Mixed Nuts

This entry grew out of a comment I posted on The West Virginia Surf Report. If you’re not a surf reporter yet, you should be.

Mental hospitals.

Oh, I have stories.

My Mom was a psychiatric nurse and for a time she worked at a mental hospital that took only geriatric patients.

When I was 16 or 17 she was working on Easter Sunday. The weather had been warm and stormy, and there were Tornado watches all over the place. Dad made the traditional Easter feast and after dinner he packed a cooler with all kinds of goodies and sent me over to the hospital to deliver it to her. It was the first time I had been asked to take something to the hospital. So I walked in and checked with the security guards in the lobby. They directed me to the elevators and up I went to the 5th floor.

It was a locked down floor, so when I stepped off the elevator I found myself in a locked lobby with wire mesh embedded glass all around. The long wall directly in front of the elevators looked into the day room where the TV’s, chairs, checker boards and such were. The wall to the right was the outside wall and the wall to the left had the door and looked towards the nurses’ station.

Because of the Tornado watches all the patients were required to be in the day room all day. That way they could be evacuated in the event of an emergency. Unfortunately it also meant that they were all confined in a room together all day, stirring one another up. I know that al least one or two of them were upset because the balloons in the parade that was on the televisions had been talking to them.

Mom saw me when I got off the elevator and let me onto the floor. Her patients also saw me and started pouring out of the day room at a shuffle to check out the new face. By the time I set the cooler on the desk at the nurses station there was a herd of a dozen or so patients coming towards me. It reminded me a little of those zombie movies where they all shamble around glassy eyed and slightly unfocused in a dense pack, looking for brains to eat. It’s also worth noting that people who have been on strong psychotropic drugs for a long time develop tremors. And they’re not little tremors like the way your hand’s shake after you narrowly avoid a bad car wreck. No, their hands shake like they’re strumming invisible guitars.

So here come the whackos, a-shufflin’ and a-strummin’ led by a little black lady in a brown floral print house dress. She was about 5 feet tall and somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 Lbs. She smiled and the first thing that I noticed was that her 4 front teeth were missing. She was smiling at me with pretty much just her fangs. As she smiled, strummed and shuffled she said something that I couldn’t make out and then started LIFTING UP HER DRESS!

Mom gets between me and them and starts backing me down the hall to the elevator lobby, explaining that the old lady isn’t really trying to expose herself, she’s just really proud of her gallbladder scar. I didn’t know where to look or what to do. Mom got the lobby door unlocked, shoved me through and I went home a little shaken and a lot wiser.

Story number 2.

This story, like the previous one, I swear is absolutely true.

A few months later it was summer break. Trips to the hospital were fairly common. My brother and I were hanging out at home when Mom called and asked me to bring something, probably a book, to the hospital that she’d forgotten.

At 18 I was in great shape, but I’m not a big guy. I was maybe 5'7" and 150 Lbs. My brother at 14 hadn’t made 5’ yet and was less than 100 Lbs (He grew in college). Mom was a small lady too, and at that time maybe 5’5” and 110 Lbs. She was darn tough, but again, not a large woman. This will be important later.

So we jumped into the car and headed over. This time the security people wouldn’t let us up on the floor, which meant Mom had to come down to lobby to meet us.

When she arrived she had company. One of her patients was with her. This patient, let’s call her Jane Jones, was a tall black woman, close to 6’ and looked to be pretty healthy. This lady was one of Mom’s favorites. She often thought she was either God, the Devil, or (and I absolutely swear this is true) Ginger Rogers. When she was tap dancing down the halls Mom used to dance right along with her.

Even medicated, people with serious mental illnesses sometimes are not able to manage their illness and have “episodes”. That day she was with Mom because she was on a one on one watch and could not be left alone because she might harm herself or someone else. Such was the case with Jane.

Anyway, when Mom arrived she waved us over and introduced her patient. We had met patients before and knew the drill. Mom raised us to be polite we were expected to behave towards her patients as we would to any of her friends. Here’s how the conversation went this time:

Mom: “Jane, these are my sons, Jorge and Juan. Boys, this is Ms. Jones.”

Juan: “Hi, how are you?”

Me: (Offering to shake hands) “Hi Ms. Jones, nice to meet you.”

Ms. Jones: “I ain’t Jones, I’m God!”

Me: ”.......”

We had left the book on the security counter and walked over to get it. As we turned back towards them I heard Ms. Jones demand a cigarette from Mom. Mom told her no and was right in front of her when she said it. She said no because Mom’s floor was a behavior modification unit which tried to use positive and negative reinforcement to help patients learn to manage their behavior. Since Ms. Jones had been bad, she wasn’t allowed cigarettes, and Mom told her so. That’s when this very big, very crazy lady raised her right fist over her head and said “Give me a M@&^$*F&$IN’ cigarette.

I looked back at the security guards as they started practicing their “I didn’t see anything” faces. When I turned back around Mom is in this lady’s face, looking up and calmly but firmly explaining why there would be no cigarettes for Ms. Jones, and Ms. Jones still has her fist raised.

Now I know Mom has finally snapped and is about to get herself killed. I’m looking at my little brother and I know he’s not going to be a help because he’s no bigger than most 10 year olds. So when Jane blasts my Mom I’m gonna have to step in.

Mom had often told stories about patients sending three or 4 people to the ER at the same time when they get rough with the staff and need to be restrained. I had 3 things going through my mind:

1. Give her the damn cigarette!

2. I am about to get my ass beat by an old lady.

3. After I get out of the hospital how am I going to explain to a Judge what I’m doing getting into fights with mental patients?

Right at that moment I saw my first miracle. Mom backed her down! Jane said ok and was quiet as a lamb after that. Wow. I was shocked and grateful that whatever crazy she had going on wasn’t quite crazy enough to start smacking my Mom around that day.

Mom took her book and Ms. Jones and went back upstairs. I went home with my brother and a new story to tell.

Any interest in reading an more of these? What about you? Any encounters with the unbalanced that you’d care to relate?