I’m experiencing some ’emotional whiplash,’ as my friend Nicole called it when I tried to explain my current state of mind. Let’s see if I can get some of it on paper.

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Last night had to be one of the most surreal experiences I’ve experienced in a lifetime. I got a call in the afternoon that a social worker at Mesa Verde had questioned Vernon regarding his suicidal thoughts, that a doctor had prescribed to bump up his Depekote dosage, and that he’d be going to the hospital for a psychiatric evaluation. And could I be there soon in case he refused to go with the ambulance? I got up there about 5:00, wondering: is this it? Has he been hurting himself? Is this where it all ends? Or, more likely, is this just another medical extension?

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He was remarkably calm and lucid, which was strange enough after my experiences with him lately. I was happy about that, but honestly confused. He was confused too, when I mentioned we’d be going to the hospital because a doctor said his sadness needed to be checked out. In fact, he was quickly angered: “I never said that! Why do they say I’m depressed? They are LYING!” So I talked him down, the first of many times over the long evening ahead.

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I assume it is protocol to send a suicidal patient for an evaluation. But since he couldn’t remember his thoughts from previous days, he answered the ER doctor’s questions as if he was there to get an x-ray. Several people came in during that time. I told his story over and over again. He would still get angry when I mentioned depression.

I kept telling the questioners: “Yes, of course he is depressed. Look at him. He doesn’t have a life. All he can do is lie in bed all day.”

“And there is nothing to do!” Vernon chimed in.

“What’s that, Honey?”

“There is nothing to do. I’m bored to death.”

They’d ask about his psychiatric history before the accident. “Really? Does it matter now?”

They shrugged, hoping for some connective answer. I could tell they knew I had more answers than they did.

“My brain’s all scrambled,” piped Vernon. Well, he’s got that right. Progress?

There was a man in the room next door, talking loudly (to a phone? a phantom?) about his great love in life and that he’d prove it when he was  sent to prison. He sounded violet and crazy and terribly interesting. I kept leaning against the doorway in my yellow paper gown (in which I’m not allowed to leave the room) trying to eavesdrop. He still made no sense, but when the big security guard pulled up a seat in the hallway by his door, I became even more curious.  Sadly, I never found out…but he did add another element of the bizarre to the evening.

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In the meantime, Vernon used his time for exercise, discovering the hospital bed rails could also be used as a jungle gym. For hours, he moved himself around on those things. I called for help three times to pull him back to the top of the bed. I told him I knew he was trying to escape. He agreed with me—he had to, being caught red handed.

Eventually, some blood was taken to access his medication levels. It was established he would not need to go to a psychiatric hospital as his nursing needs were even higher. We were told that since there was no actual psychiatrist in the ER, but that there was one on-call, Vernon would have a remote conversation via robot, Before I could get my head around that, I saw this hoover-like machine awkwardly sweeping down the hallway.

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“Excuse me. Pardon me.”

I can only try to explain through video. There is an app for everything.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EEPZ95mejMU

Strange, right? A psychiatrist robot. Well, I never!  Seriously, I never have seen anything like this. Truth is stranger than science fiction.

Didn’t phase Vernon though. Did you hear? He told me to pull myself together while I followed the robot out with my camera phone. The cheek!

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In the end, nothing much was changed. Perhaps he does need anti depressants, but he wasn’t in the right state of mind to express it.  I’ll check in with his doctor about this.

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It was bizarre indeed. I’m still caught between great grieving and the hope that involuntarily comes when I see progress, or at least when I see something of the old Vernon coming through. I don’t know if I only have this for a day or two…until the next downswing. Ah! It’s so confusing…

I’m happy he was well-ish last night. My heart wants to believe in a wild miracle, but I can’t discount the deep places of letting go that I’ve touched in the past week.  I can’t discount that.

Perhaps letting some things go has allowed the space to experience joy…with Vernon, while I have the chance.

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Meantime, it’s a zero gravity emotional space. Things are bouncing left and right…but nothing is landing.

So this is how it is today. I told you it was surreal.

Oh…I almost forgot the weirdest part of all. Vernon kept working on the rails of his bed, trying to move himself around. He doesn’t have any rails in the care home anymore, as it is a danger to his person. Eventually, over the course of practice, he managed to sit himself on his bottom, without the balance of his hands.  He hasn’t done that yet. Here’s the proof. Make of it what you will.

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