My Christmas On a Psych Unit
By: Martha Manning
Tags: Depression, Family, Psychiatry, Christmas, Mental Illness

My Christmas On a Psych Unit

Unexpected tidings of comfort and joy

Photo by Alisa Anton on Unsplash

Who cares?

The prospect of spending a horrible Christmas, locked in on a psychiatric unit, was one of the low points of my life. For weeks, the day room was festooned with cheesy decorations and a sorry pink aluminum tree. All of our “activity” therapies revolved around the holidays. We baked and decorated cookies. We fashioned quick-drying clay into ornaments that turned out to be too heavy for the tree. Crappy Christmas carols were background torture. It was hard to get pissed off at the staff because they were making the best with what they had.

Because of my severe depression and ECT treatments, I only felt it all through a haze. After all, Santa wasn’t going to unlock the unit and leave of box of mental health for me. The day would be no different, or perhaps even worse than the past and probably the future.

The difference was that my husband, daughter and sister were driving from Virginia to New York, so that they could “celebrate” with me for several hours, before turning around and heading right back. I was dying to see them, and at the same time, I didn’t want them to come. I felt surgically separated from my dear family and the ache never healed. But I felt guilty for their effort, the long trip, the forced cheer at seeing a loved one who still had to be reminded to comb her hair.

The visit

They arrived at the beginning of visiting hours, spilling over with elaborately wrapped gifts and tiny decorations. I could tell that they were determined to give me happiness. They were determined to erase, even temporarily, the dark, separateness and the many miles that kept us apart. Each gift was a burden. I commanded myself: Admire the wrapping. Undo the ribbons. Dig your way through the tissue paper. Lift out the gift. Smile. Say “Oh Wow,” “I love it,” “Oh, it’s just what I wanted!” Thank them. Thank them a lot. Move on to the next gift. Do it again.

I departed from the typical response to getting gifts by crying and clinging to the hands that had given the gift. For two hours, they took turns cheerleading, telling funny stories, making fun of family members who weren’t there, and assuring me that I was “so much better.” My husband was sturdy and optimistic. My sister was fairly positive as well. But my daughter… My daughter leaned on my shoulder. She smoothed my clothes. She rubbed one of the gifts of body lotion on my hands. When I cried, she solemnly reminded me not to.

“Mama… don’t be sad. It’s Christmas.”

All around the unit there were families with presents and food, and stories and encouragement. The laughter came only from the visitors. As our allotted time wound down, the room became quieter. We all faced the impending departure — and the recognition that our loved ones would be taking the magic with them. My loves collected the wrapping. They packed up the gifts to take home. They held me while I sobbed. They told me it would be all right, that I would get better and I’d come home. Home. My real home.

Somewhere…

Photo by James Lee on Unsplash

They passed through the heavy gray door with the tiny window at eye level. As I watched them walk down the long hall, turning now and then with cheerful waves, I hiccuped my tears and wiped my runny nose. I imagined the tears they would release once they reached the car.

Hector, a psychiatric aide, leaned into me. In his New York, Dominican accent, he sang slow and soft like velvet into my ear,

“Somewhere over the rainbow…

way up high high…

there’s a land that I heard of someday in a lullaby…”

“ Hector, ” I cried. For the first time in months, I felt the tears falling— but not because of sorrow. Because I was moved. Someone had gotten through. I felt something important, something other than pain. I looked at him expectantly, so he’d continue. There was no tacky day room, no clanging sets of keys. There was no ECT in the morning. This was just a moment that took me way way back in my life. That sang to a yearning I needed to recover and the faith that could fulfill it.

“Sorry, Dr. lady,” (his nickname for me), that’s all I know,” he laughed. “Plus,” he stuck out his chest, “Hector has a reputation to keep…But it was good, Huh?”

Oh Hector, it was golden. It was magic. It was comfort. And as much as I could manage, it was a moment of pure, unexpected joy.