Depression, friendship, accidents and emergency.

prettydiferent (30)in #blog • 6 years ago

Based on a true story.

18/03/18
(Over Whatsapp)
Patrick: I'm losing myself
Me: No answer

20/03/18
(over whatsapp)
Me: so what do you think about?
Patrick : Pain, suicide, death.

20-23/03/18
....a series of emotional conversations

2:30pm
23/03/18
I knew he didn't want to be here. Neither did I. We both knew. But we kept quiet, holding on to the sweet silence, letting it comfort us. After endless chats and phone calls, I had finally convinced Patrick to see a psychiatrist. Even though I wasn't certain if he really suffered from depression, I'd panicked when he let me in on his story. It was filled with pain, addiction and sexual escapades. For fun, I'd shown him a document containing all the signs that a person might be depressed and asked him to tick off anyone that he could relate to. He'd ticked all. It was no longer fun. I knew he needed help.

At some point, it becomes impossible for man to help himself. This is a bitter truth and we all despise it.

3:30pm
23/03/18
Theres a certain smell that your clothes assume when they've been freshly washed and dried but haven't received enough sunlight. It reminds you that although your cloth is clean, it's not that clean. This Hospital smelt that way. It makes a healthy man sick and a sick man, healthy.

I took Patrick to the Medical-Out-Patients clinic and hoped to meet a friendly, familiar face.The nurse on seat reminded me of Shrek; tall, and huge with a funny skin color . I spoke in my softest voice and explained to her that I had a friend with me who would love to speak to a psychiatrist regarding a case of depression.
Her countenance changed immediately. I like to believe that she found me charming. But I know it was pity. Nothing but pity radiated from her skin as she looked over at Patrick. He looked lost, uninterested and didn't even bother returning the gesture when she smiled at him.
We were directed to a psychiatrist who, turned out to be a family friend of Patrick. He was very professional however and ushered us into an empty consulting room for privacy. He asked Patrick twice if he wanted me around while telling his story and he looked shocked, when Patrick nodded, twice.
Patrick and I are not related; at least not by blood. We do not have a romantic relationship;at least for now. What exists between us is simply friendship resting on a foundation of pure love; at least that's what I'd like to tell you.
The psychiatrist listened to him relate embarrassing incidences of his life for 5 minutes and concluded that he was indeed depressed. He begged off the case for two reasons. One, it was past office hours. Two, he was familiar with 'the patient'. He pleaded we go to the 'accidents and emergency' ward so that the psychiatrist 'on call' could take a proper history. He assured Patrick that he was right to have come and he would get the help he needed.
Meanwhile Patrick had become extremely chirpy; smiling unnecessarily and reassuring us that he was fine and just wanted to go home.

In the history of chirpiness, over chirpiness is always an indication of something bad on the side of the chirpyee.

I knew his feet had gone cold and he wanted to bolt. I didn't blame him. It was getting too serious. We were starting to feel like real adults facing real problems and taking real steps towards solving it.
5 minutes later we were at the accident and emergencies ward. We filled out the required forms, related our tale of depression and gobbled down the sympathies the nurses offered. I should talk about the other young man who was brought in for what looked a lot like schizophrenia, but I can't bring myself to.
The nurses were nice. Sit they said. Wait they said. For how long... They never said.
For a miracle, a blessing or a solution.... Waiting is the hardest part!

4:30pm
23/03/18
The benches for 'visitors' were long, hard and uncomfortable. There were only three benches;on the first bench, Patrick took a spot beside the young man from the reception and I tried hard not to see any similarities, after all how much did schizophrenia and depression have in common?
On the second bench, a fat woman sprawled across it's length in a deep sleep very similar to a coma. She didn't stir. Not when the pregnant woman with contractions rendered shriekish freakish screams. Not when the nurses yelled at an offending visitor. Not when the FRSC van screeched to a halt in front of the entrance bearing a bloodied man. She didn't stir. Not once. Not ever. I occupied the last bench alongside a nursing mother, who was worried about her child's tender arm.
I immediately began to type up a blog post on my phone.I was writing about my first day in prison and I closed my eyes trying to remember the color of dress I'd worn that day. Anything was better than waiting.
The nurses raced to and fro the room of the pregnant woman. She had stopped screaming. A cleaner hurried away with a bowl of clear fluid. Another with a bowl of blood. Something was wrong. They looked sad. I never heard her scream again. Maybe she died. Maybe she fell asleep. I'll never know.
The woman on the second bench slept on. I typed on. Patrick cast an impatient look at me. I ignored him.
We are all objects of horror. Some of us , however, are better pretenders.

5:30pm
23/03/18
We'd been waiting for almost 3 hours. My phone was dead. All I could think of was the blog post that I hadn't completed. I always feel indebted to my readers and an incomplete blog post and no battery wasn't helping. I had a book, I always have a book. So I took it out and began to read. It was the story of a notorious cannibal, Dr Hannibal Lecter. It made me nauseous so I closed the book. I looked over at Patrick, he wasn't doing any better. He had begun to twist his hair with his fingers, locking them into some kind of make shift dreads.
I went over to the counter, smiled at the female doctor standing and asked once again when the psychiatrist would arrive. She was friendly. She reminded me of Dora the explorer; short and wide eyed with an awkward weave on her head. She called Patrick and started to talk to him.
How was he feeling? What does he do? Does he have a girlfriend? What does he do for fun? She placed a hand on his arm and laughed a little too loud when he murmured his answers.
Was she doing her job? Or was she flirting with him? Was I jealous?
Patrick smiled at her, answered all questions politely, but after a few minutes, excused himyself and began to to pace.

Waiting is the hardest...

6:30pm
23/03/18
Patrick couldn't take it anymore. Dora had clearly failed at keeping him calm. He wanted out and he wanted out now! He paced the length of the waiting area and when that became too small, he went out the door and began to pace outside, facing the incoming traffic of broken bones and wounded men. I hurried out to meet him, placed a gentle palm on his shoulder and said softly "She'll be here any minute from now". He turned cold at my touch and replied stiffly "That's what you said 4 hours ago".
"I know, Patrick. But we've come this far already, we might as well wait 30 more minutes" I pleaded, desperation creeping into my voice.
"I'm sorry, I can't wait anymore ". He turned away and was beginning to walk away when Dora, breathless from running , pointed at us and said to the woman, obviously the psychiatrist, beside her "There they are!".
Things happened quickly. She apologized for taking so long. Who was the patient? Was he a student? Was I his sister? When did I start suspecting that he was depressed? What time does he sleep at night? Has he ever contemplated or attempted suicide?
She concluded quickly. He was definitely depressed. It was moderate but might escalate into severe depression. She would pay attention to his insomnia. His body needed sleep. She would recommend some drugs.
She gave information quickly . It wasn't an emergency. She only deals with emergencies. They wouldn't admit him. Protocols are important. We should report to the 'General Outpatients' Monday morning. The psychiatrist on duty would take a proper history. She would give us a note to give the nurses.
She scribbled quickly. On one paper, a note to the nurses at the General outpatients. On the other, a prescription to be taken to the pharmacy for his insomnia. She gave Patrick the papers, smiled deeply and said "please come back on Monday ".
He nodded. I nodded.

7:30pm
23/03/18
I knew he wasn't coming back. We both knew. But we said nothing, holding on to sweet silence and letting it comfort us. We walked farther away from the entrance, passing by anxious family members; weary mothers holding on to their frightened children and disturbed fathers trying their best to look calm. I turned to look at Patrick, that was the darkest I'd ever seen him, his skin seemed to have lost every bit of shine and looked dry. Or dead. Or both. When we got to the main gate, he turned to me and said "let's make a deal"
"what deal? " I said without taking my eyes off his.
"if I don't feel better in one month, I'd come back for the appointment "
He was lying through his teeth. He was never going to admit to me that he wasn't better. He was never coming back to this hospital; at least not for this reason. But I smiled and nodded, respecting his decision to lie for my peace of mind.We walked on in silence and I held on to the lie, letting it comfort me.
At some point, our help is no longer helpful and we have to resign to the universe to do with them as it pleases. This is a bitter truth and we all despise it.