Selma Soley

Contributing Writer

During summer vacation, I spent most of my days wrapped in a white blanket and playing with a plethora of puzzles in the psych–ward. Like everyone there I wore blue scrubs except I was working the floor as a nursing assistant.  

As a pre-med student at ESU I was encouraged to work in the medical field to gain experience which could be used for my medical school application. So, the second semester of freshman year I submitted many job applications. A few months later and after several rejections I was finally called in for an interview. 

Working as a nursing assistant, my job description was to complete all the menial tasks that were below the nurses’ pay grades. I would clean up incontinent patients, feed them dry and unseasoned grilled chicken with a side of steamed carrots, change their beds with rough cotton fitted sheets, and take vitals and test their blood sugar levels. I also observed patients downed in blue paper scrubs who are suicidal or have severe mental illnesses and are a safety hazard to themselves and others.  

In the hospital I worked at unit 6B was the mental health unit. The first time I was assigned to the unit I dreaded the experience due to the stigma and stories I heard. I took my time, mentally steeling myself against the unexpected, slowly dragging my feet across the waxed tiles as I trudged to the elevator. Scanning my plastic ID badge, and with a “beep”, I got through the first set of locked double doors. The scuffed laminate floorboards creaked as I approached the second doorway hitting the green plastic exit button to unlock the entrance on my way to my first 6B patient encounter.  

At that time King was confined to his room, locked in restraints on his wooden platform bed yelling at the staff member I was about to relieve. King, distraught about the lack of blue Mountain Dew and Wawa mac and cheese, refused to take his meds resulting in a scuffle with security, an Ativan injection, and an upgrade in his room.

After the nurse gave me a report on the patient’s status, I sat in the stiff chair clenching the wooden clipboard in my hands as I peered through the slim reinforced window into the seclusion room. The walls were lined with tan padding and King, lounging on his bed seemingly unbothered about being restrained, was laughing. Pen in hand, I recorded everything his majesty did; his behavior, how much he ate, and even the mLs of urine he voided. After a week of compliant behavior King was released from his room.  

His red robe billowed behind him, blue scrubs shuffling, as he strutted about the tight corridors of 6B. I had my clipboard and black pen in my hand as I trailed behind him, stopping every fifteen minutes to document his actions and behavior.

When King had his confrontational arguments with other patients, I would step back and call for help, pressing the black alarm bell around my neck. Usually on sunny days we would look out his window and watch the football field of the college campus. At the age of twenty-four King spent most of his time in and out of mental facilities and was unable to have a life like others, so his college experience was watching the scrimmages from the steel grilled window in the tower of 6B downed in paper scrubs.   

Unit 6B is also where I met Amber, mother of two sons, suffering from severe bipolar disorder and depression. Her overdose required her to be monitored with a telemetry box. As I placed the stickers on her chest, she told me a bit about herself. After connecting her monitor I pulled the blinds open allowing the warm sunlight to stream from the large double paned window and we watched the small cars drive by until another staff member came to relieve me. As I shut the heavy door and walked down the green hallway to the nurses’ station, I heard Amber shout “My son he is in a trafficking ring. Security! Help me!” … Her two sons visited her the day before.  

Ms. Rodreguez was my third assignment. She claimed that she was the owner of the hospital and all the nurses who did not listen to her were fired. She rambled about being a government official in thirty different countries as she stirred her decaffeinated tea, she made with cold tap water. She enjoyed listening to Eminem on the TV in the recreation room and playing Parcheesi with me, making up the rules as we played. After her third Styrofoam cup of cold tea, she would request for a new set of blue paper scrubs and would shower and put on her smiley face socks and go to “speak” with her ten boyfriends from the Saudi Arabia. 

In group therapy, I would sit on a worn-out yoga mat with puzzle pieces strewed around me as I documented all the patients’ actions. Most patients enjoy socialization and activities participating in the group healing exercises. Every day at the end of my shift the patients congregate in the dining room in their blue paper scrubs to drink decaffeinated coffee or tea as they listen to rap or classical music. After restocking the snack supply, I would join them, sitting on the weighted plastic chair and watching the sunset, its warm glow passing through the patients’ multicolor mandalas taped to the windows. 

After school started, I continued to go to work and spend time with the patients on 6B. As a student I often feel anxious and overwhelmed at times. Before, I used to internalize my stress and did not have an outlet for my pent-up emotions. But my experience working at the behavior health unit helped me understand the importance of mental health and the effects it could have on my academic progress and personal life.  

Patient names have been changed in the story to comply with patient privacy laws and staff HIPAA contracts.