05: Hazmat
The fifth installment of the "semi-colon" series.
“semi-colon” contains a discussion of mental health struggles. It may not be appropriate for younger readers or those sensitive to candid descriptions of suicidal ideation or other depressive symptoms.
For those who have ever forgotten love.
Jonny sang louder as the sign came into view. The place Dr. Whelan referred to as “Davidson Behavioral” was officially known as “The Mindy Ellen Levine Behavioral Health Center, a Facility of Atrium Health.” The teal and white sign was set in stone, brightly illuminated, and surrounded by fall flowers. I gazed out of the dark car window at the yellow petals blowing in the cool dark air. The heat in the Durango was contained in the front cabin by the plexiglass, so Jonny and I were left in the chilly plastic seats.
I looked over at Jonny, who stopped singing as we continued down the long driveway. In front of us was a large building. It was well-lit and did not look like a hospital. The building looked more like an extended stay hotel – a giant Hampton Inn off Route 73 in Davidson Country. Dim lights illuminated what seemed to be a hundred windows.
In retrospect, it is an innocuous structure, but that evening my brain interpreted it as eerie. The silhouettes of pine trees backdropped the building. The trees wobbled beneath the bright stars as we began to slow down toward the tall porte-cochere in front of the building. I turned my head past a silent Jonny and saw my dad driving behind us.
To my surprise, we did not stop at the front of the building. We drove up a hill, the road curving toward the back of the facility. Jonny began to mumble about his wife and how pretty she was before she passed. The mumbling man next to me had not forgotten love. I felt like my depression had made love impossible and for a moment I was a little jealous of Jonny. His dialogue was a distraction from my suicidal thoughts, like my hunger.
The mumbling man next to me had not forgotten love. I felt like my depression had made love impossible and for a moment I was a little jealous of Jonny.
Kevon stopped and spoke into an intercom. In front of us, a large garage door slowly opened casting a glow into the dark night. The Durango pulled into the cave as Jonny bumped against the glass between us. The garage reminded me of the area where astronauts pause to depressurize before venturing into space. I couldn’t gaze at the moon anymore, so I looked at the seat in front of my tired eyes and out the window to the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling.
My door opened and I looked up at a tall nurse wearing an elaborate COVID protection system. His head was completely encased by something that looked like a Hazmat hood, complete with a plastic shield across his face. Under the shield, he wore a KN-95 mask. His glasses fogged over immediately as he welcomed me.
The cold outdoor air shocked me again through my dark green scrubs. The garage was silent, except for Jonny’s renewed humming. My long legs stretched out until my slippers hit the cold concrete. I felt bad for not thanking the driver. The Hazmat Nurse motioned me to walk up the stairs a few years away. On the way, he asked for my name.
“William,” I mumbled.
“I thought so,” he said with a chuckle.
“Hey, Jonny. Good to see you again,” he said to my traveling companion.
I walked a few steps, my eyes focused on the concrete and the brown leather of my slippers. When I looked up, I saw a few nurses staring blankly at their clipboards. A stout nurse asked me for my name again. Checklists and vital signs are a big thing for these folks.
“William will be going to the 2000 hall. Jonny to 3000,” a nurse said in a high-pitched voice.
“This way,” said Hazmat, motioning me to follow him. Hazmat guided me through the door as I took my last look at my friend Jonny. He was still sitting in the car singing, even though his door was open. Maybe he enjoyed the echo chamber provided by the garage.
I walked down the hallway behind Hazmat. My slippers scuffed along the tan floor. The lighting here was warmer than the hospital, and generic peaceful artwork lined the hallway. I slowly wandered behind Hazmat, looking back to my slippers. He suddenly stopped and turned to an elevator. The doors slid open immediately and I dragged my body in after him. He clicked “1” and we began to rise.
“When will I get to see my dad?” I asked bluntly in the silence of the elevator car. He had been right behind us on the drive but the decompression chamber was for official use only. I assumed he would be there to help get me checked in.
“You’ll have to talk to your hall nurse about that,” he said, avoiding the question.
I was terrified and still suicidal. I found myself hoping the elevator would drop and crash on the ground. I stopped myself – wouldn’t want Hazmat to get hurt. The doors opened and interrupted my screaming mind. He walked while I stood in the elevator.
I found myself hoping the elevator would drop and crash on the ground. I stopped myself – wouldn’t want Hazmat to get hurt.
I trudged onto the first floor, which was identical to the lower level, except somehow brighter. Hazmat led me through the hallway until I tripped over my slippers. My shaking legs struggled to keep stride but he kept walking. I think his elaborate COVID helmet kept him from hearing me stumble. Walking a little faster, I caught up as Hazmat led me down the hallway to a standard medical examination room.
I sat on the padded table atop parchment paper that crinkled with every move I made. The nurse’s headgear and disembodied voice made him both intimidating and difficult to understand, and he was competing with other voices in my head. Examining the eye chart on the wall, I was frustrated I couldn't see the smallest letters.
“Do you smoke or vape?” He broke the silence. What an opening question.
“No,” I lied. I wanted to be Hazmat’s favorite patient. I immediately wished I said yes, maybe I would be lucky to score a nicotine patch. During the fall, I had picked up a nicotine habit. It gave me a quick buzz, but also served to further suppress my appetite and make me more anxious. Another irrational decision by my depressed mind. Hazmat continued to ask me standard checkup questions and I kept lying. I had convinced myself I did not have a problem, so I did not want him to think I did. It became second nature to lie.
Hazmat finished his questions and then administered another round of vitals testing. Eventually, he retrieved a pair of tan scrubs from the cabinet and tossed them to me. Was he going to stay in the room while I changed? I had grown self-conscious about my body over the last few months. I sensed he recognized my discomfort, so he opened the wooden door and slipped behind it. He stood just behind the doorway, facing the adjacent wall. He held the door less than an inch open. I was not allowed to be left completely alone.
I was not allowed to be left completely alone.
I had become oddly comfortable in my dark green scrubs and it almost hurt to take them off. I stared at myself in the small mirror on the wall with my shirt off for a moment. I was glad I did not have anything to eat. As it had for the weeks leading up to Slippers, my body directly affected my mood. I put on my new shirt. I looked much better in the dark green. The tan scrubs made me look too pale.
Hazmat re-entered the room, this time holding a single page of paper. It contained my daily schedule and was filled with time slots for group therapy, meals, free time, and (of course) vitals. Replace therapy with classes and you were looking at a high school schedule. My eyes went to the top of the page – I would be waking up at 6 AM for the next few days. Later, I would be glad the wake-up call was set early. In the fall, sleep was always a gamble of extremes. I would either rather stay wide awake for a few days or sleep for fifteen hours straight.
“Where is my dad?” I asked again.
“You can ask your hall nurse about that. Let's go,” he sounded frustrated.
Replace therapy with classes and you were looking at a high school schedule.
I would imagine my eyes showed some annoyance with Hazmat at this point. My slippers slowly reached the tan tile floor. I followed him out the door and then through the maze back to the elevator. As the elevator closed, I thought about how proud my biggest supporter and most understanding person in my life would be of me. In a mental hospital with a man in a hazmat suit, she calmed me down enough to keep me from collapsing.
In the elevator to the second floor I noticed Hazmat’s bright yellow Reeboks. I was probably being harsh, but I silently judged him for his poor taste in footwear. I stepped onto the 2000 floor and followed his glowing shoes until we turned to the right. My eyes went back and forth between my slippers and his feet as I moped behind. After a few strides, I looked up and saw a fellow patient playing patty-cake with the wall. He was talking to himself, but so quietly I could not hear the details
I looked back down at my slippers and thought about my fear of laces, “them,” and the conversations I had with the shadows in my room on sleepless nights. I have known psychoses, I have felt the paranoia, I have lived the delusions. I think that is why I understood the man conversing with the wall. Our minds came up with other things to distract us from the sorrow. We were just fighting for control, even if we had to make it up. I felt a little better after seeing him. At least I was not the only one.
Our minds came up with other things to distract us from the sorrow. We were just fighting for control, even if we had to make it up.
The 2nd floor was like a college dorm with a much wider hallway. The lights were bright, but the tan walls twisted the fluorescence to seem a little darker. I kept my head down as we walked by the individual rooms. Hazmat was giving me a dull tour, but I did not listen. My ears were caught up in my own mind. I was missing Sunday night football, a key part of my weekly reprieve from suicidal thoughts.
My eyes scrolled back ahead and I saw the nurse’s station at the end of the hall. A semi-circle wooden counter encompassed desks, computers, and chairs a few strides away. Nurses and orderlies were sitting rather casually in the office chairs. I felt like they were all staring as we approached the desk, so I put my shoulders up and my head down. Tense shoulders were a common theme to my anxiety. A short nurse came from behind the desk. Her name tag read “Carol.” I thought about my little sister, Caroline, before she started her speech.
“You must be William. I’m Carol. The hall nurse for the night. Welcome to Davidson,” she said rather enthusiastically. Her words rang in my ears like a siren. Hazmat turned around and walked back down the hall, his atrocious footwear squeaking on the tan floor.
As I watched him walk away, I saw the phones on the wood-colored wall a few feet away. I turned back around and asked, “Where is my dad?” My question came out too loud, and maybe even a little rude.
Carol held her ground “Visiting is every Sunday morning, you can see him then,” she said.
“Can I use the phone?” I asked.
“Those open tomorrow after vitals. But once you get settled here tonight you can call your parents.”
My relief was short-lived as I looked at the telephones. “Hey Siri, call Mom” was not going to work on these relics. I realized I had absolutely no idea of my parents' phone numbers.
“Hey Siri, call Mom” was not going to work on these relics. I realized I had absolutely no idea of my parents' phone numbers.
Before I could process this, Carol pointed behind me. “This is the common room, where most patients go when they have free time. Therapy is held during the day, but at night most hang out in there,” she explained.
The room’s wall was a window from the waist-up. I looked through the glass and saw a dozen or so other patients, all in tan scrubs. The room was the size of a large classroom. Desks, chairs, and sofas covered the carpeted floor. Some people were playing cards, others chatting, and a few watching TV.
“The television isn’t working right now,” explained Carol, “I’m not sure why they are watching the black screen.”
I silently chuckled. Not because I thought this was funny, but because I had actually done the same thing on one of my sleepless nights. I looked at the blank screen for two hours and “watched” the documentary of my life. Again, I understood the people I was observing. Although sometimes unorthodox, depression led me to distraction. Whether that was drinking, smoking, or watching a black screen, a broken mind will find anything to try to stay alive.
Whether that was drinking, smoking, or watching a black screen, a broken mind will find anything to try to stay alive.
After a few seconds, the occupants of the common room started staring back at me. Some waved, some glared, some seemed indifferent. I went back to my slippers as fast as I could.
“Help yourself to a book from the shelf. It’s right by the water machine,” Carol said. “You are room 2019. You will have your evaluation in the morning. You can hang out in the common room until it’s time for lights out.”
Without letting me respond, she turned around and walked back behind the desk with the other nurses, all in dark blue scrubs. I walked a few feet to the glass door in front of me and grabbed the handle. I looked up and saw my reflection in the glass. On the other side, I saw an older woman in a wheelchair slowly waving at me. “Welcome to the house of pain!” the woman said suddenly when I opened the door. I quickly decided she and I were unlikely to become friends. The duty nurse in the common room gave her a firm glare.
The patients varied in age, but as an 18-year-old in the adult unit, I was definitely the youngest. As I walked into the room, another young patient sitting at a desk looked up at me and giggled. She was playing solitaire and doing a crossword simultaneously. At first, her blue hair caught my attention, and then I noticed her smile. She gave me a kind nod. She had been new here just a few days before. Her look was comforting and took me away from House of Pain.
It took me a second to find the water cooler, even though it was one of the main attractions of the glass room. My mind was moving in slow motion. As I filled a paper cup with water, my eyes drifted to the adjacent bookshelf. It was heavy on romance novels and self-help books, neither of which held any appeal.
On the very top shelf, a book sat by itself, its title hidden from view. If not for my height I would not have even noticed it. Without thinking, my long arm reached up. My palm came down with a small, very thick book. The pages were yellowed, the jacket was tattered, and it was covered in a thin coat of dust.
When I flipped it over I saw the title:
Lonesome Dove.
“Hazmat” is the fifth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the over two thousand members of the semi-colon community and automatically receive the next installment please subscribe:
For those struggling with their own mental health, please talk to a friend, parent, teacher, coach, family member, or anyone you know who cares about you. If you are in immediate crisis, please use the buttons below to text the Crisis Text Line or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
You continue to amaze me with you strength, your ability to describe your experience so palpably, and your courage to share your journey. Your words have moved me to tears on multiple occasions because of what you communicate so honestly. I truly admire what you are doing, William, and I am grateful that you keep taking the next step, even when or, perhaps, especially when, that step is a slipper-clad shuffle.
William, I never had the privilege to teach you in middle school. But I know and love your family. I am so moved by the honesty of your words and the incredible courage it takes to share your journey. Please accept all the love and encouragement that is coming your way.