Please note, this event occured in February 2009. It has taken me almost 3 years to be well enough to write it.
As we arrived I was taken through a glass door and told to put all my belongings in a locker. I was then led to a white walled cell with glass doors where I was locked inside. Within the room was a small glass cubicle in which two nurses were sitting while they observed me and the other patients. I was told to sit down and wait and a doctor would see me soon. At first I was calm, as I took in my surroundings. There was one long couch and one L shaped couch arranged to form three sides of a rectangle. To the left was a sink and hot water urn with a sign welcoming patients to use the free tea and coffee facilities. The sink and cupboard below yielded neither tea nor coffee and was completely bare save for one visibly dirty mug. To the right was a room which housed a toilet and small hand basin. There were two other patients waiting. One was a middle-aged woman wrapped in a sarong. She frequently stood up and moved about the room, upsetting her sarong which would occasionally fall off exposing her breasts and underpants. The other patient was a young man, about 16, who had the telltale signs of a cutter – multiple parallel cuts extending the length of both forearms, made more visible by the dried blood congealed on them. After some polite small talk I learned the woman (who spoke in a far away, dazed voice) didn’t know why she was there and that she had been forcibly removed from her home. The boy had seen a doctor and was free to leave as long as his father could collect him. The problem was he couldn’t remember his father’s mobile or work number, and couldn’t remember the company he worked for either.
As I sat, and waited I grew more and more agitated. I asked the nurses in the glass cubicle if I could see my husband and was told to wait to see the doctor. I sat down again and tried to calm down but the anxiety worsened. I tried talking with the other patients but was soon back to the glass cubicle. Shaking and crying I asked again to see Dave and was forcibly told I couldn’t have any drugs until I saw a doctor. I didn’t want drugs, I just wanted to see my husband. Most of the time I spent in there is a blur but I remember lying on the toilet floor crying and screaming, asking for Dave and being told he wasn’t there, and at one point as I rocked back and forth crying uncontrollably the lady patient tried to give me water from the dirty mug while the boy patient wrapped me in a blanket stained with his blood. I don’t know how long this nightmare lasted but I guessed it was at least two hours.
After what felt like an unending nightmare the door opened and I was approached by a gentle and sympathetic hospital worker who told me I was allowed to come out of the cell. He took me to a small office with a couch inside and fetched Dave for me. He apologised for how I was treated and told me the doctor would see me very shortly. Soon I had the referral I needed, but still did not have $3000. The doctor said they would find a bed for me there if I could not afford the private hospital. I felt as though I would rather die. In a final, last-ditch attempt we phoned some close friends. Feeling intensely uncomfortable we explained the situation and asked if they could help us out. Understandably, they told us they’d discuss it and phone us back. A few minutes later Dave’s phone rang and our friends told us they’d be happy to help us with a loan and would set up an installment plan for repayment. As Dave hung up the phone we both burst into tears of relief and joy. The hospital liaised with the Brisbane Centre for Post Natal Disorders, lifted my “involuntary patient” status and sent us home to pack for my stay in hospital.
