by Nathan Filer
Nanny Noo visits me every other Thursday, and every other Thursday she visits Ernest. She talks about him from time to time. He’s handsome and has grown more so with age. He always combs his hair and shaves before she visits him, and he helps to tend the small garden at the special hospital where he has lived for most of his life. Some days are not so good, but that’s just the way it is with family. That’s what Nanny says.
She’s not a bit ashamed of him.
‘I’m going to work,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go.’
I don’t know how long she stayed. Alone in my kitchen, with night pressing at the window. She cleaned as much as she could, scouring at filth until her hands were sore, until she was too exhausted to carry on. Her brother has a disease, an illness with the shape and sound of a snake. It slithers through the branches of our family tree. It must have broken her heart, to know that I was next.
THEN ONE NIGHT SHIFT. At around 3 a.m.
When I hadn’t slept, when I hadn’t taken my break because we were short-staffed, and because breaks were deducted from pay, so if I didn’t take it I’d get an extra £7.40 towards the rent.
I had just helped a new resident into bed after spotting him moving unsteadily through the gloomy corridors, his pyjama bottoms slipping down over bony hips. I wanted to know something about him, something I could say to help him feel at ease, a reassurance about when his wife might visit, or his children. I switched on his bedside light, unlocked the drawer and took out his folder. Attached with Sellotape to the inside front cover was his personal note. It looked different to the others though, the handwriting was different. That was the first thing I noticed. Most of the notes were written by Barbara, this senior care assistant, who would take real pride in making them all neat. But this one wasn’t neat at all. The words wobbled across the page, each letter pressed too hard in pencil. I could picture him doing it, his face scrunched up with the effort. It said,
Inside my head is a jigsaw made of trillions and trillions and trillions of atoms. It might take a while. The old man gripped at my uniform tunic, his brittle fingernails snagging on the poppers. He pulled me so close that his stubble scratched against the tip of my nose.
‘Is that you, Simon?’ I whispered. ‘Is that you in there?’
He stared at me with watery eyes. His voice was distant – in that way so many of them sounded, when they no longer owned their words, but were possessed by them.
‘I’m Lost, I’m Lost, I’m Lost,’ he said.
I tore myself away.
I’m Lost, I’m Lost, I’m Lost.
In the forecourt the other care assistant was smoking a cigarette under the scrutinizing glare of a security light. ‘Jesus Christ, Matt,’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Her face was floating towards me, changing shape. I pushed straight past. As I ran out of the gates she was shouting at me to come back. That the shift wasn’t over, that she couldn’t get the residents up by herself.
I’m Lost, I’m Lost, I’m Lost.
A group of lads poured out of a side street, ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’
Their faces were hidden beneath hoods and baseball caps. It wasn’t until I got closer that I could properly see him, see his face in their faces. You have to come and play now.
‘Is that you, Simon?’
‘You what? Look at him, he’s off his face. What you talking about you fucking weirdo?’
‘Sorry. I thought—’
‘Hey mate, you couldn’t lend us a fiver could you?’
‘What?’
‘We’ll give it back.’
‘Yeah, I’ve got—’
I’m Lost, I’m Lost, I’m Lost.
I stumbled into a new morning, blurred at its edges. The streets stirred to life under a cloudy sky. People were staring at me, pointing, or turning quickly away. Each of them had him inside; his many, many, many atoms, and each of them with his face, his beautiful smiling face.
It wasn’t frightening, it wasn’t like that.
It was glorious.
Then things took a turn
for the worse.
MY SHOES WERE MISSING, replaced with yellow foam slippers. I think of this, and I am there. Some memories refuse to be locked in time or place. They follow us, opening a peephole with metallic scratch, and watching through curious eyes. I am there. In front of me is a huge metal door, coated in chipped blue paint. There is no handle on this side. It is not meant to be opened from this side. My pockets are empty, and the belt is missing from my trousers. I have no idea where I am. White light flickers from a caged fluorescent tube above my head. The walls are bare, tiled in dirty ceramic squares. In the far corner is a polished steel toilet bowl with no seat or lid. The air smells of bleach. This body isn’t my own, it merges into the space around me so that I cannot feel where I end and the rest of the world begins. I step towards the door, lose balance, stagger sideways, fall hard against the metal toilet. A string of red drips from my lips, taking a perfect white fleck of tooth enamel into the bowl. It descends slowly, weightless in the dark water. The peephole closes. Some memories refuse to be locked in time or place, they are always present. A person is saying I have done nothing wrong: You have done nothing wrong, you’re in a Police Cell for your own safety because you’re unwell, confused, disorientated, lost, lost, lost. I am there. I can taste cotton wool and the person is saying that I’ve been sedated, that I fell against the metal toilet. You nearly passed out they are saying. They are giving me pain killers. They are saying it could take a while, it will take some time to arrange a hospital bed. I will be sent to a PSYCHIATRIC WARD. Is there anyone they can call, someone who might be worried about me? I push my tongue into the sodden cotton wool and let my mouth fill up with the irony taste of blood. I don’t need them to call anyone. Not now. Not now I have my brother back.
Mr Matthew Homes
Flat 607 Terrence House
Kingsdown
Bristol, BS2 8LC
11.2.2010
Re: Community Treatment Order
Dear Mr Matthew Homes,
I am writing to remind you of your responsibilities under the Community Treatment Order (CTO). In consenting to this CTO you agreed to engage with the full therapeutic programme at Hope Road Day Centre, and to adhere to your medication plan.
You are not currently fulfilling these obligations and it is important we meet to discuss this, and decide how best we can support you. Please attend my clinic at Hope Road Day Centre at 10 a.m. on Monday 15th February. If you are unable to attend this appointment you must telephone beforehand. If you do not attend this appointment or contact beforehand I will issue a request for you to be brought to hospital for a formal assessment.
In accordance with the plan agreed in your CTO a copy of this letter has been forwarded to your nominated contact – Mrs Susan Homes.
Sincerely,
Dr Edward Clement
Consultant Psychiatrist
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Knock knock KNOCK KNOCK. They are outside, standing at my door, they are peering through the letter box, they are listening to me type. They know I’m here.
Nanny Noo will have her hand on Mum’s arm, and she will be saying, try not to worry, he’ll be okay, he’s writing his stories. Dad will be pacing the concrete landing, picking up litter, angry, with no idea where the anger belongs. And Mum will keep knocking and knocking and KNOCKING with throbbing knuckles, until I open the door. I will open the door. I always do.
Nanny Noo will move to hug me, but it will be Mum who I turn to first. I know her desperation.
‘Do you want to come in?’ I’ll ask.
‘Yes please.’
‘I’m out of teabags.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I haven’t done a shop in a while.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I’ll step over the typewriter, over all the letters I’ve been ignoring. My parents and Nanny will follow. We’ll sit in my living room, except D
ad will stay standing, straight-backed, looking out of the window, surveying the city.
‘We got the letter from Dr Clement,’ Mum will say.
‘I figured.’
‘He said—’
‘I know what he said.’
‘You can’t do this, sweetheart.’
‘Can’t I?’
‘You’ll get unwell, they’ll put you back on the ward.’
I will look to Nanny Noo, but she won’t say anything. She knows better than to pick sides.
‘What do you think, Dad?’
He won’t turn around. He’ll keep staring out of the window. ‘You know what I think.’
I will let them in. I always do.
And I will go to the Day Centre: to Art Group, to Talking Group, to Relaxation Group, and I will do as I’m told.
I will take my medicine.
how best we can support you
It isn’t so bad here.
I’ve been spending time in the relaxation room. It’s just a normal room really, but there are a few beanbags scattered about, and a stereo with cassettes of gentle music and meditation. It’s as good a place as any, if you’ve nothing better to do.
Inside my head is a story. I hoped if I told it, it might make more sense to me. It’s hard to explain, but if I could only remember everything, if I could write my thoughts on sheets of paper, something to hold with my hands then – I don’t know. Nothing probably. Like I say, it’s hard to explain.
In the relaxation room I got thinking about trying one of the jigsaw puzzles. There is a drawer stuffed full of them, and a few more stacked on the shelves. I found myself looking at a thousand-piecer. The picture on the box showed a coastline with sloping cliffs above a pebble beach. Dotted along the cliff path are small wooden huts in different colours, and lined along the top are dozens of caravans, like a neat row of white teeth.
It reminded me a lot of Ocean Cove, and if I looked closer, maybe I could see two young boys running down the path. Or maybe sitting on the beach together, scrunching dry seaweed between their toes and throwing pebbles at a rock to see who could get closest. If I put my face right up close to the box, perhaps I’d hear them laughing together. Or practising new swear words, and promising not to tell Mum. But that was daydreams. There was nobody in the picture. And inside the box were a thousand pieces of nothing, and even some of them would be missing.
‘You alright, mate?’ I’m not sure how long Click-Click-Wink was standing in the doorway, I hadn’t noticed him.
‘I’m okay thanks Steve.’
I turned away, pushing a cassette of panpipes or whale song into the stereo and turning up the volume. ‘I’m going to listen to this.’
‘Do you want to talk?’
‘No.’
I didn’t say that I’d rather be left alone, but I guess it was obvious because he didn’t hang about. He didn’t go immediately though. He said, ‘I’ve been meaning to give you this.’
It wasn’t a big gesture, or a song and dance. He didn’t click, click. He didn’t wink. He handed me a small yellow Post-it note, and left the room.
I felt the sticky strip against my finger. It took me a moment to work it out.
User name: MattHomes
Password: Writer_In_Residence
I can get so wrapped up in myself I’m blind to the kindness around me. He didn’t have to do that. It isn’t so bad here. Right now I’m logged onto the computer as a Writer_In_Residence, and I have a story to finish.
clock watching
I was driven from the police station to the hospital without any sirens – a policeman at the wheel and a social worker sitting beside me in the back, holding my section papers on her knees, absently twisting a paper clip. My mouth was still stuffed with cotton wool from when I fell in the police cell, and I could feel the jagged broken edge of my front tooth against the tip of my tongue. My brother’s voice crackled over static on the police radio.
I want to talk about the difference between living and existing, and what it was to be kept on an acute psychiatric ward for day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day etc.
Day 13, for example
7 a.m.
Get woken by a knock on my bedroom door, and the call for morning medication round. I have a metallic taste in my mouth, a side effect of the sleeping tablets.
7.01 a.m.
Sleep.
7.20 a.m.
Get woken again by a second knock. This time the door opens and a nursing assistant walks in and pulls the curtains. She stands at the foot of my bed until I get up. She makes a remark about what a lovely day it is. It isn’t a lovely day.
7.22 a.m.
Walk down the corridor in my dressing gown. Wait in a queue for medication that I don’t want. Avoid eye-contact with the other patients who are doing the same.
7.28 a.m.
Get given tablets, an assortment of colours and shapes in a plastic cup. Ask the dispensing nurse what they are for?
‘The yellow one is to help you relax, and those two white ones are to help with some of the troubling thoughts you’ve been having. And that other white one is to help with the side effects. You know all of this, Matt.’
‘I just like to check.’
‘Every morning?’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
‘You can trust us, you know.’
‘Can I?’
They watch me to make sure I swallow them. I always swallow them. They always watch.
7.30 a.m.
Breakfast is Weetabix with lots of sugar and a Mars Bar that Mum brought in. The coffee is decaffeinated. The mugs are provided by Drug Reps. They have the brands of the medication we hate, stamped all over them.
7.45 a.m.
Sit in the high-fenced smokers’ garden with other patients. Some of them talk. The manics talk. But they talk crap. Most of us don’t say anything.
Those who don’t have cigarettes blag off those who do, and promise to pay them back when giros come through.
We smoke for ages. There is nothing else to do. Nothing. Some of the patients have yellow fingers. One of the patients has brown fingers. We all cough too much. There is literally nothing to do.
8.30 a.m.
A nursing assistant pokes his head around the door. He explains that he is my allocated nurse for the shift. He asks if I would like some one-to-one time? He isn’t one of the staff who I feel safe talking to, so I say no. He looks relieved.
8.31 a.m.
Go take a piss.
8.34 a.m.
Continue smoking.
9.30 a.m.
Finish last cigarette. Feel a surge of panic. Try some of the breathing exercises the occupational therapist taught me. A manic lady stubs her cigarette out, and starts playing at nurse. She tells me that breathing exercises help her too. She tells me I’ll be fine. She asks me if I would like a cup of tea, but then gets distracted and starts talking to someone else about the different kinds of tea she enjoys. She doesn’t seem to notice me leave.
9.40 a.m.
Run a bath. Stuck to the tub are somebody’s pubic hairs. I have to swill them away first. There is tightness in my chest. My hands are shaking. The panic is getting worse, it’s hard to breathe. Forget bath. Leave bathroom.
9.45 a.m.
Knock on the nursing office door. All of the morning shift are in there. They are chatting over cups of tea, sharing some cake that was left behind by the night staff.
I feel like I’m interrupting.
‘I need some PRN,’ I say.
PRN is the name given to medication we can have on an as-required basis. All patients know this.
‘I need the one that calms me down,’ I say.
‘Diazepam? You have that with your regular tablets, Matt. You’ve already had it this morning. It takes a while to work. You can have some more at lunchtime. Why don’t you try your breathing exercises?’
‘I have.’
‘Why don’t you try to distract yourself? You could get dressed.’
This is what we do to distract ourselves. Fun stuff. Like getting dressed.
9.50 a.m.
Put on my combat trousers and green T-shirt. Lace up my boots. Curl up in bed. Sleep.
12.20 p.m.
Get woken by a knock at the door. The lunch trolley has arrived. Get up. Take a piss.
12.25 p.m.
Sit in the dining room with other patients and eat hospital food. It isn’t bad. Take double helpings of Victoria Sponge.
12.32 p.m.
A nurse steps into the dining room and gives me my diazepam tablet. She doesn’t wait to watch me take it. She knows that I want this one.
12.33 p.m.
Get offered three cigarettes in exchange for the diazepam.
12.45 p.m.
Smoke first cigarette.
12.52 p.m.
Smoke second cigarette.
1.15 p.m.
A lady who I have never met before comes out to the smokers’ garden and asks if I am Matt?