By the time 3:30PM rolled around -- I had arrived almost on the dot of the 10:30AM starting time for weekday visiting hours -- only the two of us remained in the naturally lit room of round tables with four chairs apiece, two microwave stations complete with the standard bathroom-grade brown paper towels this recycling queen went through in the tens for use as plates, napkins, and ‘rags’ for spills on the floor and table, and the four soda/water/Gatorade/snacks vending machines hawking their contents at $1.25 a pop. Today seemed to be a day for fathers and sons. Namely ageing fathers coming to see their adult sons. The strange dad who regaled his boy with meandering murmurs about the Soviet Union’s missile capacity in the 80’s and the budget of Afghanistan’s country versus its army and the reasons a trust fund must be handled by someone other than a nebulous female figure neither Gary or myself could accurately pin down, was the last to leave other than us. (As with a few other ‘stand-out’ paternal figures we’d witnessed over the days and hours of our extended visits, we hypothesized that this man may, indeed, be a large part of the reason for his son's stay at the psychiatric hospital, or perhaps the reason the young man wasn’t trying harder to effect a departure from the institution.)
The kindly Three Stooges in non-armed police officer uniforms behind the glass, ensconced in their all-knowing kiosk of security cameras, key rings, latex gloves, and mounds of paperwork and manuals, allowed us five extra minutes past the prescribed cut-off point before opening the doors to our separate exit points. Me to my locker, punching in CLEAR 1121 KEY to free my purse and iPhone, and on to the heavy gates capped in barbed-wire which would escort me back to the outside world; him to the waiting pat-down from Moe or Curly – he forgot to mouth the special toothpicks I slipped him (my one small act of rebellion against ‘the man’) they were confiscated from their lodging place above his left ear – before returning to the fenced-in compound where clients generally mill about their days.
The final visit is not given a full voice. Much like the way in which Harry Potter is discouraged from speaking the name of Lord Voldemort by those around him (I hope you understand this literary reference to some degree), speaking too loudly the exact occasion of the visit is not desired. Instead, furtive glances at the clock high on the front wall, the slow packing of the significantly lighter food bag, and wide smiles, bordering on grimaces, hide sighs of surrender to the truth creeping ever closer, frame by frame, to the forefront. Promises to call, followed by promises to answer, reminded us both of the phone contact we are now allowed in quantity on a daily basis.
Though he’s working on mastering his reactions to situations which stir his anger, Gary often stumbles after family visits. They are too bright with emotion in the viewfinder. Memory snapshots held to the light are too vivid a reminder of what he has not had in over seventeen years. They work in a negative manner on a brain yet in need of retraining. He desires desperately to act as he wishes as opposed to how he often does. So on this evening of the day of our last visit, as I lay on my hotel bed basking in the cool air emanating from the window AC unit, he called to discuss the downward spiral of his afternoon.
Wards Q3 and Q4 were expecting important legal system bigwig visitors later in the week, so janitorial staffers were mopping and waxing the normally scuffed and scuzzy floors for appearances’ sake. The clients, as they are called at this hospital, were ordered outside for the duration of the cleaning. At some point, Gary, who for the last few days has been unusually tired, even after a rare full night’s sleep, hoped to sneak back in to his room. “NO!” said staffers as they themselves walked across the now gleaming surface, “Remain outside.” The inner anarchist within him rose. He questioned the reasoning behind why their feet would not sully the floor but his feet and the feet of his peers would. I know he’s most likely screaming in colorful sentences punctuated by profanity by now, past the point of reason, engulfed in his distrust of authority, and awash in the despair which has colored his entire adult existence. This is not entirely unique in a forensic psychiatric ward of sixty-five males. Nor is it very effective.
By the end of it, he has grabbed a heavy chair and dragged it up and down the halls, scraping the tiles and ruining the newly waxed finish. He leaves destruction in his wake. Once he returns to his room, an alarm is sounded by an anxious staffer. No less than twenty employees, his psychiatrist among them, arrive at his door. They request that he come with them to the solitude room. He refuses to exit with that many bodies flanking him. The good doctor begs to know the exact nature of the episode. When informed, by Gary, I suppose, he turns on his heels and departs, fuming that this was a complete waste of his time and NOT the reason he thought his presence was requested. Gary's ‘green’ card, the highly coveted Grounds Card, the card to outside and the gym and the library, was pulled. Until Monday, he learned this morning, thank the Lord. It could have been much worse. Later in the evening, during the monthly celebration of multiple birthdays with a shared cake, one of my brother’s friends – Atticus, a handsome muscled young man with a chiseled face sporting a precisely manicured beard who obsessively exercises each and every day for almost the entire day – stops by to laugh and commiserate, commenting, “Man, you’ve got STYLE!” Atticus has nutted up a few times, himself, once losing his privilege card for over a month. That’s a whole lot of running in place!
(Third Installment Tomorrow)
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