As mentioned previously, my "wrecking ball" girlfriend Julia was a nursing sister at a psychiatric hospital close to where we both lived. At the end of my first year at university - when I was planning to do little other than swim, sunbathe and play tennis at every opportunity - Julia suggested I apply for a job at the psychiatric hospital.
"But I'll be back at university by the end of summer" I protested.
"That doesn't matter. Just pretend you're really interested in psych nursing, they'll put you on as a Trainee, and then you just resign when March comes around."
My strong belief that this seemed a bit mean was demolished by Julia's even stronger determination that I not be just a lay-about for the fourteen-week summer break. She was twenty-six and had a high work ethic. I was twenty-one and had the work ethic of a sloth. But, ever the easy-going lad, I agreed to join the ranks of the employed and do my bit to care for the mentally ill.
I grew up in an era when disabled and mentally-ill people were kept hidden from view. One rarely saw a Down Syndrome child and there were very few people out and about in wheelchairs. Not only were human imperfections kept hidden from view, with society having no wish to be reminded of them, but even our streets and buildings conspired in this process - there were no ramps, no wide passageways and doorways, no special parking areas and few specially-modified cars. The most confronting things one ever saw were people communicating in sign language and the occasional blind person with an accompanying cane or dog.
At one stage, I had an English Lit teacher with only one hand. She wore the usual black teacher's robe in such a way that the missing body-part was not readily apparent. I vividly recall how shocked we all were when realisation set in. We did not lack compassion - what we lacked was experience; we were accustomed only to the highly-sanitised view of life that society preferred to show us.
It was in such a world that I came to be a Trainee Psychiatric Nurse on a three-month probationary period. The only experiences I brought to the role were my own hideous childhood abuse and time spent with an intellectually-disabled friend in Spain. I guess I also brought considerable broad-mindedness and a sense of humour. I was to draw heavily on these happy qualities in the weeks ahead.
Naturally I was thrown in at the deep end. The men's "locked ward", the place where the most dangerous inmates - I cannot call them patients - were held captive. I can still see the day room of that ward on a typical morning at 6.30 am. The pyjama-clad inmates either sat slumped in armchairs around the perimeter of the room or else wandered about aimlessly, muttering or gesturing at no one and nothing. Above this congregation of heavily medicated men there lay a thick pall of cigarette smoke. And, permeating this large room were the odours of sweat, stale urine and halitosis.
My first real task was to assist in the morning shower routine. What a nightmare that was, and what a disgraceful dehumanisation of one's fellow man. I once lent a book to an acquaintance who claimed to be deeply interested in the Holocaust. It was a haunting account of the depths to which mankind can sink and, when he returned it, I asked if it had affected him as deeply as it had me. His response appalled me. He said he'd been fascinated by the photographs of young boys standing naked for roll-call and the images of elderly men as they queued to be "inspected". He considered that some of them were surprisingly well hung and he attributed this to the emaciation of the rest of their bodies. I had viewed the same pictures and seen only tragedy and despair. Needless to say, our acquaintanceship did not ripen into friendship.
I dare say he would have been equally fascinated by shower-time in the psych ward. Like lambs being urged through a trough of sheep-dip, grown men were obliged to queue naked and await their turn to occupy a place under the row of shower heads. Most were so medicated that they had no concern about modesty or privacy, but some, particularly the elderly and the teenagers, did their best to cup their genitals with one hand and thus preserve a modicum of privacy. And yes, one saw large cocks and small ones, circumcised dicks and ones with abundant foreskins, huge scrotums that looked like udders and others that were smaller than a coin-purse; but, most of all, one sensed an echo of the holocaust and I felt embarrassed and ashamed to be part of this grotesque daily ritual.
Turn around!
Wash the shit off your arse!
Pull back your foreskin!
Use the soap!
Wash your hair!
Give your balls a scrub!
Time's up!
Get out!
Next!
Thank God we had no water cannon!
As far as it is possible to amuse oneself in such an environment, I did derive some initial satisfaction from reading through each inmate's file. It was a revelation to me to discover that we housed one guy who had slashed someone's throat with a knife; another young man who was convinced that his head was perfectly square; guys who heard voices and saw visions; and - saddest of all - elderly men whose one flaw was a dementia that their families could no longer tolerate and for whom no other facility existed. This initial burst of enthusiasm to read case files very quickly palled. My interest waned as I came to realise that - though each man man had a unique story - there was a depressing sameness and despair within each folder.
I was assigned to supervise the daily shaves as well. At this time, men still shaved with the old-fashioned razors that required a wafer-thin and wicked two-edged blade to be inserted and screwed into place. It did little for my equanimity that the very first person whose shave I supervised - in a locked bathroom - was the guy who had allegedly slashed his girlfriend's throat! He was one of the few who were not pumped full of Largactyl, so I did not have the luxury of dealing with someone too sedated to execute a blitz attack. Fortunately he seemed to like me and no attack took place, but I remember feeling charged with adrenalin throughout our time in the shaving area.
I should mention that I was not totally immune to the charms of some inmates. The Slasher, for example, was a very handsome guy in his mid-twenties. He had lovely copper-coloured hair and a slim but well-defined physique. The men came straight from the showers to have their shave. Most made an attempt to keep a towel around their waist, but the Slasher did not bother with this and I can recall noticing what a splendidly long and thick cock hung beneath his coppery-gold pubic hair and bumped against the hand-basin as he shaved.
Some time later it was discovered that he had been putting this generous endowment to good use by fucking some of the younger guys in his dormitory, boys who were too simple or too medicated to deal with his attentions. At night, only a skeleton staff was on duty and this was generally sufficient as most inmates were too woozy to do anything but sleep. The Slasher was easily able to slip in and out of beds and have his way with unconscious youngsters. God knows whether the parents of these abused youngsters were ever informed. I suspect not. After all, I was in a place where the underlying philosophy was "out of sight, out of mind".
Those first few weeks were harrowing. I assisted with electro-convulsive therapy and it shocked me to see guys seemingly being electrocuted before my eyes. I watched as clamps were attached to their heads; I helped to strap them to the gurney; I watched as they convulsed and frothed at the mouth; and I wondered whether this was torture or therapy. To this day I am conflicted on the subject of ECT - I cannot decide whether it has validity or not. I am aware of success stories but I have also spoken with people - people who were involuntary patients - who dreaded every moment before the procedure and who dreaded the aftermath, when they awoke to a paralysing headache and feelings that their minds had been tampered with.
Having survived my baptism of fire in the strict security men's ward, I was next assigned to night duty in an unlocked ward dedicated to alcoholics and dementia patients. My chief duties here were to tip-toe through the dormitory every hour on the hour, pausing to listen closely at each bed and ensure every man was still breathing. I was also expected to check for bed-wetting - which was endemic - and change the bed-linen whenever a leak was detected - which was about five times a night! I became highly skilled at persuading sedated old men to get up, change their clothes and sit while I stripped and re-made their beds. It is a skill that came in handy when one of my own children went through a prolonged bedwetting phase several years later.
My other claim to fame in this ward was being at the centre of the great coughing scandal. Not a drinker myself and fairly naive in many ways, it never occurred to me to be suspicious when - night after night - a queue of men were at my office door with nasty hacking coughs and plaintive requests for some cough medicine before bedtime. I dispensed the thick red liquid liberally. How was I to know that cough medicine contains alcohol? And if it does, then why the hell were so many bottles of the stuff kept in the medicine cupboard? How was I to know that all these bottles had been confiscated from patients? Okay, so my guys were half-pissed each night, but at least they were happy. And they worshipped me!
It was a blot on my record, but I was soon to redeem myself forever during the great "Let's-put-a-male-nurse-in-the-women's-ward" experiment! More about that shortly.
"But I'll be back at university by the end of summer" I protested.
"That doesn't matter. Just pretend you're really interested in psych nursing, they'll put you on as a Trainee, and then you just resign when March comes around."
My strong belief that this seemed a bit mean was demolished by Julia's even stronger determination that I not be just a lay-about for the fourteen-week summer break. She was twenty-six and had a high work ethic. I was twenty-one and had the work ethic of a sloth. But, ever the easy-going lad, I agreed to join the ranks of the employed and do my bit to care for the mentally ill.
I grew up in an era when disabled and mentally-ill people were kept hidden from view. One rarely saw a Down Syndrome child and there were very few people out and about in wheelchairs. Not only were human imperfections kept hidden from view, with society having no wish to be reminded of them, but even our streets and buildings conspired in this process - there were no ramps, no wide passageways and doorways, no special parking areas and few specially-modified cars. The most confronting things one ever saw were people communicating in sign language and the occasional blind person with an accompanying cane or dog.
At one stage, I had an English Lit teacher with only one hand. She wore the usual black teacher's robe in such a way that the missing body-part was not readily apparent. I vividly recall how shocked we all were when realisation set in. We did not lack compassion - what we lacked was experience; we were accustomed only to the highly-sanitised view of life that society preferred to show us.
It was in such a world that I came to be a Trainee Psychiatric Nurse on a three-month probationary period. The only experiences I brought to the role were my own hideous childhood abuse and time spent with an intellectually-disabled friend in Spain. I guess I also brought considerable broad-mindedness and a sense of humour. I was to draw heavily on these happy qualities in the weeks ahead.
Naturally I was thrown in at the deep end. The men's "locked ward", the place where the most dangerous inmates - I cannot call them patients - were held captive. I can still see the day room of that ward on a typical morning at 6.30 am. The pyjama-clad inmates either sat slumped in armchairs around the perimeter of the room or else wandered about aimlessly, muttering or gesturing at no one and nothing. Above this congregation of heavily medicated men there lay a thick pall of cigarette smoke. And, permeating this large room were the odours of sweat, stale urine and halitosis.
My first real task was to assist in the morning shower routine. What a nightmare that was, and what a disgraceful dehumanisation of one's fellow man. I once lent a book to an acquaintance who claimed to be deeply interested in the Holocaust. It was a haunting account of the depths to which mankind can sink and, when he returned it, I asked if it had affected him as deeply as it had me. His response appalled me. He said he'd been fascinated by the photographs of young boys standing naked for roll-call and the images of elderly men as they queued to be "inspected". He considered that some of them were surprisingly well hung and he attributed this to the emaciation of the rest of their bodies. I had viewed the same pictures and seen only tragedy and despair. Needless to say, our acquaintanceship did not ripen into friendship.
I dare say he would have been equally fascinated by shower-time in the psych ward. Like lambs being urged through a trough of sheep-dip, grown men were obliged to queue naked and await their turn to occupy a place under the row of shower heads. Most were so medicated that they had no concern about modesty or privacy, but some, particularly the elderly and the teenagers, did their best to cup their genitals with one hand and thus preserve a modicum of privacy. And yes, one saw large cocks and small ones, circumcised dicks and ones with abundant foreskins, huge scrotums that looked like udders and others that were smaller than a coin-purse; but, most of all, one sensed an echo of the holocaust and I felt embarrassed and ashamed to be part of this grotesque daily ritual.
Turn around!
Wash the shit off your arse!
Pull back your foreskin!
Use the soap!
Wash your hair!
Give your balls a scrub!
Time's up!
Get out!
Next!
Thank God we had no water cannon!
As far as it is possible to amuse oneself in such an environment, I did derive some initial satisfaction from reading through each inmate's file. It was a revelation to me to discover that we housed one guy who had slashed someone's throat with a knife; another young man who was convinced that his head was perfectly square; guys who heard voices and saw visions; and - saddest of all - elderly men whose one flaw was a dementia that their families could no longer tolerate and for whom no other facility existed. This initial burst of enthusiasm to read case files very quickly palled. My interest waned as I came to realise that - though each man man had a unique story - there was a depressing sameness and despair within each folder.
I was assigned to supervise the daily shaves as well. At this time, men still shaved with the old-fashioned razors that required a wafer-thin and wicked two-edged blade to be inserted and screwed into place. It did little for my equanimity that the very first person whose shave I supervised - in a locked bathroom - was the guy who had allegedly slashed his girlfriend's throat! He was one of the few who were not pumped full of Largactyl, so I did not have the luxury of dealing with someone too sedated to execute a blitz attack. Fortunately he seemed to like me and no attack took place, but I remember feeling charged with adrenalin throughout our time in the shaving area.
I should mention that I was not totally immune to the charms of some inmates. The Slasher, for example, was a very handsome guy in his mid-twenties. He had lovely copper-coloured hair and a slim but well-defined physique. The men came straight from the showers to have their shave. Most made an attempt to keep a towel around their waist, but the Slasher did not bother with this and I can recall noticing what a splendidly long and thick cock hung beneath his coppery-gold pubic hair and bumped against the hand-basin as he shaved.
Some time later it was discovered that he had been putting this generous endowment to good use by fucking some of the younger guys in his dormitory, boys who were too simple or too medicated to deal with his attentions. At night, only a skeleton staff was on duty and this was generally sufficient as most inmates were too woozy to do anything but sleep. The Slasher was easily able to slip in and out of beds and have his way with unconscious youngsters. God knows whether the parents of these abused youngsters were ever informed. I suspect not. After all, I was in a place where the underlying philosophy was "out of sight, out of mind".
Those first few weeks were harrowing. I assisted with electro-convulsive therapy and it shocked me to see guys seemingly being electrocuted before my eyes. I watched as clamps were attached to their heads; I helped to strap them to the gurney; I watched as they convulsed and frothed at the mouth; and I wondered whether this was torture or therapy. To this day I am conflicted on the subject of ECT - I cannot decide whether it has validity or not. I am aware of success stories but I have also spoken with people - people who were involuntary patients - who dreaded every moment before the procedure and who dreaded the aftermath, when they awoke to a paralysing headache and feelings that their minds had been tampered with.
Having survived my baptism of fire in the strict security men's ward, I was next assigned to night duty in an unlocked ward dedicated to alcoholics and dementia patients. My chief duties here were to tip-toe through the dormitory every hour on the hour, pausing to listen closely at each bed and ensure every man was still breathing. I was also expected to check for bed-wetting - which was endemic - and change the bed-linen whenever a leak was detected - which was about five times a night! I became highly skilled at persuading sedated old men to get up, change their clothes and sit while I stripped and re-made their beds. It is a skill that came in handy when one of my own children went through a prolonged bedwetting phase several years later.
My other claim to fame in this ward was being at the centre of the great coughing scandal. Not a drinker myself and fairly naive in many ways, it never occurred to me to be suspicious when - night after night - a queue of men were at my office door with nasty hacking coughs and plaintive requests for some cough medicine before bedtime. I dispensed the thick red liquid liberally. How was I to know that cough medicine contains alcohol? And if it does, then why the hell were so many bottles of the stuff kept in the medicine cupboard? How was I to know that all these bottles had been confiscated from patients? Okay, so my guys were half-pissed each night, but at least they were happy. And they worshipped me!
It was a blot on my record, but I was soon to redeem myself forever during the great "Let's-put-a-male-nurse-in-the-women's-ward" experiment! More about that shortly.
