In the spirit of documenting my journeys to a variety of places, I figure this one counts. Yesterday, I ended up having dinner at the psych ward at the Duke Hospital. Well, strictly speaking, I didn't HAVE dinner, but I sat there with the patients while they ate. I was visiting my brother, who seems to be spending the week there. Now, since my bro was first diagnosed with mental illness (he has schizo-affective disorder, bipolar type) in 1994, I've visited a lot of these facilities. But, apparently, never at mealtime. Most of the times I've visited him it's just me and him in a little room. Occasionally, I'll see someone else in passing, but I've never sat down to dinner with, well, a bunch of psych patients.
It was lovely. Actually, it was quite ordinary. Various complaints about the chicken, which, let's face it, was hospital food and didn't look too lovely. Banter about who had visitors today, who expected them later. Questions about marriages and kids. A woman who had had both of her knees replaced noticed the scar on mine from my ACL and we traded stories about knee surgery and rehab. She also shared that she had been a nurse for more than 30 years before she retired. The folks around that table were ordinary folks, with spouses, kids, and jobs.
My brother was the exception. My brother hasn't really worked since he was diagnosed more than 10 years ago. He's always on the border of homelessness, substance abuse, etc. His life is, for the most part, just trying to get through: to stay sober, to stay on meds, to keep his apartment. And right now, the prospect of his sister moving to Rhode Island (whether she takes him with her or not!) is rocking the boat.
Sigh.
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