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Show 24 Jack has Died I am slowly recovering in a world of social workers. They moved me down here to the psych unit on the ground floor two weeks ago thinking that my depression was beyond serious, a correct assessment, but I know that all they would have to do to stop the depression is remove me from the steroids. Of course they cannot do that - it must be tapered once started and I am now on a six-month taper. Six months of blackness. But still no one speaks to me of the steroids. I can barely hold my head up and it is mostly lolling against the side of my new reclining wheelchair's headrest. I cannot push my own wheelchair. I must be lifted from my bed into the wheelchair, reclined, and pushed down the hallway. I am very angry about this. At least so they tell me. No one here wears scrubs. They all dress normally. They all try to act normally as well, whatever "normally" means around this bevy of maligned people who are either depressed, suicidal, hostile, or very confused. I am probably all of that but I am also now afraid because one of the young interning social workers is squatting down in front of my wheelchair, telling me that Muriel, a woman about my age with multiple sclerosis, wants to kill me. Why would she want to kill me? |
