“That is much of the problem – families confuse better mental health with likes and dislikes.
You may not like some of our treatments, but they have been tested through the course of time.”
“Yeah, make ‘em or break ‘em!”
“No, we don’t break anyone – we mend them, our patients come to us broken”
The patient has continued to develop a bond with Shaw, becoming more engaged and talkative. I am judicious about my presence in the room, only appearing at the beginning or an end of sessions to make my own inventory of the room and its circumstances.
Today Shaw confided in me his growing unease.
“He keeps telling me things, grabbing and holding my hand like a drowning man clinging to a buoy.”
“That would suggest the depth of his trust in you.”
“But what he tells me makes no sense!”
“He is not here by accident, Orderly.”
“He’s so serious about it, though. Yester morning when I came in he looked almost relieved, grateful to see me. He kept shaking his head as though to clear it of some thought, and would often seize up, his body tensing, eyes fixed on some unknown point. His lips parted, but not to speak, and he’d remain so, intent. Then he looked to me, staring deeply, and beseeched me, 'you hear them, don’t you?'
'I don’t hear anything,' I assured him.
His head snapped away his gaze, and he resumed the same, tensed, intent disposition. I wasn’t sure he was speaking to me.
'I don’t hear them all the time, just as I don’t see them always. But I do, and I know they are here.'
His breathing had become sharp, and more erratic.
And then suddenly stopped, held deathly still for a moment, and reverted to a calmer repose.
He looked up at me, mildly, but did not speak again throughout our session."
“He has subsequently returned to the topic?”
“This afternoon. I came upon him in mid-utterance, though not to me. He gave no indication he knew or not my presence, but continued what appeared some form of converse, speaking and pausing as though with another. He stopped, and then looking down at the floor held himself so for moments, before shifting up his gaze to me, he implored me silently with his eyes, staring so intently as to demand an answer to a question he presumed we both knew.”
“I didn’t know at first the question! But as I sat beside him he took my hand, as he does, and while gazing at my palm kept muttering, 'You must. You must.' When our eyes met again I smiled to encourage him, and he answered – 'Don’t you hear them? The children.'
'There are no children at the King James, sir.' He stared more darkly at me, but said no more.
But I’m right, aren’t I sir?”
“you are indeed, correct – there are no children at the King James.”
“The hand he grasps – it’s the one you cut, yes?”
Excerpt from Orderly Shaw’s journal –
I tell myself that its nothing, that I’m thinking too much of it – but his stare – I cant get his stare out of my mind.
He seems so helpless at times, agitated, convinced we are not alone, even when the Administrator has left the room and it is indeed just us two. I find myself straining to hear whatever his condition makes him think he hears, and I almost dare not admit to myself, but once or twice, I could swear I heard…something? A voice, a whisper. But its nothing – I know that its nothing.
My hand has started to bleed again, though the wound wasn’t deep, and previously had healed. Could he have cut it, open?
Again, what am I thinking? – he needs my help, not my accusation. But the way he grasps my hand, and stares…I’m afraid. I know I shouldn’t be, and the Administrator would have me dismissed should I dare tell him – and I daren’t!. but I am.
But I’m also afraid, the Administrator knows…the way he looks at me
