 |
| main tower of the old WSH |
It
was probably not something you would want to approach on a dark
stormy night. There was something about the aura of the building
complex that gave it the aspect of a Gothic horror film. It was a
huge labyrinth and resembled a prison more than a hospital. It was,
in fact, both.
In
the days of my employment there, Worcester State Hospital, a.k.a.
Worcester Insane Asylum and Worcester Lunatic Asylum, housed
thousands of patients either on voluntary or on involuntary
court-ordered commitment. Mental illness is completely impartial and
democratic. It strikes all classes, all races and all ages. Some
patients were “chronics” and it was actually their home. Others
were “acutes”, having an episode of Schizophrenia or Manic
Depression or any other not clearly diagnosed illness, who would stay
for the duration of their episodes, be treated (mostly with drugs)
and released back into the community until their next episodes. Many
“acutes”, after years of such episodes, became “chronics” and
stayed in the institution until they died.
I
don't remember clearly, but I suppose it was with some trepidation
that I started my first day on a locked ward. I was accompanied by
the second shift nurse supervisor who escorted me to the ward to
introduce me to the nurses and other aides on duty. She unlocked the
door and opened it and showed me how to work the keys and emphasized
the importance of not forgetting to lock it back up. It was at that
moment that I fully realized that this was, indeed, a kind of prison
and wondered what on earth I had gotten myself into. |
| Louise Fletcher's brilliant portrayal of Nurse Ratched |
The
door opened onto a long corridor with either doors or openings to
small ward rooms along the right and left walls where the patients
slept. There was a young man sitting on the floor unmoving and
unresponsive to a “Hello”. The corridor was painted in
nondescript institutional green and we proceeded down to the nurses
station adjacent to the day room roughly halfway down the corridor.
The head nurse, an RN (registered nurse) was a largish pleasant
matronly woman of about 50. The LPN (licensed practical nurse) under
the RN was all business, no nonsense and the real ruler of the roost.
Think Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cockoo's Nest *
without the intellectual pretensions. She was more on the mop and bucket level. She instructed me on my duties
and the rules and regulations of the ward, emphasis on the “rules
and regulations”.
 |
| Paul Cezanne - The Card Players |
The
job was basically taking care of the non-medical needs of the
patients. Aides escorted patients to off-the-ward activities such as
meetings with doctors, occupational therapy, recreation activities,
etc., interacted with them in the day room, chatting, playing cards,
etc. and, of course, supplying the muscle when a patient got violent
or otherwise out of control and had to be physically restrained. This
aspect was the part of the job I detested, but I think that certain
types of aides liked the sense of power it gave them.
And
so began my first full afternoon on the no-social-life 3 to
11pm shift—unless you consider playing pinochle with Schizophrenics and
Manic Depressives a social life. I learned that the young guy sitting
on the floor was a catatonic named Rick. Rick was still sitting there
in the same position when I got off my shift. I said: “Good night,
Rick.” No response. I unlocked the door and let it clang shut
behind me.
*
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kessey
To
be continued...
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