as sex and substance abuse and possible suicide, we feel there is just reason to admit Melissa for a few days for a period of assessment, stabilization, diagnostic evaluation, and long-term planning. That way, she can see a psychiatrist and you can have the support from the crisis team.”
She didn’t need to bother lowering her voice because even though I heard each word, they strung together as just one foggy blur in my ears. “Melissa.” She reaches out and puts her cold, bony fingers on my thigh. “We want to keep you safe for the next few days. We’re here to help you.” And then, without a goodbye, she’s gone.
The bubbly girl claps her hands together. “Okay. So, I know this is a strange experience for both of you. Do you have any questions so far? Anything at all?”
My mom raises her hand like she’s in school. “I do. What’s ASU?”
The girl laughs. “Oh, I’m so sorry. We get used to saying these acronyms all the time and forget that the whole world doesn’t speak our language. ASU is Acute Support Unit, which is upstairs on the psychiatry ward. They take someone like Melissa for a few days of observation and assessment.Anything else? Please feel free to ask.”
My mom shakes her head.
“Okay. So, Melissa. I’ll take you to your room, where you’ll be for a few days. I’m sure you’re happy to get out of this place. Your room will be much more private. Do you have everything?”
I nod and motion to the plastic bag on the bed that my mother brought for me, which I haven’t even gone through yet.
“Great! Then let’s go,” she says, picking up the bag.
We follow her. I’ll go anywhere, even the morgue, to get out of the chaos of the emergency room.
“Where are my other clothes? My jeans?” I ask when we’re in the elevator. I’m standing among a bunch of people and all I’m wearing is a flimsy hospital gown.
“I took them home to wash,” my mom answers.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be giving you another groovy gown to wear anyway,” the girl interjects, winking at me. I fake smile back. There’s something about her happiness that makes it seem inappropriate to be sombre.
On the fourth floor, we walk down several corridors, past a security guard, and through a door that the girl has to swipe her card to unlock. “First, I’ll show you your room.” We follow her past a nurses’ station with a ratty fake Christmas tree in front of it and down a wide hallway of patient rooms with half-opened doors I don’t bother looking into. We turn into 44.
It’s a basic hospital room. Bare. A curtainless window overlooking another building. A bed with sheets. A chair. A sink. A bathroom. No pictures on the walls. The only mark of human life is the piece of paper stuck to the cupboard door with rules that the girl puts her finger to and starts to read off, though I get only bits of it—no music, no phone calls, no visitors past eight.
The girl—I can’t remember her name—unlocks the cupboard and starts to lay out the contents of my plastic bag. “Everything is locked up, Melissa. I know it seems harsh, but due to the nature of your admission, it’s important that we help you keep safe. If you need something, you just let me know.” She continues to lay out the rest of the contents—my hairbrush, face cream … She arranges the articles in a long, tidy row, lining the edges up so perfectly you could lay a ruler down.
Even my tampons? What am I going to do, hang myself with the tampon string? Or maybe plug it down my throat? I think this but don’t say it aloud, because I just don’t have the energy to argue. And in a way, I just don’t care. They can do whatever the fuck they want with me. I just don’t care.
“Okay, you’ll need to shower now.” She turns to my mom, who’s been uncommonly silent this whole time. “And while she’s doing that, maybe you could fill out some paperwork for us? Just basic info, but we do need a list of immediate family members’ numbers that Melissa’s allowed to call.” She turns back to me. “All your calls will be monitored. Someone will be holding another phone to listen in to make sure you’re staying safe. It’s just our policy.”
Whatever. I just head toward the washroom like she’s telling me to do.