He took his time recording all my answers. He then asked me to wait outside while he would discuss with the senior doctors, Dr. Shah and Dr. Madhusudan. He said they would want to speak to my parents.
I went outside, sent my parents in, and settled down on the cold metallic chair in the waiting hall. It was large and there were at least a hundred patients and their relatives. How it was possible that so many people had mental health problems? How could so many people need help like this? We re they also depressed like me? What issues did they have? I wondered if there were any management school drop outs like me. I doubted it.
It was after about fifteen whole minutes that my parents emerged. Their faces were grim.
“Ankita, the senior doctors here have discussed your case. They feel that it is best that you are admitted and kept under observation,” said my dad, as he put his hand on my shoulder.
It sounded to me like a death sentence. I was in complete shock. I did not want to come here in the first place. Now they were going to keep me here. It was so unacceptable to me. But they were not giving me any choice.
I could not speak even though I wanted to scream.
“We have opted for a private room for you. It is the best they have. You will get better very soon,” my dad continued.
“Please dad, take me back home. I promise I will not do anything like that again,” I pleaded with him. I felt disgusted with myself for pleading this way with my parents. But the dread and fear of being admitted at a mental hospital made me overcome my reluctance and
I pleaded again.
“Please dad, please don't leave me here,” I said again.
“Look, this is not easy for us,” he said. “But this is for the best. How long can we go on like this? You were not getting any better. We have already tried two psychiatrists. This is the best medical care in the country . you will be looked after well here,” he said with finality in his voice.
I closed my eyes and tried to calm my pounding heartbeats. I desperately looked around my surroundings.
I was now trapped not only mentally but physically as well in this place, which promised a cure.
More than ever, I wanted to die, but there was now no way out even for death.
It was only after my parents went out and left me alone with the attendant, in the private room which they had selected for me, that the now familiar sensation of fear and panic began setting in, like an old and dear friend who turns up uninvited to your home at an inconvenient time.
The room was nondescript. It was like any normal hospital room in a Government run hospital. A high bed made of iron, painted white, the bumpy rust beginning to show around the corners, dirty green industrial paint on the walls that was beginning to peel, a door that led to a bathroom with mosaic tiles that had seen better days and the unmistakable smell of disinfectant which all hospitals reek of. Years later, the smell would haunt me and would still have the power to send me into panic but I did not know that then. All I felt was a gnawing sense of abandonment which engulfed me, dragging me down. I, a full grown adult, felt like a two year old child that cries out for its mother, when she vanishes. I hated myself. I did not want to admit that I needed my parents. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be in control. I did not want to be here, alone, all by myself in the ward of a mental hospital, relegated as a patient, a highly disturbed one at that, needing high observation and care.
But the fear was coming back. I began to experience the now familiar sinking feeling of panic in the pit of my stomach which was slowly spreading upwards. I needed them. I wanted them to stay. I wanted my mother to hug me and tell me that she was here for me. I wanted her to say that I mattered to her. I wanted her to comfort me and reassure me that things were going to be fine.
She did nothing of the sort.
“Ma, dad. Please don't go. Please,” I called out, pleading, in a tone that I myself did not recognise, a tone that sounded alien to my own ears.
I could see my mother turning away with lips pursed, covering her mouth with a handkerchief and my father steadying her, his hand around her shoulder as they walked out.
I was filled with a deep sense of rage, helplessness, frustration, anger and a sinking feeling of abandonment. How could they leave me like this? How could they agree to let me be admitted in a mental hospital? I wasn't crazy. I didn't want to be here.
At that moment I hated the world. I hated my parents. I hated life. I hated everything. I was filled with a loathing so dark, so deep and so impenetrable that it was hard to see anything else. All that was going on inside my head was that I was now admitted in a mental hospital and I was alone.
“I HATE YOU. BOTH OF YOU.COME BACK HERE—DON'T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS—YOU'RE MY PARENTS DAMMIT.” I did not realise that I was screaming at the top of my voice. I did not even notice that I was trembling with rage, clenching my fists and yelling.
“WHY THE FUCK DID YOU GIVE BIRTH TO ME? COME BACK DAMMIT—COME BACK,” I continued yelling. I knew vaguely that I was losing control, but my emotions were ruling me completely. I looked around for something to throw at the door, but could see nothing. I clenched the stark white sheets instead and yanked them off the bed. The pillow went flying out, with the force.
The doctor would later write in my case history sheet “Patient hysterical. Sedative administered.”
I could see the nurse coming running in with two more attendants.
“She is out of control,” the Nurse said to attendant next to her.
“SHUT UP,” I yelled at her. “What the fuck do you know about out of control?” I turned my rage on her, my voice hysterical which again I did not recognise.
She wasn' t listening.
It was then that I saw the syringe in her hand. Both the attendants were now on either side of me and held my arms down. The rage that had risen like industrial smoke out of a giant furnace was threatening to blind me now. I wanted to smash their heads in. How dare they decide that I was out of control? I was furious. Who were they to deny me the expression of my anger? I kicked out with one leg, but the nurse had already driven the syringe in. I felt humiliated, insulted and helpless. So deep were my emotions that I was shaking and couldn't talk anymore.
I broke down into loud sobs and settled on the bed. I don't remember much as the sedative they had injected was beginning to take effect and my eyes shut.
When I recovered consciousness, all I felt was an incredible sense of calmness. There was a dull pain in my jaw and I had a very slight headache. My throat was parched, as if I had not drunk water in a year. But the panic was gone, so was the rage. For a few minutes I could not recall where I was and what had happened to me. I was a little confused. It seemed like a dream. Had I fallen down? What was this strange green colour that I was seeing? Which room in my home had this colour? I could not recall any room having these walls.
Then it began sinking in slowly. I was in hospital. ‘Mental hospital’ a voice inside my head reminded me, taunting me and I winced, feeling a deep sense of shame. The ever popular, much adored, outgoing, smart, bright, promising young star of St. Agnes was now a patient in a mental hospital.
“Hello Ankita. I'm Sister Rosaline. How are you feeling? Do you want some water?” asked a nurse.
“Hello Sister. Yes please and sorry about the yelling earlier,” I said. I felt genuinely ashamed now at losing control like that and yelling at her. I noticed her now. She seemed to have kind eyes. She was pleasantly plump, must be in her fifties and seemed to be very experienced.
“Oh, that is perfectly okay, child,” She said smiling as she handed me a bottle of water.
As I drank thirstily, she added “Patients generally respond well to ECT”
That took the wind out of my sails. Not that there was much wind left in the first place, but I wondered if I heard right. ECT? Electroconvulsive therapy? I was dumbfounded. I staggered under the enormity of the realisation of what she had just said.
Why in the world? And how is it that nobody had told
me about it? Had I been administered Electric shock? Oh God. How in the world could this happen to me?
I was silent for the rest of the day.
Dr. Madhusudan came on his rounds in the evening.
“Hello Ankita,” he said, smiling in a cheerful voice. “How are you feeling?”
“Angry and cheated, doctor. Was I given ECT? And why was I not told about it? How come no one mentioned anything?” I replied sullenly.
“Oh,” he said, taken aback at my direct response. He took a minute to think. Then he said that he wanted to have a talk with me and asked sister Rosaline, and two more junior doctors accompanying him to go out of the room and give us a few minutes. I noticed that the young doctor who had earlier questioned me and made detailed notes was with the group that went out of the room.
He waited till we were alone in the room. He pulled up the chair, placed it next to my bed and sat down. “Ankita,” he began, “You have a severe case of bipolar disorder.”
It was the first time in my life I was hearing that term.
“Let me explain how it functions. It comes in cycles. Like this,” he said, as he drew a graph on the paper, which was in the writing pad that he was carrying. It looked like a wave which went up and down, much like a physics diagram that plotted some values. “Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Right now, you are here,” he said as he marked a point right at the bottom of the curve. “That is why you have attempted to kill yourself twice.”
I was silent.
“It is an illness like any other illness. See, when you have a fracture, you go to an orthopaedic, right? And when you have a toothache you go to a Dentist? In the same way, when you have an illness of the mind, you come to us. People have a stigma about it. They do not understand the severity of it. People simply cannot snap out of it, they need to be treated in order to get better,” he explained.
I was silent again, but he was looking into my eyes, trying to gauge if what he was saying was registering. He could see that it was beginning to sink in.
“Look, Ankita,” he continued “ECT has got some very bad press but it is not at all like that. It is not how they show it in the movies. Please do not be afraid. It can be life saving and can produce dramatic results. Right now Ankita, you are at the rock bottom of the curve. In these circumstances, it is very likely that you will attempt to harm yourself again, unless we administer this. We could have put you on anti depressants but it would have taken three weeks for it to work. I really did not want to risk that. The main thing about ECT is that suicide attempts are rare after administering it. Only thing is that it has to be done twice a week. After a week we will evaluate if further treatment is needed or not.”
I did not know what to say. It was the first time in months that somebody was explaining what was happening to me and assuring me that it was okay. It was the first time in months that somebody was talking to me like I mattered. It was the first time that I was being assured that I need not feel guilty for something that was out of my control.
I had agonised over not being able to ‘snap out of it’ and blamed myself, telling myself that it was ‘a ll in my head’ and if I wanted I could just change my thoughts and be fine again. I was being told that it was not like that at all and what I was facing now had a name, there were several people in the world much like myself who were being treated for it. It was beyond my control and I was in safe hands and would be taken care of.
The relief I was beginning to feel was like the first drops of rain on a drought filled parched earth that was beginning to crack up with the heat.
“It is going to be hard, Ankita. The feeling of worthlessness and extreme depression coupled with forces that you cannot control and that tell you to kill yourself will recur and come back to you, again and again. They are going to come in waves. You must not give in. You have to co-operate and help us to fight it. We are with you, not against you.”
At that point if he had told me that holding a coconut and dancing around on one foot would make me feel better, I would have gladly believed him.
He was offering me the last vestiges of hope and I was clinging to it with the desperation of a drowning person.
20
A tiny ray of hope
To say that staying in the private room all by myself was tough would be like saying that it is hard to climb Mount Everest without capabilities of extreme levels of physical endurance. But unlike a person climbing the Everest, I had no choice in the matter at all. There was no option but to stay put. It felt surreal. The windows had strong iron grills like the cages in a zoo, probably to prevent any attempts of jumping out. There was nothing in the room with which one could hurt oneself. There was not even a table. The room just had a bed and no other piece of furniture
The emptiness of the room, in a strange way, seemed to suit the emptiness of my mind. I found the atmosphere a safe shell to which I could escape. I did not have my parents hovering over me urging me to take medication. I did not have the pressure to go back to college. I did not feel compelled to read. I did not have to do anything. My time was my own. I never expected this and was surprised to find that I had found a cocoon I could go into in and insulate myself against the harsh realities of my life. In a strange way, I was soothed.
The worst that could happen had already happened. There was nothing that could harm me anymore. The suicidal thoughts seemed like a bad nightmare now.
The doctors came on their regular rounds each morning and evening. In the morning it was the junior doctors who came. I did not talk to any of them. When they came in, I just chose to look out of the window and be silent. I did not want to talk to them or answer any questions they asked. In the evenings it was the senior doctors who came. I looked forward to these visits as Dr. Madhusudan would come each evening
Dr. Madhusudan was not only kind and understanding but intuitive too. It was almost as if he could read my mind and he knew exactly what to say to calm me down. They were mostly reassuring words of hope and inspiration. I think I owed my second shot at life, entirely to this man. He kept me alive many times over. He talked to me like I mattered. He truly cared and that made all the difference. It is indeed amazing how words and kindness have the power to heal, perhaps much more than medicines. Dr. Madhusudan had stopped all the medication which the two doctors had prescribed earlier. Instead, he put me on just a single medicine. He explained to me that it was Lithium and essential at this point that I take this tablet twice a day without fail, as it was a lifesaver for those who are bipolar. He assured me that he would take it off as soon as he felt I could cope without it. He emphasised that there was no option for me but to take it and he would gradually reduce the dosage. He told me that this was the only medicine I needed. The earlier two doctors had been treating me for severe clinical depression, but what I had was far graver. He was not only supportive but very confident that I would get better very soon. More than anything else, it was his unwavering faith in me that gave me courage.
I now had all the time in the world, to reflect on the things that I had done which had made me end up here. Dr. Madhusudan kept reassuring me that it was not ‘my fault’ or ‘my mistake’. He said that just as people sometimes have no control over physical ailments, they have no control over mental illness. He said that it was the stigma attached to anything to do with mental health that had made him want to be a doctor.
He would always leave my room for the end, when he came on his rounds. I realised this was a pattern on the second day itself. After the preliminary talk enquiring about how I was, was over, he would dismiss the nurses and junior doctors who accompanied him. He would then ask if I minded that we have a chat. I did not mind at all. It was a welcome distraction in a room where there was nothing to do anyway. We were developing a bond which extended beyond the usual one between the doctor and the patient. I did not care. It was the last straw of hope that he was offering and I was clutching it as tightly as I could.
Du
ring one of these chats he opened up and his story shared with me which left a deep impact on me.
“Ankita, you must be thinking why this doctor takes so much interest in you, is it not?” he asked, one evening.
“Well, not really doctor. I have nothing to do here anyway. But thank you for your time, I am grateful.”
“See Ankita, I come from a small village in Kerala. I think you were in Kerala earlier, isn't it?”
“Yes, I studied there for my graduation, doctor.”
“So you know how society is there and how much family name matters in a place like that. It is sometimes all that they have got,” he said with a faraway look in his eyes.
I nodded. I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“I grew up in Kerala and many years back I had an elder sister. She was older to me by nearly fourteen years. When she was about 22, she committed suicide by jumping into the well which was in our backyard. On the face of it, she was well adjusted and happy. Ye t there must have been things inside her mind which troubled her. Her death devastated my parents and left us in a stage of shock for the rest of our lives. We had no answers. She was a very bright student and not involved with any guy romantically as that is usually a leading cause of suicide, especially in people in that age group. Her death left a void in me which drove me to study psychiatry and I have made it my life's mission to help people who attempt suicide. Life is a gift, Ankita. We should not throw it away. You have no right to kill others. Then how can you have a right to kill yourself?” he said, his voice taking on a gentler tone.
I did not know what to say.
“I'm sorry to hear that doctor,” I said finally.
“Oh no, no. Please don't be. It has only made me stronger and today I am a leading doctor. I have made my life. I want you to think about yours. Nothing is lost just because you dropped out of MBA. It is not the be-all and end-all of life. You can still do other things in life, Ankita” he said.
Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny Page 14
