What you don't know

"He's such a quiet guy" were the words that people usually used to describe Pete. This was then followed by something like, "Yeah, he's a nice guy. Never bothers anyone." Even though I knew Pete on a 'friends of friends' kind of basis and knew his life style, even I never knew how sick he really was.

Pete got out of bed and wandered to the kitchen, lighting up a joint in the process. Smoking a joint wasn't anything special to Pete, at least in that it wasn't a special occasion. He never sat down with friends and smoked, there was no ceremony about it. Pete smoked marijuana as if he was smoking a regular cigarette.

Pete then went to work where he spent the day killing chickens. His day was broken down into morning tea break, where he smoked some pot, lunch break which meant more marijuana, then it was off home and dinner whereupon he smoked another joint. His evening was then spent in front of the television. He would then have one final toke then off to bed.

Whenever the boys' went out on the town Pete was always such help. "Who wants to be the sober driver tonight" someone would ask. No one would volunteer, then someone would say "Hey Pete, you haven't been drinking tonight. Will you drive for us?" In his typical monosyllabic way Pete always said "Yep"

In fact no matter what we did, where we went, or who we met, Pete was always there, somewhere. He rarely talked, was always helpful, and for someone who spent their life completely stoned to pieces, he seemed rather level headed. In fact we sometimes wondered if he had developed some natural resistance to the stuff as we never knew quite how he still managed to function.

I left that crowd, and I didn't see any of them for ten years. Then I bumped into Pete by accident.

The doorbell rang. "I'll get it" I offered and headed out to the security door. When I got to the door I stopped and stared in surprise at the person on the other side of the reinforced glass. Pete looked the same and behaved the same. He showed no surprise when I opened the door. "Gudday, it's been a while" was all Pete said. "Ah, Pete" I stammered, "It sure has...Ah, what can I do for you?" I asked. "I've come for my injection" he said. I was a bit slow catching on. "Ah injection for what?" I asked. In his usual calm, unhurried way, Pete said "My schizophrenia medication of course" Pete said with a knowing smile as he walked past me and down the corridor.

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To speak or not to speak

It began with a simple "Hello" and went downhill from there. "Ah, hi" I stammered, as my mind frantically went into overdrive trying to figure out where I'd seen this pretty blonde woman before. "Can I buy you a drink? It's the least I can do" she offered. Something definitely was amiss because attractive young women didn't generally didn't offer to buy me drinks. I peered closer at her face. Recognition hit me like a sledge hammer. "Ah, I'm fine. I'm ah, drinking water tonight, designated driver, you know. Thanks for the offer." She shrugged her shoulders "Maybe another time then" she said, then turned to the barman. I made my escape.

"Hey, you gonna introduce us?"Jake said to me when I returned to our table. "Yeah, if you're not interested, introduce her to me" offered Simon. Both the boys had been behind me when Sophie (I'd remembered he name by now) had offered to buy me a drink. "Ah, she's not interested" I said, the guys gave me angry looks "What you talking about. If you like her, that's cool, but if not, don't be selfish" said Jake. "Yeah man, don't be selfish" echoed Simon.

What do I say? I couldn't tell them that I hadn't recognized her because I had vivid memories of her foaming at the mouth, or of her painting her room in faecs. I couldn't tell them that I'd looked after Sophie for two months in the psychiatric ward and that even at her best, she would never be quite right.

So I suggested another bar, I bought a round of drinks, and Sophie was soon forgotten.

What do you think? Did I treat Sophie wrong by not introducing my friends? Was I being Prejudiced? Well probably, but for the right reasons. I was just using my common sense. I kept them safe, kept Sophie safe, and kept my mouth shut at the same time. We were all winners.

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Psychotic Tales

"Are you the devil?" asked Michelle, peering at me intently. I shook my head "No" I replied. "Are you sure?" she asked again, her voice sounding suspicious. "I'm sure" I replied calmly. Obviously satisfied with my answer, Michelle shrugged her shoulders and wandered off down the corridor towards her room. I headed for the treatment room to get Michelle's dinner time medications, nonplussed by Michelle's question.

None of us nurses are pertubed by Michelle's bizarre questions or behavior because this is just who Michelle is. She is thirty five and has spent half of her adult life in and out of Psychiatric institutions. She rarely has a lucid moment, instead she drifts from one delusion to the next, and when she does have a lucid moment, any truth is so tangled up in a web of mass confusion and delusion it's impossible to tell what is real and what is only real to her. But even more rarely Michelle would surprise us, even shock us, with a very sharp, bitter comment that would bring the reality of being a psychiatric patient home to us. Today was going to be one of those very rare days.



I read the drug chart carefully even though I knew Michelle's meds by heart. A touch of clonazepam to keep things calm, a big shot of chlorpramazine to slow her down, a couple of fluoxetine to cheer her up, and a decent whack of cogentin to counter the side effects of all the medication she takes. I also checked her log book, but she wasn't due her monthly injection of antipsychotic.

I caught up with Michelle in her room sitting on her bead staring at the floor. "I don't want those" she said as I offered her the pills. "Why not?" I asked. "I just don't want them" she insisted "They're bad for you" she added. I sat down on the bed beside her. She still hadn't looked up fromthe floor. "C'mon Michelle, you take them every other day, why not today?" I asked. Michelle kept her head down "I just don't alright. Just go away. Leave me alone. Stop harassing me" Michelle got up off the bed and stormed out.

Michelle was generally a bright, cheerful person, but she did have moments like these when for no obvious reason she became agitated, angry, and sometimes verbally abusive. At times like these it was even more important for Michelle to take her meds to help calm her down. I found her sitting alone in the lounge.

"What do you want now? You following me? I suppose you want me to have your baby" she said. "No Michelle, I just want you to have your medication, that's all. You know it will calm you down, relax you" I said. "Yeah, you just want me to have my rape medication, like everyone else" she said. Michelle grabbed the pottle of tablets from me and swallowed them. "Satisfied. See you round" she left me standing in the lounge, speechless, but horrified, because she was probably right.

Those times when Michelle is not in the ward, but in the community, any bastard could ply Michelle with a touch of alcohol, and with the meds she's already taking, she'd be anybody's. Hell, with the meds she's taking they wouldn't even need to use alcohol as the doses she's on are very strong.

I mentioned Michelle's comments to the other nurses. "She's probably right" was the general consensus.

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Are you a Prejudiced Psycophobe?

When I quit my job in the gerneral med/surg ward to go and work in the psychiatric ward, everyone, including my charge nurse, said I must be crazy. Things like "They're all mad over there, and then there's the patients" or "You'll end up just like the patients" were common. No one I spoke to in the physical side of nursing could understand why I would want to do such a thing and discouraged me as much as possible.

I did make the change, and for two years had one of the most valuable experiences of my life. It was incredible, sad and even frightening to see people with no physical problems, yet because of the thoughts running through their heads, worse off than those with medical/physical illness. Sometimes I made a positive difference without even knowing it. For example, I became used to hearing people say things like "Sit with me" and when I asked why, a reply like "The voices want me to put my dinner fork in the electric socket" was not uncommon. My very presence seemed to help anchor them in our reality and stop them from making a fatal mistake.

Is anyone here willing to own up to being a little 'psychophobic?' The more my colleagues discouraged me from working in the psychiatric ward, the more I was determined to give it a go. Has anyone else had similar experiences from fellow staff? Has anyone else made the transition from regular medical nursing to the psychiatric ward?

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