AtypicallyRecovering

Image: Online search results, cropped

When I was at university, I was studying to become a teacher. Both of my parents were in education, and while they never pushed me in that direction, they were pleased. But then, I ended up getting booted out for anorexia and the overdose, and when I was at the psych hospital the second time, a single defining moment changed the rest of my life.

I’d been sent off to the psych ICU for some reason- I think it was related to a new medication that had tanked my blood pressure. Most of the hospital was decorated in a gregarious 70s ‘floral’ motif. The ICU had bare cinderblock walls, beds bolted to the floor, bars over the outside windows, windows in the doors to the sleeping ‘cubicles’ (that were locked at night), and the lights were on 24/7, even if dimmed a bit. It was more like the images of a 60s state hospital instead of the private facility that it was. The staff were all pleasant, and the other patients weren’t that noteworthy. But it was rather barren. Everything was clinical, even if delivered pleasantly.

One week, some nursing students were passing through the ICU during their psych rotation. They were in their late teens or early 20s, so in my age range. They were sweet, but a little intimidated before they figured out none of us were drooling in corners, or showing symptoms of rabies. I had dark straight hair that went halfway down my back, and it was thick. That also meant it was rather unruly in a facility where I couldn’t use many brushes or combs without supervision or at certain times.

One of the nursing students approached me and asked if she could braid my hair. I wasn’t sure i heard correctly. I was used to “no touch”, and while the staff were always professional and kind to me, personal attention like braiding hair wasn’t in their job description. I told the student I’d like that, and she got my unruly hair braided and secured with a hair elastic. I felt human. That was amazing.

In the few minutes that it took for the student RN to braid my hair, she reminded me that even in a bare psychiatric ICU, I’d been seen as a ‘regular’ human being. I wasn’t a diagnosis with feet with standard protocols laid out. I was just an 18 year old with long hair that could use some tidying up. She saw me as ‘normal’. It was life-changing, and I began realizing that I didn’t want to teach. I wanted to show people compassion and kindness. I’d always had nurse toys as a kid, and had read medical books (household editions at my grandparents’ home) from the time I could read (age 5-6). It was a perfect fit.

I got out of the hospital just in time to start the Spring semester to get some adjunct nursing classes out of the way (chemistry, composition, sociology, nutrition, and psychology). It also gave me some structure as I was moving past 1982, and the 8 months I was confined in a place neither of my parents wanted me to speak about. My mom’s mom later told me that she’d never been told where I’d been. I’m not sure anyone knew where I’d been. All I knew was that I wanted to have a job where I could see past peoples’ diagnoses, and try and make at least one thing better for them that day.

One nursing student changed the trajectory of my life. That’s powerful stuff.