A part of me has felt missing since two weeks ago, when I turned my badge and keys in. I miss seeing the faces that were so happy to see me, as I was so happy to see them. The groups and therapy sessions that filled my afternoons feel now like distant memories, and I miss the individuals I visited with so frequently.
If it were up to me, I'd continue to volunteer. Being that I have classes five days a week, however, and sprawled out throughout the day, there just is no way it would have worked out. And due to the nature of how I turned my keys in, I wasn't able to say goodbye. I think that's what really hurts. I didn't get to tell the people I spent months building trust with that I had to go. I didn't know I wouldn't have that final chance...
Regardless, I have embarked on a life-changing experience that will remain with me wherever I go from here. I hope to one day sit down and create a lengthy description of the things I experienced towards the last half of my internship, but that day isn't today. For now, I have my memories and my hope for recovery for the many unique and beautiful people I encountered.
Whether I will return to volunteer at the same ward during the summer, I don't know yet. I would love to... things just haven't been the same since.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
11/3/2010
I've unfortunately failed to update this blog as much as I had initially planned to, and have lost track of my days at the hospital. For this reason, I will begin to date each post as opposed to displaying which day I am describing.
A lot has occurred since I last updated, and far too much to delve into here. I felt compelled to make a post today based on a brief discussion I observed taking place between one of the therapists and volunteers earlier. The therapist confirmed what I feel some of the higher-educated hospital staff must be feeling in their occupation there: they are not being utilized in the way they were trained.
"I found myself, a few months ago, driving to work, and feeling as though I'm dragging myself there," the therapist began. "That's not how I planned for this to be. That's not what I feel all the schooling I went through is for. I have attempted to provide so much reform in the lesson plans for group sessions here, and it seems as though the people making decisions for me don't understand the importance of what type of therapy I should be conducting. I see a lot of lower-functioning patients lately, and the type of work I am assigned to clearly doesn't work for them. It is above their capability of comprehension, but I am not listened to. I used to get satisfaction out my work when I'd see even minimal change, but now, I feel I am trying to teach a new language."
The volunteer empathized, and asked why no one has bothered to allow for change when they have noticed no result in her current work. "Attempting to change anything is like talking to a wall," she said, defeated. "That's why I hope to earn my doctorate and apply myself elsewhere in a few years. I feel my time here is coming to a close."
What's especially upsetting about this is, she seemed so genuinely affected by it. You could tell she has invested so much effort only to be shut out. I am not sure how many other staff members feel this way, and I am sure it depends on the type of therapy they are assigned to, but this conversation upset me deeply. Here is someone who has the capability of leading change in ways that she has been trained to do, but is being channeled into areas that clearly are not beneficial to the individuals or her. Needless to say, issues such as this need to be readily addressed.
A lot has occurred since I last updated, and far too much to delve into here. I felt compelled to make a post today based on a brief discussion I observed taking place between one of the therapists and volunteers earlier. The therapist confirmed what I feel some of the higher-educated hospital staff must be feeling in their occupation there: they are not being utilized in the way they were trained.
"I found myself, a few months ago, driving to work, and feeling as though I'm dragging myself there," the therapist began. "That's not how I planned for this to be. That's not what I feel all the schooling I went through is for. I have attempted to provide so much reform in the lesson plans for group sessions here, and it seems as though the people making decisions for me don't understand the importance of what type of therapy I should be conducting. I see a lot of lower-functioning patients lately, and the type of work I am assigned to clearly doesn't work for them. It is above their capability of comprehension, but I am not listened to. I used to get satisfaction out my work when I'd see even minimal change, but now, I feel I am trying to teach a new language."
The volunteer empathized, and asked why no one has bothered to allow for change when they have noticed no result in her current work. "Attempting to change anything is like talking to a wall," she said, defeated. "That's why I hope to earn my doctorate and apply myself elsewhere in a few years. I feel my time here is coming to a close."
What's especially upsetting about this is, she seemed so genuinely affected by it. You could tell she has invested so much effort only to be shut out. I am not sure how many other staff members feel this way, and I am sure it depends on the type of therapy they are assigned to, but this conversation upset me deeply. Here is someone who has the capability of leading change in ways that she has been trained to do, but is being channeled into areas that clearly are not beneficial to the individuals or her. Needless to say, issues such as this need to be readily addressed.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Day 14
There are days that keep you smiling for hours after leaving. Today was one of those days. I haven't been feeling too well due to stress and being fairly ill, but I managed to forget it all and have a wonderful time with the individuals in the hospital. I felt like I was of service to people, and that is entirely accomplishing my purpose there.
I have bonded more with Shirley than anybody else at the hospital. Speaking with her is a struggle sometimes, given that her medication fluctuates her mood and ability to interact, but I have managed to have great, uplifting conversations with her. It's disheartening to see her usual smile clouded by a face of over-medicated, blank apathy, and each time I see her, I hope to see her, and not simply an image of her.
Today, however, I noticed she was exhibiting neither a smile nor an expressionless face. She looked sad. I convinced her to get up and shoot some hoops with me, and she expressed rather quickly that she did not feel like herself lately, due to the psychotropic drugs she is taking. She asked me if I would listen to something she wanted to talk to me about, and we sat down and discussed what was making her sad.
After a deep discussion, I could see her mood had been lifted. I felt... therapeutic, in a sense, and did whatever was in my power to bring her to a better state of mind. The serious discussion transitioned into chit-chatting, and soon she decided she'd like to join the ongoing volleyball game. She left me with a smile on her face, and I can't describe how that made me feel.
As she left, Justin took a volleyball break in a seat nearby. Justin has only been at the hospital for a few months. We exchanged hellos, and I could sense he was deciding whether to speak or not. Finally, he began: "Every week, I'm given a taste of freedom when I'm allowed to go out, and it just reminds me more of how much I want to escape this place. I just want to get out. The world outside is so much better."
A moment passed in silence as I took in the disclosure that just took place, and planned what I would say. I couldn't imagine how he must be feeling. "Well Justin," I began, surprising myself, "you seem to have the advantage of appreciating the world outside, knowing what gifts lie out there. That means when you're discharged, you'll never take its beauty for granted, and you'll do everything in your power to not have to return. Is that right?" He paused, staring off. I waited nervously, hoping I hadn't thrown some cliched remark he's heard a million times at him. Finally, he smiled and nodded his head in understanding. "Yeah, you're actually right. Thanks for reminding me. I'll never do what I did to get in here in the first place." He returned to the volleyball game, seemingly more energetic.
These two exchanges may seem very minuscule, but they are world-shattering to me. I see very little disclosure and proactive discussion going on during the outside group, and to acknowledge that I am seen as trustworthy enough to have these sorts of talks with people is so humbling. I came to the hospital with goals of being involved, even though my range is very limited as a volunteer. I quickly learned that volunteers, especially interns fulfilling credit at universities, do not care to do much or have many interaction with patients, and I did not want this for myself. I feel there is a little confusion and surprise on the part of the permanent staff because they see that I am invested in the people at the hospital. I even feel a little hostility from less friendlier staff because of it. Regardless, my goals here are beginning to be realized, and I am happy for it.
Note: I have to supplement this post by stating that I realize my limited power and knowledge as a volunteer. I do not have proper training to be conducting therapy with anybody, so I try and keep my responses as safe as possible. Sometimes, however, all somebody needs is unconditional positive regard and active listening to feel a little better, and I will try to carry this along in my everyday life.
I have bonded more with Shirley than anybody else at the hospital. Speaking with her is a struggle sometimes, given that her medication fluctuates her mood and ability to interact, but I have managed to have great, uplifting conversations with her. It's disheartening to see her usual smile clouded by a face of over-medicated, blank apathy, and each time I see her, I hope to see her, and not simply an image of her.
Today, however, I noticed she was exhibiting neither a smile nor an expressionless face. She looked sad. I convinced her to get up and shoot some hoops with me, and she expressed rather quickly that she did not feel like herself lately, due to the psychotropic drugs she is taking. She asked me if I would listen to something she wanted to talk to me about, and we sat down and discussed what was making her sad.
After a deep discussion, I could see her mood had been lifted. I felt... therapeutic, in a sense, and did whatever was in my power to bring her to a better state of mind. The serious discussion transitioned into chit-chatting, and soon she decided she'd like to join the ongoing volleyball game. She left me with a smile on her face, and I can't describe how that made me feel.
As she left, Justin took a volleyball break in a seat nearby. Justin has only been at the hospital for a few months. We exchanged hellos, and I could sense he was deciding whether to speak or not. Finally, he began: "Every week, I'm given a taste of freedom when I'm allowed to go out, and it just reminds me more of how much I want to escape this place. I just want to get out. The world outside is so much better."
A moment passed in silence as I took in the disclosure that just took place, and planned what I would say. I couldn't imagine how he must be feeling. "Well Justin," I began, surprising myself, "you seem to have the advantage of appreciating the world outside, knowing what gifts lie out there. That means when you're discharged, you'll never take its beauty for granted, and you'll do everything in your power to not have to return. Is that right?" He paused, staring off. I waited nervously, hoping I hadn't thrown some cliched remark he's heard a million times at him. Finally, he smiled and nodded his head in understanding. "Yeah, you're actually right. Thanks for reminding me. I'll never do what I did to get in here in the first place." He returned to the volleyball game, seemingly more energetic.
These two exchanges may seem very minuscule, but they are world-shattering to me. I see very little disclosure and proactive discussion going on during the outside group, and to acknowledge that I am seen as trustworthy enough to have these sorts of talks with people is so humbling. I came to the hospital with goals of being involved, even though my range is very limited as a volunteer. I quickly learned that volunteers, especially interns fulfilling credit at universities, do not care to do much or have many interaction with patients, and I did not want this for myself. I feel there is a little confusion and surprise on the part of the permanent staff because they see that I am invested in the people at the hospital. I even feel a little hostility from less friendlier staff because of it. Regardless, my goals here are beginning to be realized, and I am happy for it.
Note: I have to supplement this post by stating that I realize my limited power and knowledge as a volunteer. I do not have proper training to be conducting therapy with anybody, so I try and keep my responses as safe as possible. Sometimes, however, all somebody needs is unconditional positive regard and active listening to feel a little better, and I will try to carry this along in my everyday life.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Day 13
Thursdays are quickly becoming my favorite days at the hospital. School of Rock is loads of fun for all involved, and everyone gets a spotlight position at least once, whether it be on an instrument or singing.
Shirley was a lot less sedated today and decided she wanted to sing. One of the older staff members on guitar asked her if she knew "Bo Diddley" and began playing the melody. The drummer (an individual residing in the hospital) joined in amazingly. Shirley froze, shook her head, and laughed nervously. "Well, just go along with the music and make something up!" he said. A little hesitantly, she began rocking to the beat and looking around. To everybody's surprise, she suddenly started to improvise lyrics into the mic that were better than what some people could write in hours. She sang about suicide and overcoming those types of thoughts, about having support even when it doesn't feel that way, and more. Her style was a fusion of jazz-punk and she didn't stumble once.
When she was done, the guitar blared out into a solo, leading into the final, diminishing portion of the song. The drummer, who has at least twenty years of experience with a drum set, ended with a spectacular finale. We all broke out in an applause, and I gave Shirley a high-five and a, "Did you really just come up with that on the spot?!" She nodded and asked if it was any good. "Are you kidding me?" I responded. "I couldn't do that if you gave me an hour to prepare!" Shirley was surprised by all the attention she was receiving in the room and went back to her seat behind the keyboard, elated.
This is generally an experience everyone gets to have at some point, and I absolutely love it.
Shirley was a lot less sedated today and decided she wanted to sing. One of the older staff members on guitar asked her if she knew "Bo Diddley" and began playing the melody. The drummer (an individual residing in the hospital) joined in amazingly. Shirley froze, shook her head, and laughed nervously. "Well, just go along with the music and make something up!" he said. A little hesitantly, she began rocking to the beat and looking around. To everybody's surprise, she suddenly started to improvise lyrics into the mic that were better than what some people could write in hours. She sang about suicide and overcoming those types of thoughts, about having support even when it doesn't feel that way, and more. Her style was a fusion of jazz-punk and she didn't stumble once.
When she was done, the guitar blared out into a solo, leading into the final, diminishing portion of the song. The drummer, who has at least twenty years of experience with a drum set, ended with a spectacular finale. We all broke out in an applause, and I gave Shirley a high-five and a, "Did you really just come up with that on the spot?!" She nodded and asked if it was any good. "Are you kidding me?" I responded. "I couldn't do that if you gave me an hour to prepare!" Shirley was surprised by all the attention she was receiving in the room and went back to her seat behind the keyboard, elated.
This is generally an experience everyone gets to have at some point, and I absolutely love it.
Day 12
I found out that a lot of the borderline women in the hospital are addicted to the sedative drug they are injected with upon acting up. It's no surprise, then, to hear that many do crazy things simply to be poked by their beloved shot. And there's no limit to what some will do to feed their desire--- oh no. A psych tech told me about a woman who did everything in her power yesterday to be sedated with no luck. Finally, she felt it necessary to walk around absolutely and entirely naked. She did so, but still was not reinforced.
"If we just keep giving her what she wants," the psych tech began, "we're only feeding into her addiction. That's why we chose to ignore her antics and find alternate ways of keeping her under control. Other units in this hospital wouldn't do that. They'd choose to make their jobs easy by submitting to the patient's addictions, and that's not productive at all." I nodded, and he continued, "And there is no stopping someone when they're out to feed their addiction. Things will be swallowed, body parts will be cut, all in the name of their lovely sedative."
His words were a haunting reminder that while treatment is sought, treatment itself can become problematic. Perhaps sedating people who are out of control is understandable in very specific situations, but it should be a practice reserved only when absolutely necessary, given its addictive nature. I'm glad that at least some staff realize this, and hope it's a practice under close supervision and scrutiny.
"If we just keep giving her what she wants," the psych tech began, "we're only feeding into her addiction. That's why we chose to ignore her antics and find alternate ways of keeping her under control. Other units in this hospital wouldn't do that. They'd choose to make their jobs easy by submitting to the patient's addictions, and that's not productive at all." I nodded, and he continued, "And there is no stopping someone when they're out to feed their addiction. Things will be swallowed, body parts will be cut, all in the name of their lovely sedative."
His words were a haunting reminder that while treatment is sought, treatment itself can become problematic. Perhaps sedating people who are out of control is understandable in very specific situations, but it should be a practice reserved only when absolutely necessary, given its addictive nature. I'm glad that at least some staff realize this, and hope it's a practice under close supervision and scrutiny.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Day 11
Remain genuine.
One difference I have noticed between those that are effective with individuals in the hospital and those that are not is simply genuineness. Are you being real, or are you performing at a bare minimum to keep the green paper stuffed securely in your pocket? Of course money is always a factor with work (you essentially work to receive money), but if you're faking your enthusiasm or concern, people will notice. And no enlightening or knowledge-driven words coming out of your mouth will prove meaningful.
I have mentioned before that workers who are the most genuine in the hospital also happen to be making lower wages. Is it a coincidence? Maybe. But it may say a thing or two about money and its power of corruption, or at least its power of enticing someone away from their original purpose.
The psychiatrist, in particular, amazes me. He has at least eight or nine years of intensive medical training and practice under his belt, but other than renewing prescriptions and upping doses, he has no involvement. His group sessions, which should be health-geared and proactive in nature, simply consist of showing old action movies and making as little eye-contact as needed. Surely this wasn't learned in med school, so what brought it about?
Let's contrast him with one of the social workers. He is making less than half of the amount he was making in his previous career, but carries a smile that cannot be erased. His sessions are focused, goal-oriented, and have led many out of the hospital. He knows everyone in his groups by name, and they are very excited to see him each day. This is where he wants to be and he is doing what he wants to do, and his demeanor shows it.
At the end of the day, being genuine is required, no matter what career or life path you venture down. And you can't be genuine if you dislike what you do. Is success defined by being genuinely involved in a career, or making a lot of money? That's your decision, but Viktor Frankl puts my outlook nicely: "I want you to listen to what your conscience commands you to do and go on to carry it out to the best of your knowledge. Then you will live to see that in the long run-- in the long run, I say!-- success will follow you precisely because you had forgotten to think of it."
Are you the psychiatrist or the social worker?
One difference I have noticed between those that are effective with individuals in the hospital and those that are not is simply genuineness. Are you being real, or are you performing at a bare minimum to keep the green paper stuffed securely in your pocket? Of course money is always a factor with work (you essentially work to receive money), but if you're faking your enthusiasm or concern, people will notice. And no enlightening or knowledge-driven words coming out of your mouth will prove meaningful.
I have mentioned before that workers who are the most genuine in the hospital also happen to be making lower wages. Is it a coincidence? Maybe. But it may say a thing or two about money and its power of corruption, or at least its power of enticing someone away from their original purpose.
The psychiatrist, in particular, amazes me. He has at least eight or nine years of intensive medical training and practice under his belt, but other than renewing prescriptions and upping doses, he has no involvement. His group sessions, which should be health-geared and proactive in nature, simply consist of showing old action movies and making as little eye-contact as needed. Surely this wasn't learned in med school, so what brought it about?
Let's contrast him with one of the social workers. He is making less than half of the amount he was making in his previous career, but carries a smile that cannot be erased. His sessions are focused, goal-oriented, and have led many out of the hospital. He knows everyone in his groups by name, and they are very excited to see him each day. This is where he wants to be and he is doing what he wants to do, and his demeanor shows it.
At the end of the day, being genuine is required, no matter what career or life path you venture down. And you can't be genuine if you dislike what you do. Is success defined by being genuinely involved in a career, or making a lot of money? That's your decision, but Viktor Frankl puts my outlook nicely: "I want you to listen to what your conscience commands you to do and go on to carry it out to the best of your knowledge. Then you will live to see that in the long run-- in the long run, I say!-- success will follow you precisely because you had forgotten to think of it."
Are you the psychiatrist or the social worker?
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Day 9 and 10
I anticipated conflicting feelings about being present at this site. I knew it, but I didn't expect it to come on so strongly. I was aware that I would witness things that I am morally against, but not to the extent that I have. Every day spent at the hospital is an extreme: there are either really bad or really good experiences.
A psychologist who is supposed to be leading a recovery action plan group simply reads stories aloud to patients who clearly cannot focus on her. At the conclusion of her recitation, she went around the room and asked everyone their opinion on what she just read, and reacted strongly when no one could give her anything to work with. "Did anyone even hear my story?!" she said, agitated. A shy man, Arnold, responded apologetically: "We can't pay attention Ms. Faye, we're very sedated." A few others in the room nodded in agreement, hardly able to keep their heads up.
What was probably more disheartening than this was Shirley's state when I saw her. She was clearly heavily drugged, hardly capable of keeping her head up, let alone her eyes open. She was flat, spoke in a monotone, and slipped in and out of focus. It was difficult to keep a conversation flowing with her. She told me that an older lady tried attacking her the night before, but that was really all I could comprehend from her. I tried offering her some encouragement, but she was clearly out of touch. I felt so horrible for her. I wanted to do something, but helplessly realized my futility in the situation.
Just when I felt I couldn't take much else, I joined the school of rock group. It was uplifting, and to see so many people have fun with instruments, singing, and music made my day a little brighter. This group is no joke. We were led into the music room, which houses two electric guitars, one electric bass guitar, two keyboards, a drum set, various percussion instruments, a conga drum, and several microphones. There is a full-on set of musical instruments in there, and I was blown away when I heard the group leader cue everyone to play "Knockin' On Heaven's Door". Before I knew it, the whole room transformed into a rock stadium: guitars were blaring in unison, the drummer was keeping the beat, and multiple singers began harmonizing the lyrics. I was so impressed, I almost forgot to play along with them.
You could tell everyone loves this group. They are eager to assign themselves roles, and many like the attention they get when behind the mic. It's nice to see people enjoying themselves. I'll probably need to make my way in there more often.
On my way out, I was warned never to open bathroom doors for individuals in the hospital. A few days ago, a woman broke a porcelain toilet seat and used the shards to cut herself. This same woman, in her suicidal fury, has swallowed pens, coins, batteries, and whatever she can get her hands on. There really are no bounds for someone who has decided against living, unfortunately.
A psychologist who is supposed to be leading a recovery action plan group simply reads stories aloud to patients who clearly cannot focus on her. At the conclusion of her recitation, she went around the room and asked everyone their opinion on what she just read, and reacted strongly when no one could give her anything to work with. "Did anyone even hear my story?!" she said, agitated. A shy man, Arnold, responded apologetically: "We can't pay attention Ms. Faye, we're very sedated." A few others in the room nodded in agreement, hardly able to keep their heads up.
What was probably more disheartening than this was Shirley's state when I saw her. She was clearly heavily drugged, hardly capable of keeping her head up, let alone her eyes open. She was flat, spoke in a monotone, and slipped in and out of focus. It was difficult to keep a conversation flowing with her. She told me that an older lady tried attacking her the night before, but that was really all I could comprehend from her. I tried offering her some encouragement, but she was clearly out of touch. I felt so horrible for her. I wanted to do something, but helplessly realized my futility in the situation.
Just when I felt I couldn't take much else, I joined the school of rock group. It was uplifting, and to see so many people have fun with instruments, singing, and music made my day a little brighter. This group is no joke. We were led into the music room, which houses two electric guitars, one electric bass guitar, two keyboards, a drum set, various percussion instruments, a conga drum, and several microphones. There is a full-on set of musical instruments in there, and I was blown away when I heard the group leader cue everyone to play "Knockin' On Heaven's Door". Before I knew it, the whole room transformed into a rock stadium: guitars were blaring in unison, the drummer was keeping the beat, and multiple singers began harmonizing the lyrics. I was so impressed, I almost forgot to play along with them.
You could tell everyone loves this group. They are eager to assign themselves roles, and many like the attention they get when behind the mic. It's nice to see people enjoying themselves. I'll probably need to make my way in there more often.
On my way out, I was warned never to open bathroom doors for individuals in the hospital. A few days ago, a woman broke a porcelain toilet seat and used the shards to cut herself. This same woman, in her suicidal fury, has swallowed pens, coins, batteries, and whatever she can get her hands on. There really are no bounds for someone who has decided against living, unfortunately.
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