Nonfiction by Colleen W.
(Identifying names and characteristics have been changed.)
I was watering beebalm in my scraggly, but well-intentioned garden when a call came from a nurse. “Jason has had a difficult evening. He overturned a heavy table in the day room and tried to wrap a nurse up in a bedsheet.” I set the watering can down.
“He was put in five-point restraints,” she said.
Silence rang in my ears.
“I didn’t know they still did that,” I said, choking back tears.
I’ve been put in arm restraints before, but never also, leg restraints. My son and I both live with bipolar disorder and have required psychiatric hospitalizations.
A few days passed and he was what they termed as “clearer” and could have visitors. That evening on the way to the hospital I stopped at Subway. I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. When my son is in crisis, I often forget to eat.
I sat in a back booth with my tuna sandwich. I was taking a bite when a young man with long, curly hair and sheepish eyes wearing a green Subway polo, came up to me and said he liked my shirt. I looked down to see what I had on. It was a Grateful Dead t-shirt, the one where the skeletons are playing golf. I thanked him.
“I’ve never been to a show, but my dad went to a lot of them in college. He’s probably around your age,” he said.
“I’ve been to around 65 shows,” I admitted.
Talking about a time in my life I was fond of, lulled me, and I felt a sense of melancholy. The young man might have sensed my mood. “I have something for you,” he said, then turned and went through a door behind me.
I stared at a wilted browning piece of lettuce across the table. The familiar opening chords of “China-cat Sunflower” started to play. I listened to the music, in awe that a stranger would think to play a song for me.
My eyes welled up, but I focused on the beige table, my sandwich wrapper, the tip of my straw and willed myself not to cry.
When I was sure I had composed myself, I made my way to the counter. The kid who had disappeared to the back to change the music was mopping up by the register. He stopped to ring me up for a bag of Doritos I selected for Jason. I asked him for two chocolate-chip cookies.
“I want to get them for my son, but I’m not sure he can have them in an open bag. He’s in the hospital and there’s a lot of rules where he is,” I said.
He nodded and silently sealed the opening of the bag with a sticker.
I thanked him. The song had morphed into “I Know You Rider.” I pushed open the door, blinking at the blaze of the summer evening’s sun.
Colleen W. writes poetry and nonfiction. Her work has appeared in the Gyroscope Review, Ravensperch, and The Potomac Review, among other publications. She works in mental health, and is also a consumer of mental health services.
