November 10, 2011
The trip from ER to behavioral health at Huntington Hospital is through an underground tunnel. I knew the path because Gabriela had been born at Huntington and, coincidentally, the behavioral unit had previously been the maternity ward. We were taking the same underground path that I had taken over 22 years ago to deliver Gabriela.
Two guards, Gabriela in a wheelchair, and I started through the tunnel. At first Gabriela was uneasy. I assured her that all those years ago it had concerned me as much traveling the very same tunnel, but that it was much easier than trying to navigate the stairs outside.
We were taken to ward 200—geriatrics—of the Della Martin Center, which is Huntington’s Behavioral Health facility. They didn’t have a place for non-acute patients, so they combined them with the older patients who posed no threat to themselves or others, but needed psychiatric help.
Gabriela had been fairly clear thinking, she responded to all the questions posed by the nurse honestly and appropriately. She was asked if she preferred sharing a room or having her own. If she chose to have a roommate, that roommate would be Alma.
Gabriela had a very idealized version of what a roommate was on a psych ward. One of her favorite movies was “Girl Interrupted,” because she felt at one with Wynona Rider’s character, a depressed writer about Gabriela’s age.
Gabriela followed the nurse for her introduction to Alma. When they returned to the day room Gabriela had chosen to have a private room.
While the nurse stepped away to gather some papers, Gabriela whispered to me that Alma was “super old and scary looking.” She was, Gabriela said, bed bound with medium length black and white streaked hair and a long face with sad, gray eyes that peeked out from under the folds of her eyelids.
The nurse told Gabriela that Alma had been very unpleasant to the staff, spitting at them if they spoke to her, or using bad language. She hadn’t responded when she was introduced to Gabriela, but looked at Gabriela with an expressionless face. Alma was in her seventies and suffered from depression and dementia.
The nurse returned shortly and gave me a flyer with visiting hours and phone numbers to the ward, and explained what I would be allowed to bring in for Gabriela: manufacturer packaged snacks, clothing with no ties, paperback books, and personal care items such as shampoo, conditioners, soaps, etc.
She then invited both of us to help ourselves to making a sandwich, because they had already served lunch … showing us a small refrigerator with cold cuts, lettuce, tomato, bread, and little packets of mayo and mustard.
I helped Gabriela build her sandwich. She only ate a few bites, because she had just eaten a very large breakfast.
Gabriela was taking in her new surroundings. We didn’t talk much. We sat quietly next to each other, watching the patients on the ward. All the patients appeared to be women and much older than Gabriela. It was clear she wouldn’t be building any relationships here.
We tried to make small talk, which wasn’t easy given the fact that I had just brought my daughter into a psychiatric hospital.
Occasionally Gabriela held my hand and thanked me, and told me that she loved me. I knew she did, and I knew she wanted to be in this hospital. There just wasn’t a way for her to say it at that point.
Finally I had to leave, because Gabriela needed to get comfortable and meet with the doctors.
I told her I would be back to visit each day. We hugged, she was grateful. I told her I would call in the evening.
I walked through the double set of locked doors with the guard, relieved to leave my daughter in capable hands.