Restraints

Physical managements are never fun. They're even less fun when the patient is about two times your weight and hasn't showered in weeks. But it is a great bonding experience with your fellow staff.

I had just finished rounding off when a patient approached me and told me another patient was hurting herself l in her room. Obviously, we moved to intervene, and when she would not stop, and instead began to get violent, we had to retrain her.

It is a testament to my coworkers that none of us hesitated to help, even though all of us were women and none of us found the stench of unwashed body to be one we wanted to carry through the rest of our shift. For a solid twenty minutes, we held her as she fought and screamed and swore, desperately trying to get free to grab a hold of any sharp object she could find. I have some lovely bruises now.

After it became clear that the PRN the nurse had given to calm her down was not taking effect, she called for help, and soon staff from our other units flooded in to help. I had to step back to continue rounds (an extremely vital aspect of our job), and came upon the other patients all grouped together in one of the dayrooms, their eyes wide. They had never seen anything like that before.

“Why couldn't you just leave her alone?” one asked.

“She was hurting herself,” I answered patiently. “We couldn't let her do that.”

“Do you call the police?”

“No—we're trained to handle it,” I smiled.

A few impressed gasps.

“Miri, we had no idea you were so badass!” one blurted, and I laughed.

The laughter broke the tremulous feeling of fear in the room, and peace and smiled returned. The rest of the night flew by, and soon I was driving home.

And, of course, the minute I came home, I dumped my clothes in my laundry basket, showered twice, threw my washcloth into the laundry too, and sat down to write about it all. It's a good reminder, I think, that my job isn't all fun and games and touching moments. Sometimes, it involves strength of mind and body.

That, and a whole lotta soap.

Secrets

There are some people who would look at the group I had today and say “Man, what a bad shift.” And in some ways, it was. These girls were somewhat sneaky, passing notes, sneaking hugs, gossiping about each other and the staff, constantly asking me the same questions in a rather rude tone of voice, needing constant redirection, constant supervision. It was exhausting.

And yet.

And yet today I ran a group longer than any I ever have before; for a full two hours, we talked. We talked about secrets, about regrets, about memories. I saw girls, one-by-one, open up their souls and truly look inside. I had girls who drove me crazy the rest of the day tear up in sympathy for another's past. They identified with each other—they were honest with each other.

I had some tell us stories they'd never admitted before; others tell about secrets they once were weighted down by that only recently they had allowed to surface.

I had a few who would not share their secret, but they were quite willing to share why they kept it: fear. They were afraid as to what their parents, their friends, their family, even strangers would think if they were honest. They were afraid of being rejected, of being labeled, of being mocked.

And the devastating reality is, their fears are legitimate. These are the girls who are bullied, who are mocked, who are scorned by their own family and told they are just attempting suicide or harming themselves for attention. Their illnesses are dismissed, degraded, and rejected.

Isn't that horrible? Isn't society horrible, that this is the norm for these wonderful, difficult girls? I want to encourage them to be honest, be open, and yet I cannot bring myself to fully advise them simply because I am painfully aware of the reality that the end result may be more harm than good.

And, of course, we talked about that too.

Names

It is rare for us to have patients stay longer than a week. Usually, they stay and leave so quickly you barely have time to remember their names. Some will return days, weeks, months later, and be wounded that you don't remember them. “In the time since you've left, I've worked with hundreds of kids,” I want to tell them, but I don't. I just pretend to remember their face, not their name. And they laugh at how forgetful I am.

I wish I could remember all the kids I worked with in inpatient. I still remember the ones I cared for in residential, and I pray for them by name daily. I knew those kids, their likes and dislikes, their quirks and thoughts. In inpatient, you're lucky if you know whether they are on good terms with their parents or not (usually not).

Sometimes, the kids will write me notes or draw me pictures thanking me. Those are the ones I remember. I put them up on my cupboards and I smile every time I see them. It's a reminder to me that even though I may not remember all of their names, I have made some small difference in their lives. Those notes and pictures, they represent to me all of those who I have worked with and cared for in just a small moment of their long lives.

I know I am just one person. I know that I cannot make much of a difference in anyone's life. But I also know that I can look back in my own life, point to one person, and say “There. He is the one who changed me. He is the one who gave me hope. He is why I am who I am today.”

And maybe it's vain, but I want to be that person too.

Quick Update

Hello all! So sorry I have not posted lately; my computer has been giving me a lot of problems, and as I write the posts in advance and then publish, it's hard for me to get a post uploaded. Please hang with me a while longer, and I'll hopefully have the money to get it repaired! Thanks so much for following!