NOTE: This is a retrospective post.
I woke up in the psych ER at ECT Hospital. It was about 5:00 AM, and no one had talked to us, as promised. My husband was slumped in a chair, asleep. It didn’t look comfortable at all — I had a bed. I woke him up and insisted that he go home, take care of the animals, and so on; and that I would text him when I had news.
Not one hour later, a private ambulance showed up to transfer me to the Behavioral Hospital. I texted my husband, and told him where they were taking me, and said that I should be “processed” in about an hour. The ambulance driver and his partner were professional and empathetic. They said it would take 20 minutes to get there. Of course it would! It was really early on a Saturday, so there was no rush hour.
As they pulled up to what looked like a very institutional building (cement exterior walls), identical windows on every floor, I couldn’t hold it in anymore — tortured tears rolled in rivulets down my cheek. Soon, they were dripping from my chin.
The in-take coordinator greeted us, and as the ambulance left, the driver and his partner told me, “Good luck.”