'The Postern Of Fate is but your own front door'

" In Mundi Per Fumus et Ignus "
( the world by smoke and fire, consumed )

Part III of III

From the days of having worked the night shift in a locked Adult, Intensive Care Unit, of a private Psychiatric Hospital, now, some thirty years ago. [ from the cycle: "Various Songs and Sorrows", originally written, 2007 ]

Whenever my writing caused a pause in the proceedings, he would idly glance around at his new environment, or, look up at some brief distraction from the Day Room television set which was NEVER turned off.

Then, we arrived at the part of the admission that was the usual killer, to wit: that under the Baker Act Law, he would be with us yet a little while until vetted-out by a Shrink, and other Augers.

This was the beginning of the bottom line, during which many ‘clients' decided that they would rather just brush from their clothes the dust from their adventures, and go home; depending upon how wild and wooly they were, sometimes, the palace guards had to be called out. And if the hapless admission became violent, or was violent upon arrival, en masse, the palace guards and I would have to show them to much lesser grades of accommodation, namely our ‘seclusion rooms'(small, dismal cells that smelled of sweat and urine, and painted pink and yellow, and blue {colors shown in studies known to be relaxing!}, whose only furniture was a plastic-covered mattress on the floor.

And should seclusion prove to be ineffective, we also had two rooms with beds, with mattresses upon them. These were called the restraint rooms; and sometimes an admission-still out of control, or, as we liked to say in the medical profession, "Bat-shit Crazy"-would find themselves there, usually after a tumultuous struggle that left all of us sweating, and gasping for breath.

And, I must admit, to all my sorrow and regret, although I absolutely hated having an admission go sour, one or two of my so-called colleagues, I believe actually ‘got off' on the physical roughness, and the adrenaline, and testosterone issuance of power and will against some clients who were blameless in their suffering, and for their madness.

I would much rather try to appeal to whatever self-control the patient still had, by being completely non-threatening, soft of voice, and slow of movement so as to not startle already startled, and blown-to-hell-and-back clients.

But on more than one occasion, I did find myself squarely between patient and staff member, to prevent a provoked dog-fight.

If I happened to work with a great tech, and a great nurse, I would tell the nurse calmly that, while Mr. or Ms. So-and-so had signed all the paperwork, they had decided to not remain with us. This gave the nurse time to get injections ready, while the guards casually assembled behind us.

And this kid was a wild-card, an enigma, a puzzle, still orbiting Jupiter, and very, very, very unpredictable. Scary. And a walking, psychiatric time bomb.

I still had to be careful with my words.

"Whatever you did," I said to him, "before your arrival here was merely prologue; it now not need be anything else."

"But, if you try to take the Unit apart, you will fail, as surely you must fail. And...should you keep it up, Charley, odds are that you will take the ‘Express Choo-choo' to that ‘Land Of The Wicki-wacky', known-otherwise-as the State Hospital. Where, incidentally, everything you've ever heard is completely true."

"It's the stuff you don't know, and cannot imagine that should scare you shitless. Rather that, or go to jail, and be as ‘prison candy'. Need I go into details?"

He merely gazed unwaveringly at me, but said not a word.

But I had seen many a gaze of fear, desperation, terror, psychotic reveries of singing, dancing with one foot in another dimension; those who just might come back, and all too many who were truly lost, gone, bye-byes, and would never come back to earth, again. Ever.

For the jagged bell curve of ‘crazy', begins with an itch, until it is gathered in a scream; at that point, the screaming will never stop...for some.

"Besides", I said, "despite appearances, you are really one, lucky, little bastard. First, you are blessedly underage, so voila, no record."

"Second, if you EVER want to actually leave this hole, marry your high-school sweetheart, have a couple of healthy kiddies (God be praised), have a nice house, with a nice job, and maybe, even a new station wagon in the garage, and you are even remotely amenable to advice, your bet is to cool your jets, sign the papers, relax, think about your experience, and, forever-in future-stay the hell away from whatever it was you took. Become polite, invisible."

"When medication times are announced, don't wait to be prodded, or, a'hem, coerced. Follow the house rules, however stupid, or, requests by the Staff, however inane."

"Believe it or not, there ARE a few, caring persons employed here. If you need to talk, seek them out. There is nothing that we have not already heard before; if something's bothering you...come to us."

"So...what's it gonna be?" as he signed the last of the admission papers. Maybe a minute ensued, which crawled at an interminable slowness, almost as if trapped in liquid amber. This was the ‘make-or-break' moment, that invariably sent waves of tension up my spine.

Much more important than the ‘Fate Of Nations, And Of Men', were the thoughts of this seventeen year old boy, whose path in life suddenly branched into a ‘Y' of decision, for whether he was capable of knowing it or not, this, one decision would affect the outcome of his entire life.

More interminable seconds passed, each, a jabbing pain, and each, a reminder that, for good or bad, fair or foul, we were both, and all present now headed to the field, or to the wall, upon a decision made by this one, young man How often in life, do we ever wield near as much power?

"Well, Sir," he said..."if its alright with you, I'd just really like to go to bed now."

Sons Of The Prophet. The night seemed over-long...hell, all of them were. I felt a thousand years old, already groaning as I stood up (and I was twenty-four at the time). I had half-smoked too many cigarettes (you could smoke inside, then), and had had entirely too much nasty coffee. My adrenalin rush-unnecessary, now, and my fatigue-had yet given me a case of early morning chills and thrills, a sick stomach, and a sheen of perspiration across my forehead.

Having been presented with two options, two...doors from which to choose, luckily, he choose the right one...for now.

My co-workers and I stared at each other like "Chipper", the old RCA dog. The boy stopped at the nurse's station for a couple of pills, thanking the nurse.

After having said good-night, re retired to bed, as whatever monstrous high he had been on dissipated, to fall asleep instantly and completely; funny, but in the almost twenty-three years I worked in psych., and in health-care, mostly at nights, it was the kind of sleep I could never find, nor be given, nor purchase at any price. Ever. Period. Shit.

You know, he never, ever gave us a moment's problem. In time, the attending Psychiatrist determined ‘unknown drugs of unspecified amount' as probable cause.

And without demonstrating the need for further treatment or confinement, he was duly discharged, and returned to-it is so achingly hoped for-a better, finer life, and we never saw him again. But...what the hell do I know?

Only that, on rare occasions, the Fates and the Furies becalm the troubled waters, and settle the violent and unruly storm. That night, they were kind to us.

That kid was one, lucky bastard. As indeed, we all were.

End

I am so very grateful to you, my very, dearest friends, and kind, supportive constant readers. Please always know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc'