Page 1 of Love and Other Mental Health Concerns
CHAPTER ONE
Marcy
I look down, discreetly checking my watch for the fourth time, in apparently as many minutes, and start to plan my exit strategy. I am in a drab corner of the emergency department waiting room, with a tall, artificially dark-haired man blocking my way to freedom. He manages to keep intense eye contact, even though my increasingly blatant time checks and indiscriminate head nodding are hopefully starting to signal that I am reaching the end of this conversation. I must find a way out.
“So anyway Marcy, that’s what my granddaughter keeps telling me…I need to get out and meet some people.” A bright and wrinkled face exploring my own.
“Yes Frank, I think she’s right. So, let’s leave our conversation there and make that the goal over the next couple of weeks? Brainstorming some social options for you. You can tell me your ideas the next time I see you.” My tone is direct with just the right twang of “gotta go” for him to take the hint.
Or so I thought…doesn’t seem to be working.
“I like this plan Marcy, so when will that be?” Definitely not working.
“Like I’ve mentioned before Frank, we want to keep the emergency department as a place for emergencies. Maybe your health would benefit from a different type of treatment? Something for your grief…”
“Right, so the next time I’m here. Hopefully not too soon, but you know these heart flutters keep happening and I’m too old to ignore them.” He interrupts as he hears me start my spiel about the importance of therapy to process big life transitions. He has heard this same speech during his last four visits to the emergency department; All within the past three weeks.
“Okay Frank, sounds good. Until next time.” I concede.
I get up and maneuver my way around the man, who is sitting astutely in his hospital issued wheelchair. About a month ago, his wife of fifty-two years died, and he has been frequenting the emergency department with various complaints about his “heart flutters,” “stomach upset,” and “damn terrible sleep” ever since. Of course, what Frank really needs is some emotional support, company, and therapy to process his grief. Like so many elderly in his shoes, he has noticed that emergency departments inadvertently offer these things.
“Maybe you can come to the support group next week?” I offer as my thighs get stuck between his armrest and a couch made of some sort of puke proof material that I can’t quite identify. As the only social worker at the hospital, I host the limited support groups that are offered.
“Yeah, yeah. Marcy, I don’t need to sit around with a bunch of other widowers and bitch about the cards life dealt us. Sounds depressing, no thanks.” It is also depressing that he always puts on a bowtie and does his hair for his “emergency” visits to the hospital, but I keep that to myself.
“Maybe you would meet some new people Frank, avoid the depression that people can experience after losing someone so integral to their lives?” He just stares blankly at me, possibly pretending he can’t hear me. “Okay, well if you change your mind…” I start to walk a little more quickly toward the reception desk. As much as I want to argue the benefits of support groupswith Frank for what would be the eighth time, I do have a meeting to get to.
“Hey Angie,” I say loud enough to get the attention of the receptionist who is currently scrolling her phone for highlights of last night’sLove Island. “Frank is ready to go whenever his daughter, or granddaughter can get here to pick him up. No matter what he says, he does not need to see me again this afternoon. Any information or instructions he may need can be found in his discharge summary.”
“You got it Marcy. Hey, you catch the game last night?” Her bleach-blond hair is perfectly coiffed to rival Tina Turner’s, and her long red nails are now moving at a furious speed in her text messages. She has shared with me that she hasn’t updated her style since 1987 because there is no need to make changes once you reach perfection. I never caught the game last night, or any night for that matter, but she always asks. “No, sorry Angie! Good one?”
“Oh, the best! Two home runs! Go Twins!” She pumps her fist in the air, her flowing, floral top managing to look a little strained over her bountiful figure. She is one of those women who is beautiful no matter her age or style preferences, a natural fit for the welcoming face of the emergency department.
“Great, happy for you Angie…” Two home runs? I think that means I get free chicken nuggets on my McDonalds App.
I keep my stride past her desk, my black leather boots tapping loudly on the speckled gray linoleum. I turn down a wide and bright hallway toward the one large conference room that is big enough to hold our monthly employee meetings. Any employee available to attend is invited, which makes for a diverse and chatty group. The ample room is filled with about twenty large, round tables, and a small stage with a podium is taking up the front space. Floor to ceiling windows behind the podium let in warm light, filtered through leaves that arejust starting to get that tinge of yellow on this early September afternoon.
I hate meetings, I’d rather spend time with my patients, but this one isn’t the worst. At a minimum, coffee and Kwik Trip donuts are served. I find my usual table near the back corner of the room and throw down my bag before loading up a small paper plate with a maple long john and refilling my travel coffee mug. One of my favorite nurses, Lauren, has parked herself in the seat next to my bag. She and I sit together during this meeting so that our mutual eye-rolling doesn’t go wasted, and the proper show of respect to that craft is observed.
“Marcy, sit, I have news.” Lauren is older than I am, in her early 40’s, compared to my 28 years, but it never feels that way. She still looks like she is in her 20’s, despite having a 10-year-old son from a long-dissolved marriage. With raven colored hair and perfect cat eye eyeliner, she is striking and can intimidate a lot of other staff with just a look. She is tough as nails, and somehow never inherited that passive aggressive midwestern gene, which makes me love her more. I always know where I stand with Lauren and that’s refreshing for a person who works in a female dominated field and experiences anxiety to the degree that I do.
“Hey Lauren, good to see you too. I’m great, thanks for asking.”
“Okay sure, anyway…Have you seen Keith yet today?” She is referring to the Hospital chief executive officer and Grade A moron. The man has all the right alphabet soup after his name to run this tiny hospital system, yet common sense in all areas has evaded him. Examples include having Culver's cater a 5K to raise money for diabetes education, taking a public poll to see which employees use anti-depressants during a mental health seminar, and performing “Like a Virgin” at the company holiday party. I could go on.
“No, haven’t seen him. What’s going on?”
“Oh, I will not be spoiling the surprise then. Here, turn your chair a little towards mine. I need to see your face when he walks in the room.”
“Okay…” Then, as if she summoned him through witchcraft, in walks Keith. Or is that Keith? “What in the 2001 is happening right now?” spills from my mouth.
Keith is somewhere in his fifties, with a body type that says I enjoy my beer while I drive my pontoon around the lake on the weekends, or watch the Vikings game with a hot dish. His body does not say, “I make time to hone my temple,” so when the man walks in with freshly frosted tips on his thinning, dark brown hair and a tight shirt with distressed jeans and flip flops, I nearly spit my coffee across the table. “Does his shirt say American Eagle across the front?”
“It does.” Lauren says through one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen her make.
“Is he wearing a t-shirt and flip-flops to a company meeting? Did he pay someone to do that to his head?”
“You are asking all the right questions honey.” Lauren is still beaming.
