. I was wandering the streets and the cops found me and brought me here. But I was in the fish bowl until now. What about you?’
‘The fish bowl?’
‘The high security ward. Everyone calls it the fish bowl ’cos it’s one big glass dome where the nurses can see everything you do. When you want to shower, a nurse comes with you. When you want to shit, a nurse comes with you. You’re never alone or unsupervised.’
‘How can they do that?’
‘The people in there are dangerous. They’ll sneak razors in or sharpen forks, anything to draw a little blood. But they’re not all like that. Most are really fucked up and couldn’t find their way to the toilet in time if someone wasn’t watching them.’
I head to my bedroom. A grey steel bed with white sheets. A small dresser and chair, an antiseptic smell. It is my home for the next several weeks. I don’t know it yet, but I will grow to love this room. I don’t always like the restrictions the building imposes, and I often feel caged when in the courtyard. But in my room, I feel secure.
During a smoke break the next day, I tell Charlotte about the accident. I am surprised to hear myself speaking so honestly to a stranger. But anonymity is entirely the point.
‘I’ve got a four-year-old daughter living with my mum in Brisbane,’ she says. ‘I’m getting myself better so I can go back to her.’
A boy takes a seat on the other side of me and leans across my lap to Charlotte. ‘Ya know what happened yesterday?’ He’s got a crew-cut thing happening and is cute in that two-day-stubble-and-full-lips way. I never notice people’s eyes, but I n
otice his because they are so expressive.
‘What happened, Leo?’ Charlotte asks. They have met before, Charlotte later explains. When she was waiting to be transferred to the fish bowl, Charlotte spent a couple of days here with Leo.
‘That new kid Rolo escaped. Waited till smoko so the courtyard doors were open, set off the fire alarm in his room, then, when everyone was distracted, climbed over the back wall. Bam, gone. Just like that. Prob took off to the city.’
‘Are you making that shit up?’ Charlotte asks.
Leo turns his face towards me. ‘Don’t listen to her, new girl. She’s just jealous she’s not as good-looking as me.’
Charlotte laughs and rolls her eyes.
‘So, are you mad, bad, sad or glad, new girl?’ Leo asks.
‘My sisters died?’
‘So you’re sad, hey?’
‘I guess so. You?’
‘I’m mad, bad, sad and glad. And good-looking. What’s your name?’
I light my cigarette off the wall lighter and sit down at a wooden table. Leo sits beside me. A little too close for my liking.
‘I’m Chloe. What’s mad, bad, sad and glad?’
‘I got psychosis, I’m a bit of a naughty boy, I got some depression and I’m bipolar. The nurses here are fucked, you know. One cigarette an hour. It’s fucking crazy, man.’
Leo lets out a cackle and a nurse calls out for him to quieten down. He shrugs his shoulders and stands. He leans down, looks me in the eye and whispers, ‘She wants me,’ nodding his head towards Charlotte. Then he goes to talk to the nurse.
Charlotte and I look at each other and burst out laughing.
‘At least it’s not the fish bowl,’ she says.
In the evenings, the night nurse on duty does an hourly torch check. If you’re lucky and are a heavy sleeper, you sleep through it. If not, you’re woken on the hour by a torch shining on your face to check you’re still there. There is something comforting about this, knowing someone is always awake.
I spend most of the first week alone, coming out only for the hourly cigarettes. I like it in my room. The nurses occasionally stick their heads in, but there is no pressure to talk.
The Girls Page 9