Page 13 of Ward D
So much for my plan to hide in the staff lounge all night long.
“I’ll teach you what I can tonight,” Dr. Beck adds. “This is a unique experience for both of you—a great way to learn about inpatient psychiatry hands-on. Are either of you interested in the field?”
“I am,” Cameron says.
Oh my God, that littleliar.
“How about you, Amy?” Dr. Beck asks.
“Not really,” I admit.
Cameron looks at me as if stunned that I wouldn’t at leastpretendto be interested in specializing in psychiatry. But really, I was kind. If I said what I was really thinking, it would’ve been something like,I would rather hang myself by my eyelids.
Anyway, Dr. Beck laughs. “Your honesty is refreshing,” he says. “I get sort of sick of every medical student pretending to be interested in psychiatry.”
It makes me feel just a little bit better when the tips of Cameron’s ears turn bright red.
Dr. Beck leads us back into the hallway. It’s quiet on the unit, except for a strange rhythmic clicking noise.Click click click.Like a small person tap dancing in one of the rooms. I do my best to ignore it.
“All the patients in Ward D have their own rooms,” he explains. “The rooms don’t lock, but we do have two seclusion rooms that lock from the outside using a keypad. But other than that, the patients can wander the unit if they want. There’s a patient lounge with couches and a television and even a piano.”
“I play the piano,” Cameron volunteers. “I actually was offered a chance to study piano in Paris during college.”
Dr. Beck ignores his comment. “I encourage you to spend time with the patient you’re following, and really dive deep. Most of them will be happy to talk to you, and you can learn a lot. This is the kind of opportunity you won’t have later in your training when you’re much busier.”
Click click click.What is that tapping noise?
“That sounds amazing,” Cameron says.
Ugh, he’s being such a horrible suck-up. I can’t believe I used to go out with him. I can’t believe I used to think he was handsome. Or that he was a good kisser. But some of my irritation with him is dampened by the annoying noise that doesn’t seem to show any sign of stopping.
Click click click.Like someone is trying to send us a morse code signal.
“What’s that noise?” I speak up.
“Oh!” Dr. Beck laughs. “That’s Mary. She’s always knitting.”
He points to the room just in front of us. Room 912. I peek inside, and sure enough, there’s a white-haired woman in a long cable knit dress, sitting on a chair, a pair of knitting needles in her gnarled hands. She looks like she’s working on a scarf, but the scarf is far too long. Like, ridiculously long. It cascades down her legs, and then across the length of the room three times. It looks like it could be five or six scarves by now.
“What’sshein here for?” Cameron asks.
It was a little tactless the way he asked, but Mary does look harmless enough.
“You’ll see very soon.” Dr. Beck winks at us. “She sundowns pretty badly.”
“Sundowns?” I ask.
“It happens to a lot of old people with dementia,” he explains. “The sun goes down and they get more and more confused and agitated. Keep an eye on her and you’ll see.”
“She’s here because of dementia?”
“Oh no.” He shakes his head vigorously. “She’s here for a very good reason, believe me.”
I sneak a look back into Mary’s room. She notices us at the door, and her wrinkled face breaks out into a huge smile that almost makes her lips disappear into her mouth. She waves at us.
I wave back.
“You let her have knitting needles?” I ask in surprise. It was one of the items on the list of things we should never, ever, ever bring onto the psychiatric unit.
