Tackling The Mental Health Minefield Part 2 - The Admission Process

(This post continues the story from "Tackling The Mental Health Minefield Part 1 - The A&E Fiasco)

The ward that I was being admitted on to was situated on the first floor of the hospital. The nice man from the ambulance rang the buzzer at the entrance to the ward and because I was expected it took only a moment for a nurse to come and open the door. I said goodbye to the man from the ambulance, the door click closed and I found myself in a short corridor between two electronically-controlled doors being shown into a room on the left.

It was at this point that I entered virgin territory. I've been in A&E departments before, I've ridden in an ambulance before, and I've been admitted to hospital before. In fact, I actually managed all three one day in 2005 when I collapsed at work, an ambulance was called to transport me to hospital, I spent several hours in A&E writhing in agony while they managed to find painkilling medication strong enough to deal with the pain I was in, and then I was admitted for emergency surgery. However, even though I had been in several different hospitals, I had never been admitted to a mental hospital before.

I am an short (5 feet 3 inches on a good day), middle-aged (well 55 is middle-aged if you intend to live to be 110) lady, who is a bit overweight (it's the tablets that have done it, honestly), who doesn't speak any foreign languages (although I can understand what is written or said in quite a number of them), is white, London born and bred, who has travelled the world extensively but has lived her entire life in this country (always south of the Wash), and who was severely depressed, hadn't had anything to eat or drink for hours, who was emotionally drained and really just wanted to curl up in the corner and die. The nurse who was carrying out the initial admission procedure was male, more than 6 feet tall, built like a brick sh*thouse, black, from Africa and with an accent so strong that it was almost impossible for me to understand what he was saying to me.

I was submitted to an interrogation, the technique of which the KGB would have admired. I should remind you that I was being admitted voluntarily, there was never any suggestion that I needed to be 'sectioned' but you would have thought that I had stolen the Crown Jewels and then run amok slaying the Royal Family to judge by the manner of the nurse admitting me.

All the relevant personal information had been faxed through to the ward so there was no need for me to go through all that again (they also had faxed copies of all the stuff that my GP had given me when he referred me to the first hospital). So the admission process started by me being told to empty the contents of all my pockets onto the table in front of me. This didn't amount to much; just a few screwed up tissues and a safety pin (no, I don't know why I had a safety pin in my pocket either). I was then told that I could put the tissues back into my pocket, but the safety pin was confiscated. Then I had to empty out the contents of my handbag and the other bag that I had with me. I started with the other bag (it's a cloth bag that I bought in the Natural History Museum and which I invariably carry with me all the time) which contained a waterproof jacket (it had looked like rain when I had left home that morning) and a book. these were deemed to be 'safe' objects so I was allowed to put them back into the bag and keep them.

I'm afraid that I am a typical woman and my handbag contained lots of stuff. I should explain that I am a firm fan of Kipling bags, I love the fact that they are so hard wearing and that they have lots of compartments in them so that you don't end up having to rake around in the bottom of your bag looking for whatever it is that you want. I am quite methodical about where I put everything in this bag so I can always find what I want in a matter of seconds, but I was required to take everything out of every compartment and place it all on the table. Then I had to hand over the bag so that it could be inspected to make sure that I wasn't trying to hide anything. This was when I completely lost my sense of humour, which wasn't particularly good anyway. Each item was lifted from the table in turn and I had to explain what it was and why I had it in my handbag. The purse and the credit card wallet were fairly easy to explain, but I was only allowed to retain the purse (with the money that was in it). My tiny filofax with its attached pen was considered safe, so that also went back into my handbag. There followed my two Oyster cards (safe), my house keys (safe), my cigarettes (safe), my lighter (confiscated), a USB stick (safe), my digital camera which I always have in my handbag because you never know when a photo opportunity might arise (confiscated), my mobile phone which like most mobile phones also functions as a camera (safe), some of my daily medication (confiscated), two biros (safe), a lip salve (considered safe after some hesitation), my library card (safe), the tear off parts of two prescriptions which show what repeat medication that I am on (safe), a Waterstone's gift card (a birthday present from Mr Smiley) (safe), The remains of the tickets for Les Miserables and Phantom of the Opera (safe), a mini A-Z atlas of London (safe), my driving licence (confiscated), my building society account book (confiscated), and a GTN spray which I have been told that I must always have about my person (confiscated). For those not in the know, the GTN spray is for use when someone has an angina attack and as I have an unusual form of unstable angina that can occur at anytime (even when I am lying down or asleep) it is quite important that the spray is readily to hand. This completed the examination of the contents of my handbag; the safe items I was allowed to put back into the bag, the confiscated items were listed on a form which I then had to sign.

Then next form to be filled in was one listing the clothes that I had with me. Bearing in mind that all I had was what I was actually wearing, this was a little academic. But the form was duly filled in and again I had to sign it. This finished the preliminaries, so picking up my handbag and my other bag containing my jacket and a book, I accompanied the nurse from the room and went out into the short corridor and was then taken through the second electronically controlled door and into the ward proper.

At this point the nurse actually introduced himself (I have to be honest and say that I have no recollection of his name and I can't even read it on the discharge papers that I have which give details of my progress through the hospital. Then he pointed out the TV Room and the dining area before taking me to a room labelled 'clinic'. this turned out to be a room with medicine cabinets along one wall and a variety of medical equipment dotted around. My height was measured, my weight recorded, my blood pressure taken, a test for blood sugar done, and then I was handed one of those grey pressed cardboard receptacles that you get given in hospital and asked to provide a sample. As I hadn't had anything to drink for about nine hours this proved to be a bit of a problem, but with use of a running tap I eventually managed it and somewhat belligerently handed it over.

I was then taken down the corridor and shown to a room that was to be my home for the next eight days.

The whole experience was disturbing and somewhat frightening considering the fragile state that I was in. At no point was anything done to put me at my ease, or to explain what was happening. I don't think I could have been treated more unsympathetically if I had stolen the Crown Jewels and murdered the Royal Family and was going through the detention procedure at a police station with a crusty old custody sergeant.

To be continued.

How To Deal With Meeting A Person With Depression

It is a sad fact of life but the majority of people in this country feel very uncomfortable about the subject of mental illness. What makes it worse is that a significant proportion of the population are likely to suffer from the most common form of mental illness, depression, at some point in their lives, yet that particular illness still carries a serious stigma with it.

The problem for the sufferer of depression is that it can be a very debilitating illness, but to the majority of non-sufferers that you meet you show no signs of having anything wrong with you. There are no tell-tale spots or rash, you have no stitches, bandages or plaster cast, and you don't require sticks, crutches, or a walking frame to get around. You can be, however, very seriously ill indeed and yet there are no outward signs that would be obvious to those that you meet. So short of carrying a bell or clapper like the lepers of long ago, or wearing a notice around your neck proclaiming "I have depression; treat me carefully" most people would not realise that there is anything wrong with your health.

I don't know how depression manifests itself in other people, I can only describe what I feel, but my depression is not only something that affects the way that I feel about things, it also has some very definite symptoms that I feel physically. When it is at its worst, depression makes me feel as though my head and body are not connected to each other. My body feels numb, like the numbness that you feel in your lip after having an injection at the dentist's, and my head has a woolly feeling with a tendency to feel very light-headed as though I have drunk alcohol on an empty stomach. All of this is combined with an overwhelming desire to cry, though I have no idea what I am crying about, it is just something that I have to do.

So these are the physical symptoms that I feel, which in themselves may not seem like much, but are nonetheless capable of lowering my mental state to a level even lower than it is already. I find it impossible to concentrate; reading becomes something that is unbelievably difficult. I have always loved reading, and half an hour with a good book before I lay down to sleep was the perfect end to the day. Now I find that I have to read the same page repeatedly to stand any chance of understanding what I have read. I have always been shy, but depression makes it incredibly difficult to interact with people that I do not know. Social functions become trials that can cause anxiety to build up days in advance, and small talk something to be avoided because you are likely to become tongue-tied while attempting to have the simplest conversation.

When somebody asks you "How are you?" you answer automatically "Fine" although you aren't really. You answer like this because you know that they really don't want to know that it took a monumental effort to get out of bed, that getting yourself to this stage in the day has been a war against irrational feelings, and that if they ask you anything else you are likely to burst into tears. You hate it when they say "Smile, things could be worse" when you know that there is nothing that could make you feel worse than you do at that particular moment and and smiling is the last thing on your mind because you are finding it almost impossible to just exist. If you were to answer the "How are you?" question truthfully, the questioner would become embarrassed and not know how to further the conversation because they would find it difficult to deal with someone with a mental illness.

Mental illness is something that happens to people. They don't ask for it, and they most certainly would prefer not to have it. Unfortunately, while the medical profession has made incredible advances in the treatment of many of the diseases and injuries that affect us physically, diseases of the brain are not so easy to treat. While we are very similar physically, we are all unique mentally; that is what makes it so difficult to 'cure' mental illnesses.

The next time that you meet someone who suffers from depression, please remember that they are a human being just like you, they don't want to feel the way that they do, and that you can't catch what they have got through contact with them. But most of all, remember that they don't like being stigmatized because they have a mental illness. Remember that; because at some time in the future the person with depression could be you.