Stories from the Psych Ward: Eva's Story Read online

Monday Morning

  Glen sat and tried to read while he waited for Eva to be brought out of recovery. This was session twelve, so he knew the drill.

  She had sat with him in the activity room from 7 until 8:05, when the nurse came to get her. Until then, he had told her how pretty she looked in her flowered bathrobe, and tried to distract her by telling stories about the conversations he had had with their daughter and the grandchildren the evening before. He described the trip out West that they would take after she got better. For that whole hour he had held her hand and talked, while she just sat and stared and let the tears run down her face. When the nurse came, he and Eva had stood and she turned to him, grabbing his arms and saying,

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know,” he reassured her, “but everything will be okay. And I’ll be right here. I promise.” He kissed her on the forehead as the nurse took her by the arm.

  “We don’t want to keep the doctor waiting, do we, Eva?” said the nurse, warm and considerate in her professionalism. Eva looked back at Glen in a panic, and then she was out of sight.

  So Glen picked up his book. He knew he had time to go out for breakfast, but he always stayed, just in case. He had done the research and knew that the risk of physical harm was almost non-existent, but she was his Eva, and there was always a danger with general anesthesia. He felt better waiting nearby while she had her treatment. Besides, he had promised.

  Electroconvulsive Therapy. ECT. No matter how they dressed up the name, it was still shock treatment, with all the baggage that the term carried with it. He had opposed it when the doctor had first suggested it; he knew that the antidepressants weren’t working, but surely there had to be something else they could do! But then, after her overdose, he realized that something drastic was needed before she…tried again. Glen had read the information from the doctor, and had looked up more on line, and then he had convinced Eva that it was the treatment that she needed.

  He hadn’t told her about the conflicting reports concerning its long-term effectiveness. He hadn’t told her that the doctors couldn’t explain why it worked—he just told her that it worked. A shock to the brain that could “jumpstart the mind” and possibly reset it to a stage before the depression got so severe—at least that was the goal.

  And he hadn’t told her about the memory loss.

  He had explained the process to her. Two electrodes would be placed on one side of her scalp, and then she would be given a charge of electricity just enough to cause a slight, 15-second convulsion. She would be out for the process—they would use a general anesthetic so that she would not feel anything, and a muscle relaxant to prevent damage to her limbs when the brain had its seizure.

  Her anxiety about soiling herself had some basis, because the muscle relaxant during the convulsion could potentially trigger drooling or other unpleasant side effects, but normally the seizure caused no more than a little movement of the hands and feet.

  Twenty minutes later she would start to wake up, and that’s when he really needed to be there. She would come out of the anesthesia confused and crying, complaining that she hurt all over. She would tremble in absolute terror, as he sat by her bed and held her hand and talked quietly until the worst of her distress had passed.

  He would usually stay with her for about an hour after the treatment, and then leave to go to work. He was glad that he had good insurance, and that his boss let him have some flexibility in his hours. Coming in late three times a week for a month, and maybe more in Eva’s case…not every employer would allow that.

  “Glen.” The nurse came into the room. “Eva’s starting to wake up. Everything is fine, and you can see her now.” He rose and followed her toward recovery.

  Monday Evening

  “Why didn’t you come this morning? You promised to be here,” Eva berated him, the tears flowing freely. She sat across the Scrabble board from him and folded her arms like a pouting child—a scared, pouting child.

  “I was here, just like I said I would be.”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “I came at 7:00, and we sat and talked until your treatment, and then I stayed with you afterward for about an hour.”

  “You were here after my treatment?”

  “That’s right, honey. I was with you all the time. You know I wouldn’t let you go through that by yourself.” It was always the same. By tomorrow she should remember tonight’s visit, but she would have no memory of the hours before or after the treatment.

  Or of her suicide attempt.

  Or of her grandchildren.

  Glen could only reach out, hold her hand, and pray that she would be one of the lucky ones who got it all back. Eventually. Maybe.

  ###

  About the Author

  Robert D. Bowker is a husband, father, grandfather, long-time teacher, minister, writer, and sufferer with clinical depression. A stay in the mental health ward of a local hospital motivated him to advance awareness of mental illness by creating characters and stories inspired by the people and situations he encountered. Please watch for future publications in the Stories from the Psych Ward series. You may also visit his blog at https://rdbowker.org.

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