Impact

Today was a good day until about 10:00 pm. That was when the sobbing and screaming began. At first, I didn't think much of it; as strange as it seems, this is commonplace in a hospital like mine. But as I was putting away paperwork, about to start my break, I could hear the nurses talking frantically about rearranging everyone. I told one of them I was going on break, and offered to postpone, and she gasped in relief and shipped me off to sit the the new “unofficial AL” girl.

“AL” means arms-legnth. It is for patients who are high, high risk for hurting themselves. She was unofficial because a doctor hadn't ordered it. I realized with a shock it was a girl who had been on my group that evening, and wondered what on earth she could have done in the hours since bedtime to demand such care.

I walked in the door, and a nurse was sitting cross-legged on the floor across from the girl, who I'll call Erica. Erica was trembling visibly, eyes red. The nurse looked quite relieved when I came in. Erica offered me a wan smile, and I returned to her a genuine one. I sat in the same position as the nurse, and asked her what was going on.

“I did a bad thing,” she said flatly.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I thought I had 15 minutes.”

“15 minutes to do what?”

“I tried to strangle myself. But Miss Cheryl walked in!! I thought I had a whole 15 minutes!”

I was shocked, but I didn't say so. Erica had been hiding under the desk when I first came in the room, but once I sat down she had joined me, and we had played cards and talked and laughed. I thought everything was as well as it could be. But I was wrong.

I didn't know what to say. What can you say to a girl only 14 years old and already determined to die, a girl who is pulled into herself, shivering from adrenaline and terror?

“Would you like to hear a story?”

A half smile, a small nod, and she buried her head in her arms and cried as I told a tale of love and patience. When it was over, she had a tiny, real smile on her face.

“How do you do that? I can't even believe I'm smiling,” she said, ducking her head, touching her face.

I just smiled, and we talked. Now that she was more settled, she was more willing to open up. She told me about how she'd been planning it all day, but how some of her plans went south. She'd wanted to be isolative all day, to make everyone annoyed by her.

“But then you were my staff, Miss Miri,” she said ruefully. “Lots of people, they come in here negative, and I can feed off of that, but you never do.”

I just laughed a little and gestured for her to continue.

She told me about her father, who had just died mere weeks before. Today was his birthday. She laughed, she cried, and I listened. We talked about God, about faith, about books and taking time to care for yourself, and she listened, and I rather hope she heard me too. I tried to give her hope. I don't know if I succeeded.

“Sometimes I just think you're all actors,” she told me, leaning back. “That this is all one big play I'm not a part of. I know it's not like that, but sometimes I wonder.”

I nodded in understanding. I told her a little of my own life, of watching my friends struggle with different mental disorders and some overcome, some, sadly, refuse to accept any help. And she listened.

And, after an hour of talking, of sharing, of tears and laughter, she sighed, stretched, and stood.

“I think I need to go to bed,” she said as shift change began and a new staff appeared at the door to watch over her.

“All right.”

“Thanks, Miss Miri,” she said quietly.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Erica. Feel better—and sleep well.”

And I left her, half-asleep on her bed, no longer trembling, a new staff at her door, and I wondered and hoped and prayed that that mere hour made a difference.