Stay tuned for fun times in the psych ward, part four. The Mayo Clinic was the only mental ward I was ever in that allowed access to computers and the internet, so it may be awhile before I can regale you with tales of those kooky goings-on of the depressed and drug-dependant [see Twice in Four Months from May 8, 2011 and Fun Times in the Psych Ward from Feb. 2, 2011] that will inevitably occur over the next week or three. But at least this time my newest shrink (last and most long-time one retired in December) let me pick my own date for my anal probe (yes, innocent readers--before entering a mental hospital they check your butt for drugs.) I know that's always been my #1 suicide plan: shove a bunch of drugs up my ass so I can dig them out later to ingest in an environment where I'm subject to 24-hour surveillance. But the medical staff doesn't know me; I could just as easily be faking a mental illness so I could smuggle drugs into the hospital to give them to my co-inmate boyfriend who's in for drug-dependance. These things actually happen, so we are told to justify the anal probes.
At least by now I have some idea what you can't take into the hospital with you. No headbands to hold back your hair while you wash your face. I told them at Mayo I wasn't creative enough to strangle myself with 6 inches of elastic, but nevertheless, no headbands, shoelaces, belts, scarves, some bras, overalls (my favorite comfy clothing), razors, tweezers, nail files, nail clippers, liquid soap--really liquid anything that could have drugs injected into it (which is basically everything you put on your face or body). I remember one hospital wouldn't let you have chapstick, but you could have the kind in the squeezy tube--it was just the opposite of the hospital I'd been in a few months prior. You couldn't have anything but these cheap ballpoint pens at one place and only golf-size pencils at another. I'm going back to the hospital I was in last January '11 but maybe I should take a variety of writing implements in case a recent patient's tried to shove a pencil lead up his vein. If these patients would just contain their suicide attempts to the privacy of their own homes, it would certainly make the whole hospital experience a little less trying for those of us with sense enough not to try to kill ourselves where we're apt to be rescued within fifteen minutes. I've already bought my bar of soap and a crossword puzzle book (thus my concern with regulation pencils) that doesn't have a wire binding. Last time I was in I brought the New York Sunday Best Crossword Puzzles but the staff confiscated it because of that potentially fatal spiral wire binding. They let me have a few pages torn out from it and supposedly were keeping the remainder in my "basket" behind the nurses' desk. Never did see the other 190 crossword puzzles, but when they gave me my suitcase back at the end of my stay, lo and behold, there was the spiral wire all on its lonely. So thoughtful to return that piece of wire--maybe they thought I could experiment with using it as an instrument of death and destruction once I was back home. Ah, what good times to look forward to on Monday!
