Chapter 8: Life on 7 North

It hits me the minute I see the day room on 7 North at the University of Washington Medical Center: I've checked myself into the hospital for depression, and this is serious.

People sit spaced a certain distance apart. Some are watching daytime television; some are looking inward, not even aware of time passing. I walk in and look around, but nobody meets my eyes. "Wow," I think. "Look at this room full of zombies." Then I realize I'm one of them. I don't want to make eye contact, either.

Six days later, when I check out of 7 North, I've changed my mind. I really care about some of these people, and I go around the room giving and getting goodbye hugs and best wishes with tears in my eyes. But there are six full days between my arrival and my departure, and in those six days my mood rises and falls like a battered kite.

Activities of Daily Life
My second day on "the unit," as the staff calls it, is a Friday: my chemo day. I am determined to keep up with my treatment schedule, and I spend part of the morning hounding the staff. "Are you sure I'm going to get it?" I repeatedly ask. "I feel well enough to get it."

When my appointment time comes, an escort arrives to take me to the Cancer Center. As a "level 2" patient, I'm not allowed to go to chemo alone, although I can go outside for 20 minutes at a time every two hours. I soon figure out the unit hierarchy: Level 1’s can't go off the unit without an escort, level 3's can leave for up to two hours at a time, and level 2's, like me, are in the middle.

Today I have an appointment with my oncologist, and he has good news. My blood counts are good, and my monthly chest X-ray is clear. There's an extra bonus: I haven't lost all of my hair and at this point I almost certainly won't. My hair is as sparse and fuzzy as a 6-month-old's, but it's hair.

More importantly, he tells me I've done the right thing by coming to the hospital for the depression that's been trailing me for about three weeks now. My nurse, Ann, tells me the same thing, and suddenly I realize how important it is to me to hear it from them. Though I think I'm doing the right thing, doubt follows me into the hospital. "Gee," I think. "Is all this drama really necessary? Maybe I can get over this by myself."

Up and Down
I've never been treated for depression before, let alone spent time in the hospital for it, and I'm startled to discover that many of my fellow patients on the unit have been there before. Some have lost everything to depression--everything, that is, except their lives.

All of the 18 or so patients are here because they are seriously depressed. We range in age from teens to the fragile elderly. Some need interpreters to talk to the psychiatrists. Some have no homes to go back to once they're discharged. A feeling of being isolated and overwhelmed is what we have in common. The average stay, the staff tells me, is six days.

During my six days, depression seems to lift and descend in waves. Some days I want to be left alone, and refuse to eat until the nurses agree to let me take my meals in my room. Other days, I get up, shower, and go to group therapy.

On 7 North, the staff pushes us to be social. If we don't show up for breakfast or to take part in the "community meeting" at 9 a.m., they almost literally drag us out of our rooms. They constantly encourage us to attend the sessions on coping strategies. They require us to do our own laundry. There are two exercise bikes and a ping-pong table on the unit, but I never see anyone use them, except my son Robin and another little boy who comes to visit.

On Saturday morning, a group walk is scheduled--complete with attendant. I really want to get outside, but an image keeps popping up in my mind's eye: Me, my fellow patients, and an attendant towing us along like preschoolers on a leash, everybody looking just a little off-center.

The group walk is canceled, and I go out by myself for my allotted 20 minutes. The rain makes everything fresh, and the hospital grounds are quiet. I realize that if we had all gone out together, no one would have paid any attention to the gang from 7 North.

Going Home
My mood continues to seesaw: one day up, the next day down. The doctors and nurses begin to mention going home. But I don't feel like I'm ready--until Tuesday evening, when I simply make up my mind to leave. Suddenly, I feel light. I begin to pack my clothes, and by nine o'clock Wednesday morning, I'm checking out.

Since then, it hasn't been easy being home. I'm still depressed. But I'm using some of the coping techniques I learned in the hospital, and I'm reaching out to my friends for help. Somebody calls me in the morning to make sure I get up and get going; others bring dinner to share in the evening and stay afterward to play games with the boys.

I've gone to my yoga class, and I've made plans to walk with friends. I talk to my editor often so she can update the diary. My cousins come for the weekend. It all helps keep me going.

My cousin Karen, knowing that I had nicknamed my prosthesis Jabba, since it's round and wrinkled like the Star Wars character Jabba the Hutt, brings me a box to keep him in. She has decorated the round container with stars, planets, and pictures of Jabba and other Star Wars characters. On the lid, she has written, "Jabba's Hut."

I've never laughed so hard. It was exactly the gift I needed.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006