— Judy Harwood
A college student takes a summer job at a psychiatric hospital to earn grocery money—unaware of the stark world waiting behind the doors.
Between my Freshman and Sophomore year of college I needed a job. My father wasn’t contributing to my higher education but he had said, “Come to Cincinnati; you can bunk in with me and Wanda and get a summer job here.”
I hesitated. I felt I would be betraying my mom to go and live with him and his new wife instead of going home to the hills. In the end I decided I could endure anything for three months.
Cincinnati was the biggest city I had ever seen, but I was coming up short on finding a job. When my father said, “You could apply at Longview State Hospital, they’re always hiring,” I thought, I don’t know anything about working in a mental hospital. But then my father added, “They would train you and you don’t have to tell them you’re only there for the summer.”
His suggestion grew inside my head. What would my older brother do? He had accomplished almost everything he set out to do and he had signed on to harvesting crew for Del Monte for his summer job between freshman and sophomore years. Grueling work — but he had gained muscles and dollars for books, clothes and new glasses.
My dad dropped me off at the administration building on a Monday. By Friday I had been hired and scheduled for orientation the following Monday. My instructions were to show up in a white nurse’s uniform, nurse’s hat and white shoes.
The orientation group consisted of fifteen men and women all outfitted in stiff new outfits and shoes. We learned about the medications the “patients” took, primarily, Thorazine which rendered the population manageable. Our instructors emphasized the necessity of keeping the nurses’ station secure. We learned to keep our keys secured to our uniforms by long lanyards and to watch out for any potential escapees lingering by the doors as we moved from ward to ward.
On the second day we were given a tour of the various wards where we might be assigned: wards where occupational therapy was the order of the day and hospital wards where beds were occupied by moaning bodies or ones staring off into nothingness were stretched in long rows.
Our handlers saved the most shocking ward for the last of the day, as if they wanted us to take that memory home with us. Maybe they intended to cull the tender hearts from the “keepers.” We saw bodies frozen in mid-step, men and women who divested themselves of clothes as fast as attendants replaced them, and other oddities from the pages of abnormal psychology. It was as if we were on the set of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. But none of us were laughing. What if what they had was catching?
I kept telling myself I could do anything for three months.
During my first week, I was charged to work with a senior attendant. I watched her every move and listened to every word. I was gradually gaining confidence in my ability to survive here until mid-week when she directed me to go to Admitting and escort a new patient back to the ward.
I heard yelling and curses before I turned the corner to Admitting. Three orderlies were dodging the disheveled woman’s blows while one blocked the exit to the building. She clearly didn’t want to be there.
I thought I could be a calming influence in the chaotic situation before my eyes. I walked right up to her and said, “Come with me. I’ll show you where you are going to live.”
Her hand shot out, catching a fist full of my hair, rendering me useless. She wasn’t finished yet. Her other hand caught in the breast pocket of my newly purchased uniform and pulled downward. The pocket came away in her hand along with a swath of white material that extended almost to the hem.
The new patient’s focus on me gave the orderlies the freedom to produce a hypodermic loaded with something rendering her unconscious. I must have resembled one of the patients from the Chronic ward as I made my way back to my assignment in shambles.
My supervisor looked me over and said, “What could you have done to avoid what occurred?”
I was sent back to my dad’s apartment and told to report back the next day. I went back and stayed until the last week in August. On the Greyhound bus back to campus, I asked myself what I had learned. I had learned something about mental health and the fact that people didn’t get better in warehouses like Longview State Hospital. My father told me he was proud I had stuck it out the whole summer and I told myself I really could do anything as long as I knew where the end post was.
Judy Harwood retired from a rewarding career as a school psychologist which shaped her into a skilled problem solver. A native of Eastern Kentucky and graduate of Berea College, she embarked on a second career as a writer resulting in her memoir, Swimming Upriver, a coming-of-age story of growing up in Appalachia in the 40’s and 50’s. She has lived in many interesting places, including Columbus, Ohio, Charleston, W. Va, Buffalo, NY, Plattsburgh, NY, where she earned her MA at the State University of NY, a summer in Chautauqua, and American Samoa. Now a permanent resident of Temple Terrace, she enjoys sharing moments with her two daughters, one son, four grandchildren, four step-grandchildren and four great grandchildren. In addition to writing, Judy’s interests include OLLI, Toastmaster Clubs and gourmet cooking. “I have lived as though I would live to be one hundred and thought I could do anything I put my mind to,” she says, “but lately, I have begun to wonder.”
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