Well, for the better part of this week I've been in the hospital. 3 - South to be exact, which in Mount Nittany Medical Center is the Psych ward. As I like to refer to it, I was at Crazy Camp.
It all started last Friday when I freaked out, went manic, locked myself in the bathroom and literally cut off all of my hair. One piece had been in my face all day, and when I hit that crazy point, I apparently decided to take care of it. It was all a little bit of a blur to me, but in the end my hair is the shortest it has been in years. Welcome to postpartum depression when you are bipolar!
Saturday they took me to the hospital for help. We were in the ER for over 5 hours only for them to give us a phone number to call the next time I freaked out and send us home. Some help that is... at least my angel of a son didn't cry or fuss once in the whole time we were sitting there. Johnny was amazing, and spent the evening cuddling with me when we got home. Apparently he is the only way they (Steve & Daddy) got me calmed down... again, it is all kind of blurry.
Sunday was a decently good day. We spent our time at home, relaxed, and though I was still rapid cycling, I wasn't too extreme. Monday this all changed however, and though I don't remember anything past about noon until late that night, I am told I had an "episode" that resulted in being held down and then taken back to the ER. They asked Steve a lot of questions as we sat in a safety-room that included video surveillance and tall ceilings with recessed lighting and a thick plastic window. In my many trips to the ER throughout my pregnancy, I had only seen that particular room used twice... for people in handcuffs with a policeman or two stationed outside the locked door. Thankfully they let me keep the door open and have Steve, Daddy, and Johnny in there with me. At this point I wasn't talking.
After the psych consult came down from 3 - South, they decided it would be in everyone's best interest to admit me for at least half a week. In all of my 22 years I have somehow avoided in-patient care for my crazy bipolar self, but postpartum put me over the edge. I only agreed to sign the papers if they would work out a way for me to see Johnny several times a day, and supply me with a breast pump because I refused to switch him to formula. That is, unless it was necessary because of what medication I was taking. This is when they took me up to the ward, which was very much like the one depicted in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Seriously, I think they copied the floor plan exactly from the movie.
The deal I was given was that I could see Johnny 4 times a day, as long as I agreed to be put in a room within full sight of the nurse's station so that they could keep an eye on me whenever I needed to pump. I wasn't allowed a room mate because they had to have me keep the plastic line from the bottle to the machine in my bathroom after every cleaning. As it turns out, the Medela pumps from this century are kept on the maternity ward and are too good for psych patients, so I had the old school monster that my mom was given when I was born. It hasn't been used since, I can assure you. The night nurse Kathleen was impressed they even found a package of attachments still in the closet. They locked the pump up in between uses, (which I really couldn't completely figure out since there is no conceivable way to kill yourself with it unless you somehow got a hold of the power tools necessary to open the human-proof case that housed the electric part) and I was made to go request it every so many hours. I had to put up a little sign on my room that said only women who knocked could enter. No guys allowed.
Well, those were the terms. I was checked in, and at 8pm they kicked my family out. I proceeded to bawl for several hours worried they would take my baby away from me forever, which I know fully well would be impossible since Steve would be the first to get custody over me anyway, but nonetheless freaked me out because let's face it... I was nuts!
I had sent Steve home with a list of things to bring to me such as clothing and toiletries to use for the duration of my stay -- length still to be determined by a doctor I had yet to meet. Among the items NOT allowed were the following: shoes with laces, iPods, CD players, pants with drawstrings, pretty much anything with a zipper longer than 2 1/2 inches, plastic bags of any kind, aereosol cans, (actually cans of any kind...) duffel bags, heavy-toed boots or shoes, dental floss "not even a tiny piece", makeup with mirrors or application brushes/tools, food with caffeine, and of course no alcohol, weapons, razors, drugs, etc. You would be surprised at the things they had seen used for self-harm! The trashcans had paper bags, the showers were locked except under direct supervision from 7am-8am or sometime after 9:30pm, the fire extinguishers were recessed and would themselves down from up inside the ceiling if a fire were to happen, there were no strings, chords, plugs, or a single thin lengthy thing of that nature at all, and there was not a single doorknob in the joint.
On the door of every room was a chart for the occupants that had to be signed by a nurse or counselor every 15 minutes (24/7) indicating their whereabouts. The TV in the lounge was hardwired into the wall so you couldn't even see the chords, the refrigerator was locked at night and situated directly in the line of sight for the nurse's station. The windows were about 3 inches thick, the mirrors in our bathrooms were plastic and cemented to the wall, and the "child safety scissors" etc. used during the art session were under lock and key at all times. You couldn't even access the glitter if you had a whim to make something sparkly.
Wake-up was 7:00am, breakfast at 8:00, community meeting at 9:00, group therapy at 10:30, relaxation techniques at 11:30, lunch at noon. Meditation started at 1, short break following before activities group at 2:30. At 3:30 was the self reflection group, 4:30 brought us to the second activities group of the day. Dinner was at 5:00, visiting hours were 6:00-8:00, and the evening community meeting was at 8:30. We finally stopped scheduled routine at about 9:30 and had to be in our rooms by 11:00pm. Out of the 6 patients on the ward, 5 of us were insomniacs, so that went over really well. Maximum occupancy we were told is 11 people, and we were to count ourselves lucky it wasn't totally full.
Medication was delivered via the largest cash-register looking machine ever, and distributed by the scanning of our hospital bracelets under a nurse's watchful eye. All of our meals were pre-screened by the staff, we were given a spoon and a fork to be directly returned after our supervised group meal, and they recorded what percentage of what we ate. I averaged a little less than 50%.
We had a meeting with the Psychiatrist every day to review, make medication adjustments, and continue planning our individual treatment. At least once during our stay we were required to request a family meeting with whoever we lived with and any additional people we felt would help us benefit from the counseling. Steve came in on Wednesday for a 1:00 meeting with the group therapist who lead the daily morning sessions. She was actually very surprised by the setup we have had going at home ever since we started dating... how Stephen helps me cope and adjust to problems and how I receive his support willingly. Apparently we have a very unique and close relationship. We made some plans as far as my treatment post-discharge and she set us up with some really good agencies to help us get my insurance back and maintain my mental health care. Without an insider, you aren't able to get into these programs, and apparently it takes being hospitalized in order to get the help. She said it was in no way our fault that my treatment has been spotty at best, and she apologized for the very screwed up system that she wishes she could change.
Three of the counselors as well as the psychiatrist on duty all independently expressed high suspicion that if given more consistent supervision, I would quickly be diagnosed with high functioning Aspergers Syndrome. This is a view that the therapist I saw throughout my pregnancy also voiced, and my family has agreed with. Yay! Lets add to my list... Although, I have to say that looking at the evidence I really do believe they are all right. It would explain a lot, and technically take over the OCD and ADD diagnoses.
Anyway, my visits with Johnny were scheduled for 9:30-10:30am, noon-1:00, 3:30-4:00, and ward-wide visiting hours 6:00-8:00pm. Various people who had taken Johnny throughout the week would bring him in to see me, including Grandma Jean, Daddy, Christy, and Mindy. Mama also visited, as well as Brian and of course Steve. When looking at it, only two of the daily visits interrupted any group sessions, and never for an entire session, so I was kept extremely busy all day. The movie 28 Days with Sandra Bullock could not have been a more accurate depiction of my time at Crazy Camp.
I was finally discharged yesterday around noon, and spent the rest of the day with Mindy helping out at home. She and I talked for a long while, did our own little "craft" and while I took a nap she played with Johnny. I must say, our margarita glasses came out looking quite amazing... though I doubt they would encourage anything involving glass OR alcohol-related paraphernalia back in 3 - South. Man, I'm glad to be home!
Last night I spent a lot of time snuggling with Johnny and fell asleep with him at my side. This morning I cuddled for a long time and spent an hour just breathing him in and holding his little hands. When he fell asleep after his mid-morning feeding, Stephen and I did a little yoga (which is now supposed to be a part of my daily routine according to both him and the doctors) before taking time for a lasagna and salad lunch. Now I'm exhausted, but it sounds like he plans for me to get a shower and then go for a walk with him and Johnny outside in the sun. I hope it's not too chilly out.
It's good to be home.
