1972 - When I Was In The Mental Hospital

In ’72 I gave up driving a cab to take a Nursing Aide position at Downey Hospital which I was told was the largest mental health facility in the US. There were a few stories from that year but one of the first things I learned to say when I prefaced any story was “When I worked at the mental hospital...” instead of...


1972 – When I Was In The Mental Hospital

“No!! Get away!!” Mr. Harris shouted, waving his arms around his head as though he was being attacked by a flock of birds. “No!!” He leaned back and closed his eyes, striking out with a wild right-handed roundhouse. He was a slight, tiny man about 5’2” with snow-white hair and dressed in his usual too-big pants held up by suspenders with his slippers peeking out from under his dragging cuffs. Likewise the shirt was just a little too big but Mr. Harris usually wore these ill-fitting clothes with dignity that reflected a completely different life before he took up residence in the hospital. Although, normally, he could barely shuffle down the hallway to the ward cafeteria he was now showing more energy and mobility than I had seen him display previously. “Stop!!” He shouted to the air.

There was no one there.

Approaching from behind I gently took Mr. Harris by the shoulders, being careful to keep my eye out for any wild swings. “We’ve got soup today, Mr. Harris.” I moved around so he could clearly see me. His wild eyes focused on my face and he immediately calmed.

“Ohh…G’soup t’day.” He said, his recent hallucination already forgotten. He sat and Mrs. Turner, the dietician served him a bowl of broth.

“Here ‘yago Mr. Harris! I have a nice bowl of soup for you today!” She looked lovingly at Mr. Harris. She looked up at me and smiled. She had known Mr. Harris for several years now and cared for each and every one of her patients. “G’soup t’day?”

Mr. Harris looked down at his bowl, “G’soup t’day!” said Mr. Harris.

Mrs. Turner was a very round and very dark woman with a boundless smile and a caring personality topped by a professional attitude and a lifetime of experience. She bustled her hardy 5’5” inch frame around the room assuring every special diet was accounted for and assured no one was stealing from a table-mates’ plate where the food may have been solid instead of creamed (yuck) or include bread or potatoes or something else which would be restricted from some diets. She supervised her kitchen staff well, demanding service, accuracy and quality with a gentle but firm hand. The aides stood off to the side at various places in the cafeteria. We stayed out-of-the-way while still remaining available if an event occurred that required our assistance. I glanced over at Anita, engrossed in conversation with Anne. Marty stood near the door primping his hair and straightening his creases.

Marty, had shown up that morning in a nurses uniform and had just gotten back from going home to change. I guess management didn’t have the same sense of humor the rest of us did when it came to Marty…but then you had to know Marty.

I believe Marty was the darkest person I have ever known. There was almost a void in space where his body resided…man, he was black…and as big and bright as the Las Vegas Strip. He had a bright orange/blond shock of hair that was straightened and cut short with the intent that it should lie down but his hair fought against this condition as soon as Marty left the mirror, spiking out in random places all over his head. Marty wasn’t just flaming – Marty was the sun…Marty was a welders spark…Marty was the core of a Nova. Marty was just a little gay – which is like saying the sun is a little warm as Marty was OUT THERE…and a great friend. Marty wouldn’t hesitate to tell anyone that “When I was a Marine I got more tail than anyone else.” I didn’t ask for details. Marty and I started the same day and went through all of our training together. When we were finally assigned to a ward we wound up on the same floor of the same building.

Anne and ‘Nita were also black Americans and wonderful people with huge hearts truly caring for the patients like they were their own. Anne was the “old hand” on the ward although she was only in her early 40’s, but she had worked a Downey for most of her adult life and had known most of her patients for a large part of that time. Anne was the “mother” to us all and led the aides with humor and a fierce determination to do what was best for her patients.

Our ward was a Geriatrics ward where residence was not determined by age but condition and the doubt that they would ever return home – they would not. Bob was the youngest patient on the ward and was barely 40-years old. Bob, like everyone else in the building would not be returning home for any length of time. He had been in a auto accident in Germany while he was in the Army and sustained brain damage that made him extremely simple but extremely lovable – kinda like a big puppy-dog. And he was a big guy. He was the 2nd tallest person on the ward and only surpassed by Mr. Vannich who was hospitalized with Tourettes Disease who wandered up and down the ward all day holding his cancerous throat groaning out obscenities and nonsensical utterances. Where Bob was like a puppy-dog Mr. Vannich was more like an unfriendly giant. Although he didn’t fight when he was physically directed toward which ever activity the ward was involved in, whether Swimming Therapy or Occupational Therapy, he also didn’t bend over backwards to cooperate. On one occasion he became very resistant and I was forced to “pull rank” on him.

Pulling Rank was actually very easy as we aides were graphically set apart from the patients as the patients dressed in street clothes – aides dressed in a white uniform with a big set of keys at the end of a long chain. The guy with the key had the power – they all knew it and our advantages, both physical and mental was illustrated by this uniform.

On the day in question Mr. Vannich was directed, along with the rest of the patients, to the day-room where they would all get shaven with one of the electric shavers kept on the ward for this purpose. Mr. Vannich didn’t want to go and resisted by doing nothing. He stood next to the door to the dayroom, staring and holding his throat refusing to enter. Eventually he was the last to be shorn and Anne asked me to help move him. Guys in the ward always wielded more power than any of the women which was a result of most patients being from a generation where women didn’t give orders and the fact that most of them could overpower the women easier than the guys, who would fight back. I walked up to Mr. Vannich who towered over my 5’5” by at least a foot and probably much more as he was around 6’9”, and poked my finger into his chest. I looked up and boldly said, “Mr. Vannich it’s time to get a shave! Comeon! Lets go!” He looked over my head, held his neck and said “Why-o God-damn cock-breath mother-er-e-o damn whee-o-why,” and whipped his right arm around toward me. I ducked & heard a violent “SLAM” as his hand contacted the thermostat mounted on the concrete block wall. I looked up from my position crouched just underneath the height of his swing. I saw the thermostat had been pounded into a hole in the concrete block with the single blow of his fist.

There wasn’t even a scratch on his hand.

Mr. Vannich didn’t get a shave that day.

Anita was not much older than me but single with a young son. Anita was a lot of fun and, like almost everyone else on staff, a caring, wonderful person. I met Anita the day I interviewed as I was returning to the same building I had left following my interview 15-minutes before. She and another aide were searching for a patient that had wondered off and were searching along the fence line the hospital shared with Great Lakes Boot Camp. Patients frequently climbed the fence in an effort to escape. They were escaping from a place that had a gate which was never closed or locked and had access to a main road. If they escaped over the fence and into boot camp, there was a gate and guards who were experienced in returning our patients to us. Usually the escape was obvious as the patient often was clothed in pajamas as well as being much older than a Naval Recruit. After leaving my job interview I was walking along the road when I noticed I was overtaking a slow-moving gentleman in pajamas who didn’t really seem to have any purpose or intent…he was just walking. As I came up alongside I gave a cheery “Hello!” and looked into his face. There was no recognition or acknowledgement I was even there. This was, evidently, a patient who had simply walked out the front gate. I slipped my arm into his and, as I stood in place, he pivoted around me until we were headed in the opposite direction. We quietly walked the two-blocks back to the hospital where I met Anita coming around the corner of the building. She thanked me for waking her patient back not knowing I would be working on her ward, in her building and with her within the next couple of weeks.

After just a couple of months I found myself dropping right into the 7/24 life of a Nursing Aide, including my participation with the usual activity every day at 1:00 – Watching the soap opera General Hospital. I had been watching on a regular basis for a couple of weeks when on my day off I heard myself utter these words of terror: “I have to get home for my story.” I could barely grasp the fact that I was hooked on daytime soap opera TV. This had to be dealt with which I did my next work day by retiring to the day-room at the opposite end of the ward. One day-room had 2-TVs and they were turned everyday to the soaps which was where all of the aides and most of the patients hung out. The other dayroom had a TV but it was rarely on. This was where I headed. With 2 pool-tables I figured I would knock some balls around until the soaps were over. During my second day of this Mr. Johnson asked me if he could play with me. He began bragging about how he used to play for a living but it sounded like any one of a dozen stories these guys had that were often more wishful thinking than personal history. Now Mr. Johnson…he had the palsy. He shook violently with every step but managed to still get around although with difficulty. He ambled over to the rack of cues shaking like a wet dog all the way over and while he choose a stick. He pulled one of the sticks off the rack and looked down the shaft although his shaking was so violent I figured this was more of a habit than an actual evaluation of the straightness of the stick. Mr. Johnson shook and vibrated over to the table and asked me if I wanted to break. I took a long draw on my stick and hit the balls dead center. They moved a few inches apart and rolled slowly to a stop. Mr. Johnson shook and vibrated around the table making almost a complete circuit before he stopped and, waving a shaky, jerking finger at the table he said “3-ball corner-pocket.” As he lifted the point of the cue it shook like a flag in the wind…but as the cue descended towards the table all tremors disappeared and his arms became steady as rocks. He pulled back and BANG – 3-ball corner pocket. He continued his trip around the table still shaking like a high-speed car with a flat tire. 7-ball, 2-cushions, side-pocket. Again the vibrating stick pointed towards the heavens but descended solid as granite – BANG – 7-ball, 2-cushions, side-pocket – AMAZING!!

Mr. Johnson and I played on a regular basis thereafter until he was transferred off ward for a medical problem. We had several months of pleasure before he was taken with an illness and transferred to the medical building.

Ok, this is the hard part – the stuff I don’t often admit – as much as I like people in general and believe myself to be kind in my heart and in my actions…but a year working here changed me. See, there was this directive that an aide might hear on occasion: “It seems he needs some motivational therapy.” This statement often came from a doctor or nurse. No one told us what to do but I was trained by other male aides that this statement meant we had a patient who was refusing to care for themselves. The patients in our ward were long-term patients and many had already been there for decades. These gentlemen knew very well how to work the system. They knew if they didn’t want to feed themselves, we would. They knew if they didn’t want to go to the bathroom in the actual bathroom one of us would clean-up both them and the chair or bed. Then they would get a personal hand-shower and then re-dressing if required. This was not a desirable scenario, not because we didn’t want to work but because the patents were so old and in such bad physical conditions that failure to use their legs, or arms or whatever, that they could soon lose the ability to walk, carry or reach if the muscles weren’t used. We were told the patient needed motivation to help themselves for their own good. This was true, without a doubt, but…

Often motivational therapy meant wrapping our hands in towels and going 3-rounds in the shower room with the old guy in question. This was our way of saying, “You WILL get up and walk to the bathroom when you have to go.” In the beginning I felt really bad about this but soon came to realize this really was a valid method of motivation although something less confrontational could be better, this method was fast and gave the results we needed: get up off of your dead ass and move it or you’ll lose it! I rationalized this behavior and reluctantly participated in a couple of these “training sessions” and eventually became inured to the violence of the act. I realized that the technique was quick and it worked and, although it was not preferred, it was effective and efficient. This motivational therapy was probably the biggest reason for leaving the employ of the hospital when I realized, as I was rolling around on the floor with a 67-year old that had gotten his arms around me: I was looking forward to this kind of confrontation.

I was only 22-years old – something was wrong. I saw the change in myself…I didn’t like the change…I did something about it.

I quit.

Next stop...California.