Hard Cases and Psychos

I know, who the hell wants to read about work . . . or write about it, for that matter?  But I’m on the intra-hospital run for a month, shuttling patients between Tucson and Phoenix, and it’s been an interesting first week.

It started with a homeless man who soiled himself at a rest area where I’d stopped for him to use the restroom.  He acted as if nothing had happened, of course.  Well, I guess that’s how I would have acted too.

The next day four patients rode with me from Phoenix to Tucson.  The minute I pulled away from the curb, one man started ranting about the ward nurse at Phoenix who’d taken him off Seroquel and put him on something else.  Something that DIDN’T WORK!  Then two other patients, a woman and a man, said the same nurse changed their meds too.  It quickly became apparent all three had been on the same ward, and that the meds they were talking about . . . all the way to Tucson . . . were antipsychotics.  The fourth patient got real small in the back corner of the van and didn’t say a word the whole trip.  I considered sliding my seat forward, but decided that would only egg them on.

The next day Seroquel Man rode with me back up to Phoenix.  As I approached the freeway rest area we had a short conversation:

“Hey, I’m going to pull into the rest area.”

“WHY?”

“Uh, so we can pee?”

“Oh okay then.”

I closed out the week with two aging hippies.  They talked to each other about all the drugs they’d done, how many times each had dropped out of AA, which halfway houses in Phoenix were good, and on an on.  I think they were trying to impress me . . . I suppose I look like a straight arrow to people who don’t know me.  I kept quiet.  But I was around in the hippie days too.

And some hippie I was.  First time I smoked dope (listening to the White Album with friends) I was so scared I actually fainted.  Never did try anything harder than that . . . if you don’t count booze or tobacco, which are probably right up there with crystal meth.  I loved booze in all its forms, but I’ve been away from it for almost a year now and find I don’t miss it all that much.  I quit smoking in 1978 and missed it a lot.  For the first few years, I actually dreamt about smoking!  So, yeah, straight arrow.

God, please don’t let me find myself in the back of a van some day, trying to impress some total stranger with what a hard case I am.

Sometimes, when they transfer mentals from one hospital to the other, they drug them to the point where they’re almost comatose.  Those are the ones I worry about.  What if they come out of it before we get there?

Rule # 1: don’t show fear.