Elgin State Hospital Part IV

Yesterday I finished reading a volume of compiled psychiatric interviews of Nazi war criminals and witnesses (Nuremberg Interviews by Leon Goldensohn) and have come face to face with the obvious conclusion that we ALL are basically thinking we're pretty good guys in this life, NO MATTER WHAT WE HAVE DONE--we are just following orders, or just one lone person in a flood of events, or Christ Incarnate ourselves, or... rationalization, rationalization, rationalization. Since everything I read and learn tends to make me examine myself, I am a little unnerved.

Despite never having a scared bone in my body when working at Elgin State Hospital, there were some experiences that were disturbing to be part of. I felt bad then about them, I feel bad now.

Even though one of my duties was to escort patients different places, and mostly it was not an issue, there were those times.  Like the time I escorted a young woman to the circular medical building for electroshock therapy. I know it's not politically correct, but most of the people confined on the premises had "the look."  Like they belonged there. After being there a while, no wonder! But once in a while there would be someone whom you would have passed on the street and not noticed as anyone different. Such a person was this young woman, tall and attractive, well spoken. It made me uneasy to walk with her to a rendezvous that seemed formidable. She, however, felt differently and reassured me that this treatment was actually quite efficacious for her, helping stimulate her memory, or parts thereof. With visions of Frankenstein dancing in my head, I went the distance and checked her in. I wonder what I would have done had she balked and not led the way.

Equally unnerving was being assigned to a security car to drive into Chicago with a couple of officers to pick up a runaway patient at her home. Even though I knew her and her outlandish "quirks" and that her family couldn't cope with her problems, it's a shriveling feeling to be party to taking someone into custody and depriving them of freedom.

Whether it's a necessity or not. Holding the keys to another's freedom?

Takes some serious thought, unless one wants to resort to that time honored, "I was only following orders."

I don't think I like authority, whatever side of it I'm on. So when I had to go with someone to court to have them committed or their stay extended, I was more than edgy.

Although I probably had little insight as to what was the answer, I was pretty sure the doctors and judges were not much more enlightened than I.  Is that perception? Or the arrogance of youth?



One of the most haunting memories I have is of a smiling young black woman they brought in one day in a straight jacket. I have not seen a more radiant, joyful face. She was softly and serenely singing, "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know dear how much I love you, please don't take my sunshine away." Over and over as she lay tied to that bed. Only HER sunshine had been extinguished by a madman of a husband who forced her and her tiny daughters to be sold in her own home to men for voyeuristic sexual perversion entertainment. She had cracked. Sometimes I thought I would as I heard her sweet voice singing those lyrics over and over and her story would wash all over me. That song still hurts my heart.

On the other hand, sometimes it felt good to know you made a difference. Mostly in small human kindnesses. Once in a while it could be dramatic though, like the afternoon I was bringing my ward in the Annex back from the coed lunch room.

Somehow a tall younger fellow had gotten ahead of me without my knowledge as I was rounding the last of my charges up, and by the time the rest of us got back into the area, he had jumped on top of one of the beds and was raping one of the younger women. Word to the wise here---not a particularly good idea to try and interrupt a rape without a weapon. And even then maybe 911 is best. But I didn't take the time to think and just yelled and grabbed him and pulled him off. Well, I was a hundred pounds, and he was a strapping 20-something guy, so how that worked, I don't know. But it does remind me of that quote, "Boldness has genius to it!" Maybe he just thought I had a gun because I was audacious. Maybe our voice at times is a weapon. Or perhaps the element of surprise carries a certain power with it.  Anyway, the culprit just backed away and disappeared and I didn't even write up a report. Think we were all too stunned to even acknowledge something strange had happened. Or maybe it wasn't all that out of the ordinary to anyone except  me.

I don't know if I have guilt or not in just being a part of this place. Excuses? We were understaffed--there were shifts where I would have an entire ward of scores of patients by myself the entire time. 18 and medically untrained, dealing out heavy duty meds, kind of serious responsibility. Not a good plan. I know I never mistreated anyone or was indifferent to them individually, but I didn't go too far out of my way to demand better mental health treatment in the country either. Status quo. Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

Of course no record would be complete without mention of the star "One Flew Over The Cuckoos' Nest" persona non grata- our very own Nurse Ratchett. An older woman who worked in one of the Wards I often was assigned to- the self dubbed "Mama Gunther" was the day charge aide in Lowey Cottage (the aides ran many of the places, nurses must have been hard to come by, or comparatively expensive.)  After meds were dispersed and the mundane routines attended to, she would find a patient to devote some personal time to, and take them into the little office and lock the doors for long periods. Like my sweet sunshine singer. No one ever came out looking any better for the interlude, the block of focused attention.  It was these covert therapy sessions that she thrived on that were most disturbing.

But that was just one of her personal touches, and several staff members were aware of the suspicious idiosyncrasies of Mama Gunther and wanted to change the status quo. Everyone was a little protective of their jobs though, and seeing as I was temporary, I ended up being the one to write a letter to the Governor of Illinois outlining my concerns. Mama G ended up being transferred to an unlocked ward where there was a little more transparency, and seeing as she was a stone's throw from retirement, hopefully that was for a brief time.  I settled for that, but looking back, maybe that should have been just a first step.

The only other letter I wrote at this place was on my very last day when mixed emotions washed over me and I was overwhelmingly saddened to leave so many people I had truly come to love.

Equally so, I was "maddened"- that so many who could have better lives on the outside seemed doomed to live out their lives on this small stage. So I was dramatic in urging those who could to get out.  Move on!  As if it were easy.  I was young.

Looking back, I wonder if any of that kind of idealistic passion was what helped fuel places like that eventually closing their doors.  Was such zeal misplaced?  Or were the motivations more sinister? Looking around, I'm not so sure we made the kind of progress that we needed to with mental health. Far cry.