Anxiety

The other day, I was assigned to watch one girl. Just one.

This happens sometimes. It happens when a patient is considered a threat to themselves or others, and as such has a staff assigned to them at all times. This includes using the bathrooms, showering, changing, sleeping etc. For privacy, usually we just put a foot in the door and look the other way. I hate to say it, but these kids were used to it.

This girl was midway into adolescence. She was cheerful, bright, glowing. Technically, when they're in the Quiet Room, we are not supposed to talk to them. It's considered "too stimulating." I don't really agree with this kind of "treatment;" a lot of us don't.

So I came in, sat down, and greeted her with a smile. She beamed back. And for more than six hours straight, we talked. I told her stories, she sang me songs, we played games and talked about books and movies and hopes and fears and dreams. I learned she had grown up thinking abuse was normal; so normal that, when the staff at the hospital asked what happened to her, she said "Oh, my aunt hit me." She was surprised when they called Child Protective Services.

Of course, the entire day was not blissful. Towards the end, she began to get restless. I could hardly blame her; she had been penned up in one room all day. She began to pace, punch mattresses, mutter under her breath. A few times, I got her to smile, but she quickly returned to punching the mattress hard enough that she made contact with the boards underneath.

I wasn't really sure what to do at first; she wasn't acting out bad enough to warrant a PRN (tranquilizer of sorts), but I didn't want her to get hurt. So when she threw herself onto the cot and began repetitively hitting the sides, I sat down, glanced away, and started humming a lullaby.

Sure enough, the impacts gradually slowed to match the beat of the song, then slowed more, and finally stopped. I didn't look at her until the song was over. She smiled sleepily back.

"That was pretty."

"Thank you...sometimes I think singing helps when I'm stressed," I answered.

"Were you stressed then?"

"No, but you were. I thought maybe it would help."

"It did. You're insightful," she told me.

And I smiled and began telling her more stories, softer ones, gentle ones. The rest of the day passed peacefully, and as I watched her sleep that night, I wished that all of us could forget our anxieties in favor of a song.