Going Nowhere

Mike had long hair, ripped jeans, was several years younger than me but looked like he had lived in the 70's. He was easygoing, and loved to play guitar.

There was an old guitar on the ward, but it only had two strings. Mike would sing (he had a good voice), and play the tune on two strings as best he could. He obviously had talent.

"Man," he said at dinner, "I wish they'd let me have my axe. Or at least send that piece of shit out to be restrung."

Now, I know how to string a guitar. I would play one while doing children's programs at the library. I did so many, I had to restring my "axe" up to four times a year.

I spoke to the nurses. They told me to talk to the Occupational Therapist, because music therapy was her field.

I took a deep breath, calmed myself, and spoke with her.

"I could restring that guitar. I think it would be helpful for some of us musicians to have an instrument."

"Why, that would be lovely! Tell me what you need."

I told her the type of strings to buy, and what kind of pliers and cutters I would require. She frowned at that, but I could see that she had decided I was not a high risk of using the cutters and pliers for mischief.

"I'll get you the things you need tomorrow."

Tomorrow came, and she came through - sort of. She provided pliers, cutters, and...the wrong kind of strings. They had the wrong end, and wouldn't fit.

I'm good at making things work. About an hour later I had rigged the guitar up and tuned it so it was playable. I handed it to Mike.

"Right on, man!" He started to play right away. It sounded good.

Day by day, he seemed to improve. It was great hearing the guitar Then one morning, he came to breakfast excited.

"I heard the nurses talking. Holy shit - I think I get to go home! It's damn well about time - I've been here for six weeks." Everyone around the table gave him a high five.

A half hour later, we saw him being escorted through the elevator with two nurses and his belongings. I was surprised he hadn't said goodbye. I glanced down at the sign out sheet.

Under where it said "Name" I saw "Mike." Under where it said "Destination" I saw an angry scrawl that said "Fucking Nowhere."

"Where's Mike gone?" I asked the nurse.

"Riverview," she sighed. "He hasn't improved enough, and we need the bed."

Riverview is the long-term psychiatric hospital in British Columbia (despite what you may have heard, it is still open - just downsized). Compared to an average hospitalization of two to three weeks, patients in Riverview stay an average of a year and a half.

I couldn't remember how long I had been on the ward, but it felt like it had been a long time. I felt bad for Mike, and then a deep panick set in - was I getting better fast enough?

I didn't want to go "fucking nowhere."

My Name Tag

In hospital, I looked for means of gaining some control when things became frustrating.

Remember the Occupational Therapist I wrote about? The one who made us play basketball in slow motion, and suggested we hire maids to help with housework at home? She showed us a weight room.

Again, I was surprised and excited. I like to work out. I had no idea that there was a gym in the building. It looked pristine - with a universal machine and a bunch of free weights.

"When can I come up and use this?"

"Oh, not until you are very stable. We wouldn't want you hurting yourself, would we? Plus, you would be out of practice. So, you couldn't use most of this anytime soon."

I began to understand why the equipment looked so new.

"So...I would have to be well, and have to practice lifting weights, before I could use this?"

"That's correct. Let's move along now, shall we?"

I felt a growing resentment towards this woman (for the record, I have met many wonderful OTs since. She was an exception). It had been a month, and I had played one game of slow-motion basketball. That was it. And to use the weight room I would have to be discharged from hospital, which would mean I couldn't use the weight room.

When I finished the little tour, I came back to my room and took out the name tag on my door. I tore it up, and found a piece of cardboard. With child safety scissors I cut it into a square that would take the place of my tag. With a coloured felt pen and great flourish I wrote "Piscator", and placed the card in my name slot.

I love to fish. Fishing requires incredible patience. My favourite is fly fishing. You must remain silent and attentive - focused on your line so that you don't miss that small twitch that tells you a fish is on. I also gently release most of the fish I catch. With fly fishing, the fish don't swallow the hook - with skill, you catch them in the lip so that they are not injured (most fly fishers like me use small, barbless hooks).

I decided to apply the same techniques to my hospitalization. Patience, focus and observation.

The nurses looked at my nametag quizzically. None of them asked me what it meant. I saw them make notes.

In the original edition of Izaak Walton's "The Compleat Angler," Piscator is the angler who has discourse with Venator, the hunter. Each of them politely argue the virtues of their respective sports.

Piscator is the patient one.

I decided that for the rest of my stay, since I was known as a "patient," then I would be "patient." In spite of anything that happened, I would be both the fisher and fish - focused and waiting - my goal to be released unharmed at the first opportunity.

Basketball for Crazy People

In every hospital there are OTs - Occupational Therapists. They are wonderful people, whose job it is to prepare you for integration in the outside world and to help you gain the skills you need to function effectively.

My OT was an odd duck, to say the least. She would hold group meetings with patients who were well enough to attend. Eventually, I met that criteria. My meeting went something like this:

OT - I will be doing the talking today.

Me - Excuse me, I hope this is okay to ask - but isn't this a group session? Aren't we supposed to be helping each other?

OT - No, because Idon't want you sharing ideas about how to kill yourselves.

Okay. Anyhow, the sessions were mostly her talking about:

a) How to behave so that nobody would suspect we had been treated for a mental illness (we had been at home with a really bad cold).

b) What to tell an employer so that we wouldn't be discriminated against (we had been on a holiday).

c) How to cope with housework and other pressures (we needed to hire a maid or a personal assistant - if we couldn't afford one full-time, then even a few days would help).

Looking around the room, I knew that I was one of the few people who had a job. It is very difficult for people with bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or other forms of mental illness to maintain employment. I was working, and there was NO way I could afford a maid, or go on a long holiday. This woman was a little out of touch.

Then there was the day I finally got some physical activity other than pacing the hall. In our hospital gowns me, my buddy Tom, and two other guys were taken by the OT to a little gym we hadn't known existed. It was on the bottom floor of the building, and had a basketball court.

I LOVE basketball! We were so excited just to get the chance to move around!!! We were going to play two on two. We started, then the OT blew a whistle.

"What are you doing?" she yelled. "There is absolutely NO running! We do not want you getting injured."

Seriously? No running? For twenty minutes we glumly walked around the court. I would take a shot, miss, then had to slowly walk to get the rebound. We couldn't block out or check closely - if we touched each other at all, the whistle went off. We had to keep a metre apart.

Most OTs are amazing people, but all I learned from this one was that I needed to hire a maid and play basketball in slow motion.

If you ever play me in a game of one-on-one, THAT's the reason I am moving slowly. It's not that I'm getting old. ;)