Chevy Stevens - The Other Side

He strode toward me, a brown leather bomber jacket hanging over his arm and a knapsack hooked over his shoulder.

“How is she? Is she asking for me?” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Let’s go where we can talk privately, Mr. Simeon.” I led him down the hallway toward one of the interview rooms, skirting the janitor mopping the floor. I frowned when I noticed that the utility room behind him was unlocked and gaping, and made a mental note to mention it to the nurses.

“Call me Daniel, please. Can you tell me if she’s all right?”

“I’d say yes, considering. She’s having a hard time, but we’re doing everything in our power to help her. This is the best place for her right now.”

“There was so much blood…”

I felt bad for him, knowing what he was probably thinking: What if I’d come home ten minutes later? Why didn’t I see the signs? Families seem to fall into two categories: those that blame themselves and those that blame the patient. But they always need to blame someone.

“It must have been very upsetting to find her like that,” I said. “Is there anyone you can talk to? I’d be happy to suggest someone.”

A quick shake of his head. “I’m okay. I just want Heather to be safe.”

I thought about what Heather had just told me. Was someone harassing her? Or was his fear just related to what she had done?

“That’s what we want too.” I unlocked the heavy metal door to the interview room and waved Daniel into a chair.

He sat across from me. People might think that the ward would be decorated in soothing colors, a warm, nurturing environment, but the chairs, mismatched shades of pink, blue, and puce, have been there since the seventies. The desk was laminate, the edges cracked and peeling. A wood shelf stood against one wall with a few lonely books stacked haphazardly. Even the waiting area where he’d been sitting for so many hours was just a few chairs by the elevators. It’s an old hospital. But the funding isn’t there, and this isn’t meant to be a holiday.

“Did she tell you why she…” Daniel choked up, took a quick breath. “Why she tried to kill herself?”

“I can’t share anything Heather tells me without her permission. But I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Did you know how depressed she’s been?”

He rubbed his chin, his face bleak.

“Since we lost the baby, she won’t eat or get out of bed. Most days she won’t even shower. I thought it was postpartum, or whatever it’s called, and she just needed some time… I keep thinking about how quiet she was when I left last night. I was late for work—I’ve been picking up odd jobs in the evening to make some extra cash—so I was in a rush.” He shook his head. “If I’d stayed with her…”

He was the type who blame themselves. I leaned forward.

“This isn’t your fault, Daniel. If you’d been there, she’d have waited until you weren’t and tried again. People as troubled as Heather always find a way.”

He looked at me—long enough, I hoped, for my words to sink in—then his face clouded over.

“Her parents are going to take this really hard.”

“They don’t know?”

“They’re on an RV trip in Northern BC. I tried to call, but they must be out of range. She hasn’t talked to them for a while.”

“What about her friends?”

“She never wanted to do anything with them, so they stopped phoning.”

I wasn’t surprised that Heather had pushed people away, except for Daniel. A classic symptom of depression was detaching from friends and family.

“What do you do for a living, Daniel?”

“I’m a carpenter.” That explained his build, and his deep tan. He smiled as he looked down at his rough hands. “Heather and I came from different worlds, but the minute we met, we had this instant connection, like on the deepest level. Neither of us had ever felt that way before.” He looked at me as if expecting skepticism.

I gave him an encouraging nod.

He continued. “She’d just gone through a breakup—her ex was a real jerk. But we started hiking and doing yoga together. It seemed to cheer her up.”

It had been a good idea on his part. Exercise is one of the best natural aids for depression.

“So you noticed some signs of depression before you got married?”

“I guess… She’s the kind of person who’s always trying to take care of everyone else, so it’s hard to tell sometimes. She’d get really quiet or start crying, but she wouldn’t want to worry me, so I wouldn’t know what she was upset about. But when she got pregnant, she was really happy about the baby, picking out names, buying toys…” His voice wavered. “I don’t know what to do about the baby’s room or all the clothes she bought.”

My mind flashed to Paul painting Lisa’s nursery strawberry red with apple green stripes because our child would be different, would skip to her own beat. Which she had, always—a trait I’d admired, until she danced away from me.

“Let’s take it one day at time,” I said, as much to myself as to him. “You can work all that out later.”

“When can Heather come home?”

“She’s been involuntarily admitted into the hospital so we can keep an eye on her. We can’t release her until she’s no longer a danger to herself.”

“What if she tries… you know.” He swallowed hard. “What if she tries to do it again?”

“We won’t let her here. And we won’t send her home until she’s stable and has a good support system in place.”

“Can I see her? I brought some of her things.”

Normally, we’re strict about visiting hours—they’re only from four to nine in PIC, where everyone has to be buzzed in and out. We don’t allow visitors before noon, so patients can attend programs, and we can make our rounds. But he looked desperate, and I thought seeing him might help Heather settle in.

“She’s resting right now, but you can say a quick hello.”

We didn’t talk as we rode up the elevator to Psychiatric Intensive Care on the next floor. Daniel seemed lost in thought, and I was busy counting my heartbeats while focusing on my breathing. I’ve suffered from claustrophobia for years, a fact that would probably shock my patients. Various coping techniques help, from mental imagery to breathing exercises, but when I first heard the elevator seal shut, I had to restrain myself from hitting the panic button.

We were buzzed into the unit. In PIC, the nurses’ station is behind glass, and a security guard is always at hand. One side of the unit is for high-risk patients like Heather, and the other is the step down unit, where they go when they don’t need the same level of monitoring. If they continue to improve, they are moved down to the next floor, where they have more freedom.

The nurse searched the bag Daniel had brought for Heather to make sure there wasn’t anything she could hurt herself with—the frame was removed from their wedding photograph, same with the tie from her robe. When the nurse was finished, I showed Daniel to an alcove in the lounge area, where they could have some privacy but still be in view, then went to get Heather.

As I entered the seclusion room, I gave her a quick visual. She was still curled in a ball, her pale arms wrapped around her torso with both small hands on her shoulders, as if she were trying to hold herself together.

“Heather, do you feel up to a visit with Daniel now?”

Heather twitched at the sound, then slowly rolled over. Her voice was pleading and her eyes flooded with tears as she said, “I need to see him.”

“Okay, but you’ll have to come out with me because we don’t allow visitors in the seclusion rooms. Are you feeling strong enough to stand?”