Rubber Pencils

The ward had tall windows with a view out on the city. It was very bright in the daytime and I think there was construction nearby. I think I remember flags waving off the cranes. The flat, urban skyline was monotonous, but actually kind of beautiful at night with the bright pinpoints of light scattering the landscape as if the sky had inverted. There were exercise machines next to the windows, but each had handwritten notes taped on indicating they were out of order. Once in a while someone would sit on the bicycle machine and pedal for a minute or two, myself included. Large tables, one I think a disused ping pong, had been placed nearby and each had jigsaw puzzles in various states from barely begun, to nearly finished upon them. One end of the large room had a flat screen television set and the other had an older television mounted in a large entertainment center that had movies on the shelves. Someone might put one on and watch for a while, but not for long usually. You find yourself becoming quite restless very quickly when you’re waiting until you get your brain zapped.

I was in a psychiatric ward for ECT, or Electroconvulsive Therapy, as nearly every other patient there. In such a place, you’re either waiting or recovering. Sure, they had varied group sessions scheduled, yet no more than a few hours a day and not much on therapy days. At least I think so: I can’t be sure because one of the side effects of ECT is memory loss attributed to both the anesthesia and the shocks themselves.

Some things I remember from repetition, and others for uniqueness. What I remember most: dreary boredom, and terror. And the rubber pencils.

You see, nothing that could obviously be used to hurt yourself or others can be allowed in such a place. This means no shoestrings, no drawstrings, no pointy things like pens or pencils. Except for the special pencils they handed out that were all bendy. They didn't write very dark and if you pressed just barely hard enough the “lead” would break off.

I actually had two stays in this ward, but I couldn't tell you if each was for a week, two weeks, nor if there was just a week between, or a month, or more. When my mind wanders back to this time, what I mostly remember is a kind of loathing. It was a dread feeling that pervaded everything from that time. The ECT sessions were terrifying in themselves; however, all my recollections from then contain an underlying existential horror.

The night before a session the staff would distribute two hospital gowns to each of us, one to be put on with the gap in the back, and the other with the gap in the front. They would make certain to wake us by eight (maybe earlier, I can’t recall) and one of the nurses would come and escort me for prep. Doctors and nurses would be huddled around the bed waiting for me. Once I had put myself in place, they would start into this choreographed flurry of actions that made me feel very self-conscious: EKG leads glued all over my body, an IV line stabbed into my hand or arm, a blood pressure cuff fully inflated, electrodes attached to my head, and doctors asking a boilerplate battery of questions to test my cognitive state. This whole while I would be calm and compliant outwardly, but absolutely terrified within.

The chief nurse would then get everything started by turning to me. He was a little older than me, with mostly white hair. He had an earnest, caring face, but I absolutely dreaded what he would say.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Jon McQuillan”

“Can you tell me your date of birth?”

“December eight, 1967”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have the patient Jon McQuillan, date of birth December eight, 1967, do we all agree?”

A chorus of, “We agree.”

“The procedure is ECT, do we all agree?”

Again, “We agree.”

The cuff would then deflate and then the searing acid would stab up my arm. The pain would shock me each time, even though I knew it was coming. The anesthesiologist would patiently remind me to breathe deeply and relax, yet all I could feel was terror and the pain, and then. . .

It was as if they were gently placing pillows all over me until nothing. It felt like I had faded into non-existence. Perhaps it was just my brain trying to fill in for that sense of lost time, but I can recall feeling as if I had ceased to be.

The first time I came to in recovery, the chief nurse and another nurse were asking me things. I knew I was supposed to answer, and I knew that I knew the answer. I couldn't remember what language was, though, and squinted and blinked and tried to focus.

“Jon, can you tell me your name? Jon, how old are you?”

Jon, that’s me. Forty-four, I’m forty-four.

“Jon McQuillan, I’m forty-four.”

Because of the anesthesia, we couldn't eat after midnight until we had completed the session. Our breakfast would still be delivered, and if you were later in the rotation, you would finish just in time for lunch to be served. There you would be, your head feeling as if someone were squeezing it like a lemon, with two trays of food in front of you. And you would eat both of them, because your brain couldn't comprehend anything except for at that moment you had food in front of you and you were supposed to eat.

Eventually I would finish, then fill out the menu sheet for the next day with a rubber pencil, and stare out the big windows. Or I would move some of the puzzle pieces around. Or I would watch what was on one of the televisions. Or I would wander back to my room. Or I would pace in front of the big windows. And wait.