It’s been a while. And a struggle. But I am definitely on the mend.

Happy 2012. I have resolved not to make any resolutions, other than to be more empathetic with Marty, my husband, who has a completely different temperament than I do.

My mind works faster than my left forefinger, so writing this blog is not easy for me. Living with me is not easy either, but we’re doing much better. Couples therapy is wondrous if you find the right therapist and, happily, we did through my eating disorders program.

Today’s big news? 

My cast comes off today ~ I hope.

In the meantime, to make life easier for Saint Marty, I had all my hair cut off. Every little bit helps. I love it and when both my hands are working, I’ll send you a picture.

Since we last spoke, I was on Day 31 of my Eating Disorder Treatment Program.

Body Image Therapy, now…

I have now finished, as of last Friday, January 6th and now I move to step two ~ work with a psychologist who specializes in Body Image Therapy. Dr. Bob doesn’t do that kind of work.

That begins tomorrow.

Today, at 1:30 p.m., we meet with Dr. Rumble to assess my right arm. The good news is that I am doing a great deal more with it than last time, including dressing myself, though I still cannot lace up and tie my shoes and boots. I have grown quite adept at screwing and unscrewing bottles and flipping off the tops of my pill bottles.

Lots of other things, too.

Something happened…

But I want to tell you about something that happened. You should know. Doctors and other health professionals are human and make mistakes.

The day after I broke my arm ~ Wednesday, December 14 ~ I became manic. I didn’t sleep at all that night. Very serious for me.

Sleeplessness is deadly for my hypomanic mind…

I suspect when I broke my arm ~ I heard it crack ~ something cracked in my mind. I became delusional. Funny and delusional.

Then, what happened next was a confluence of bad luck and human error. We’re all human. Doctors, psychiatrists, social workers, psychologists.

Dr. Bob was out of town. Just my luck. My mood disorder is so rare, he never leaves a back-up and in 20 years, this has never happened. I never needed a back-up. Anyway, since Marty has never seen me manic, he didn’t know. Neither did I. Anosognosia was at work.

Deep denial. My reality was fine. Everyone else was crazy.

Long story short…

I decided to take public transit downtown on Thursday, December 15, after a painful and sleepless night. I was delusional. I thought I saw Ryan Gosling and George Clooney running the subway. In my mind, I was thoroughly convinced.

The gang at the ED program were somewhat alarmed, and worried. They didn’t know what to do with me, so they shipped me off to another hospital with a special psychiatric ER. I had an escort but no note or paper work on the shuttle that took me there.

When the triage nurse finally called my name, I asked her, “Why am I here”?

“Aren’t you applying for a job,” she said.

“No, I think I need to see a psychiatrist.”

“Okay,” she said.

And I was instantly escorted into the Psychiatric Emergency Waiting Room. My bag, all my personal belongings, even my cellphone, were all locked up. This was all too familiar. I’ve been through this too many times before. And all I wanted to do was sleep. But there were no beds. So I sat.

And sat. And sat. And sat. For hours…

Finally, I started screaming and a nurse spoke with me, asked me some questions, the usual stuff. Then he let me sleep. When I awoke an hour or two later, I knew I wanted to go home.

Why was I there?

I was in pain. My arm had long ago slipped out of my sling. I had had no pain medication. No anti-anxiety medication, the stuff I always carry with me. It was all locked up.

“I want to go home,” I yelled.

At last a psychiatrist came to see me.

“If you keep screaming, I’ll cite you for aggression,” he said gently.

I instantly calmed down.

We had a nice chat. He was a very kind man. I told him I wanted to go home. To my husband.

“So call him,” he said. “You’re free to go home.”

“They locked up my phone.”

He said, “There’s a phone right over there.” I called our number.

Marty had no idea what had happened to me…

He was hysterical. He hadn’t heard from me since 8 a.m, that morning and it was now 8 p.m.

No one had called him.

I arranged to take a cab to our regular hospital. He was familiar with it. I had no idea where I was in this other hospital.

Just before I left, they gave me back my coat, backpack, everything they had locked up.

They also gave me a pink Emergency Report which stated quite clearly in print, taken from the information on my Ontario Health Insurance Plan card:

“In case of emergency call Martin Lager, husband.”

No one had ever thought to ask me that day, if I had a next of kin. The most obvious, rudimentary question. Everyone knew I was married. They had met Marty through the couples therapy offered at the Eating Disorder Program at the other hospital.

But that slipped everyone’s mind, including the psychiatrist who heads the program and every single member of the ED staff.

I slipped through the cracks…

I am not typical. So they panicked and forgot to ask me the most obvious question.

On Friday morning, my psychotherapist, who had masterminded this plan to send me to that other hospital, called to apologize for the mistake. Friday night, Dr. Bob, who knew nothing about it until he returned that day, called.

“I understand you’ve been through a traumatic experience,” he said.

During our next appointment, the next week, I showed him the pink discharge report.

Mistakes can be great teachers, if you’re open to learning…

We discussed the potential empowerment of mistake-making. How you can learn from mistakes. Maybe the Eating Disorders Program will learn that people, all kinds of different people, including people with rare mood disorders, can develop eating disorders.

Maybe they’ll learn something from this mistake.

Or maybe not.

I don’t have to go there anymore.

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    Last reviewed: 9 Jan 2012