Despite copious amounts of sleep, the day still seems extremely long. Yet it holds its own surprising blessings for me, primarily in the form of Nikki and a student social worker named Jeannie. And then, there is Rick.
Jeannie is young with a heart-shaped face, blonde hair, and warm, expressive blue eyes framed by thin-rimmed glasses. Her heart is genuinely open, and her voice is soothing as she repeats for the third, fourth, or ninth time the words I most need to hear in the whole world, "It's not your choice." She means my condition, of course, that it is not my choice to be this way, that I have done nothing wrong on purpose, that it is not my fault. I soak the words in like the refreshing waters of an oasis to a parched traveler in the desert. They literally feel that way to me, rejuvenating my flesh clear down to the bone, awakening my heart in sheer gratitude and the rare sensation of hope.
We are sitting on my bed and it is as if everyone on the ward knows how important these moments are. I offer to move our chat when my roommate stops by, but she says, "No, no, that's okay," and departs.
Kevin pokes his head in almost in alarm -- is Jeannie safe alone with the homicidal baby-endangering maniac? -- and asks, "Are you all right in here?" Jeannie responds with an enthusiastic affirmative, causing him to depart.
When dinner is called, staff actually breaks with protocol and offers to bring mine to my bedroom so Jeannie and I can continue talking. Let me stress emphatically that from what I can tell, they never do that. Rules on the ward are strictly enforced, and one of them is no food in patients' bedrooms. It is as if the entire staff knows the magic Jeannie works with patients and they are making room for that magic to happen.
Our conversation continues through dinner, touching upon anything from what brought me here (the treacherous stranger), how I feel about it (waylaid and punished) to my home life, my condition, medications, and anything else we happen to wander across in conversation. Jeannie is nothing short of a real gem, words of acceptance and reassurance always ready on her lips, her face not a mask but a genuine sculpture of real compassion and caring. By the time dinner and our conversation is through, I have found a brief respite from my fears, and things no longer seem so dire. My roommate returns, pleading for sleep, "Are you all finished yet?" We reassure her the room is all hers now.
