Fancher rocks back in his chair, relaxing. “He’s an extremely troubled and dangerous John Doe. Of course we do everything we can to locate family and get family members involved in the patients’ care, but they’re not always out there, Ms. Saybrook.”
I nod like I’m swallowing his utter bullshit. “Of course.”
“You let me know if you have trouble with him.”
Smile smile smile. “I will! Thank you!”
I leave, telling myself I’m here to count supplies, not draw attention.Supply chain!
That afternoon, I learn that there are two places medications are kept. Pharma One is controlled by a staff pharmacist during the day and locked at night. Pharma Two is where we get medications that don’t require a pharmacist’s sign-off—the kind of stuff you’d find in a drugstore, including ephedrine, which is one of the substances I need to keep an eye on. I’ll figure out who’s doing the ordering and set up a ghost system for tracking it.
Over the next few days, I work on being the invisible observer.
Randall earns his three hours in the general room. Zara and I set a new goal for him: behave well enough in there to earn a drop in meds.
The rewards for the guys here are always either a reduction in the level of restraint and medication or an increase in freedom. It is up to me to suggest rewards for my men to work toward.
But when the patient behaves poorly, Donny and Zara decide on what happens—increase in restraint, increase in meds, reduction of free time out in the coveted general room. And then it’s a climb back up.
I’m like these guys in a way. I fucked up and now I’m digging myself out, trying to regain a few privileges. Win back some professional respect.
I monitor Pharma Two like a hawk. I take my own personal inventory and find out shipment days before the week is up.
On the downside, the smell doesn’t get better. Some days I feel like I’m drenched in antiseptic.
The antiseptic smell brings me back to being trapped in that rubble with those kids. Singing. Maybe a vat of it spilled during the bombing, I don’t know. The smell clings to me at night. More and more, I wake up in the middle of the night gasping for breath, reliving the kitten incident, my sleep broken into useless bits.
Patient 34 is a complete zombie when I visit him the first time on my own—or as much on my own as you can be with three stun-gun-wielding orderlies in the hall. They’re supposed to be watching through the window, but as usual, they’re all on their phones—mostly Facebook and YouTube, from what I’ve noticed.
I carry around two phones—one dummy one, and one in a knee sock holder under my pants. It’s an old habit from the field. You always have a little bit of money and the phone you’re willing to let them steal out and visible, and you hide the stuff you need to protect—the important phone, the real money.
I’m struck again by his beauty. There’s something utterly powerful yet totally vulnerable about him. Somehow, this man hits me right in the gut.
It’s not just about his moment of seeming consciousness; it’s because of how he calls to me. How something in me answers. Just lying there, he calls to me.
I find myself reaching for my important phone—my secret cell—to get the shot.
Taking photos like this is second nature. A shot like this isn’t just about recording a subject, it’s about seeing from a new perspective, seeing more deeply. Honoring something amazing.
I photograph him close up and full body, then I slip the phone away.
I pull out the blood pressure and blood draw stuff. Not even the crinkling paper seems to attract 34’s attention. His face is a perfect blank.
I should be relieved that I’m seeing the blankness everyone else is seeing. Ask most people who fucked up in a big way and they’ll tell you their first goal is simple normalcy.
In truth, I’m disappointed 34 is so blank.
I made that joke, and he smiled yesterday. It was a nice moment. I want that consciousness back, if only just for a moment.
It’s probably a bad sign that the warmest human connection I’ve felt all week is with a guy strapped to a bed in an institute for the mentally ill and dangerous. Because he’s inan institute for thementally ill and dangerous.
I fit the cuff around his arm and press the Velcro pieces together. “You should at least have a name. A fucking name.”
He doesn’t answer. Not that I expected it.
It offends my sense of fair play that he only gets a number. Fancher’s stonewalling offends me even more. “But the family is not always there, Ms. Saybrook,” I repeat under my breath. “Ms. Saybrook.What an asshole. You wanna patronize me? Really?”
Patient 34’s blood pressure is way up yet again. The last thing I want to do is call Zara in again and have her get a normal reading, as though I’m fucking it up.