Christmas

An extract from 'Me and My Black Dog: Complex PTSD:' An alarming story about a Falklands/SAS veteran’s battle with PTSD and his eye-opening seven week stay on a psychiatric ward. (The P T Saunders story Book 2)

My Christmas day started just after midnight. I was woken by the sound of new clients arriving on the ward. There was four of them in total, three men and one woman. They had been transferred to our unit from Liverpool, as their unit had shut for the holidays. 

I instantly recognised the voice of one of the individuals. It was Spanish Ryan. ‘Fucking great.’ I thought to myself as he walked past my door effing and jeffing about how he wasn’t staying in this shithole and threatening to abscond. I remember thinking, ‘that’s all I need,’ as I wished myself happy bloody Christmas and rolled over in an attempt to get some sleep. 

The following morning, I was up at the crack of dawn and having my first fag outside with one of the new clients that had arrived the night before. His name was Daniel, and he was just seventeen years old. He was an extraordinary and withdrawn individual who would one-minute talk the hind legs off a donkey, and the next minute, he would clam up and stare into nowhere, utterly void of any life almost. It was quite unnerving to witness.  

Once I had had my cigarette, I left Daniel still staring into space outside and made my way up to the dining room. I was early, and I would have to stand at the counter for at least half an hour before the now familiar clang of the roller shutter rising at 9 am. However, I was determined to beat Spanish to the front of the queue. It was my turf now, and he needed to know where he stood. 

While I was stood there at the counter, several of the other clients came in to make themselves a coffee. Almost all of them wished me happy Christmas and reminded me that breakfast was a while away yet. Then at five minutes to nine Spanish walked in. I was ready for a showdown with him and would have gladly beaten the crap out of him. However, to my surprise, he merely greeted me with a nod of the head and went and sat down and glared at me instead. 

Just after breakfast, the nursing staff came around the ward, distributing presents that had been donated by local businesses. I received a tub of Quality Street chocolates and a men’s boxer shorts and deodorant set, size large. I was, at best, a medium. Never-the-less, I was grateful for the gesture, and I still actually have the boxers to this day.  

The day was going well, and all the clients were sharing their chocolates. I managed to get a couple of games of chess in, one with a nurse and another with one of the new arrivals; Sue, a tall, dark-haired thirty-something lass and quite good looking actually. 

During our game, I learned that the root of her manic depression had started as a result of finding her husband of three years died in his bed after overdosing on crack cocaine.  

Sue had spent the week away with her parents down in Cornwall and returned to find the house boiling and swarming with bluebottles. She made her way to the main bedroom and discovered her poor husband dead and crawling with maggots. The sight Sue witnessed that day sent her into a deep, deep depression, and she had tried to take her own life several times since. Hence the reason she was in the hospital. 

I remember feeling so sad that she had been through such a tough time, hearing her story made me realise that maybe my life wasn’t so bad after all.  

After our game of chess, Sue and I made our way to the dining room for our Christmas lunch. As we sat down, I noticed that a few of the other clients were missing from the table. So, Sue and I and one of the nursing staff plated up meals for them to have later. We then tucked into what I can only describe as the worst meal of my life, the vegetables were undercooked, the chipolatas looked as if they had been cremated, and the turkey was as dry as a bone. 

While waiting for the puddings, my new chess partner Sue and I went outside for a quick fag. As we got to the top of the staircase on our return, the panic alarm on the ward went off. I rang the access bell and looked through the door’s glass panel. I could see that all hell had broken out on the ward. Nurses were running around with various bits of equipment, and some of the clients were crying and hugging each other. Understandably, our ringing of the bell for admittance went ignored. After five minutes or so of waiting to be noticed, I suggested to Sue that we return to the smoking area until things settled down.  

As we were making our way back downstairs, we passed a group of medical staff legging it upstairs, carrying resuscitation equipment. 

“Someone has tried to top themselves.” Sue nonchalantly said as they rushed by. I wasn’t sure if she was so dispassionate or whether she was masking her true feelings? What I do know, is that second cigarette was smoked in complete silence, as I think we both contemplated the possibility that one of our own may have taken their life. We gave it twenty minutes or so and then made our way back to the ward. 

Once back, we were told that it had been Daniel that had tried to take his own life by hanging himself. Luckily, he was found just in time. However, he did not escape entirely. A few days later, I saw him being wheeled down the corridor in a pretty sad vegetative state. I also learned that due to the comings and goings of various teams that responded to the Daniel incident, Spanish managed to escape and was probably once more on his way to Spain. 

As you can probably imagine, The Christmas day festivities ended as soon as the alarm went off, and most of us spent the rest of the day watching tv in silent contemplation.  

At six o’clock that evening, the alarm went off again, this time it was one of the interlopers. He had locked himself in the toilets and proceeded to smash his head against the toilet cistern and the hand basin. He had made a right mess of his face and needed surgery. That was the last time I saw him. The next few days of the holiday were reasonably quiet. 

 The day after New Year, Sue and the other temporary visitors returned to their units, and the lucky home visit clients arrived back in dribs and drabs. I was excited at the prospect of having some quality time with Laura, and maybe a game or two of chess. However, it never happened though, Laura had been transferred to the ground-floor ward, and because she was now banned from leaving the hospital without a proper escort, we didn’t meet again until the day I was due to be discharged when I was allowed to go onto her ward to say goodbye. We swapped mobile numbers and promised to keep in touch. We didn’t.