The value of listening

Spring 2001

I lay on the small bed, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t usually this late.

I had been an inpatient for 2 months by now and knew the drill. He came in the evening, wearing his suit, straight from his practice in town I assumed.  Generally he would knock, then push the door open and perch on a chair squeezed in between the small table and my wicker bed. I would talk. He would act interested. Then he would leave. He rarely, if ever, said anything.

Once in a while I would go to his office. He’d peer over his imposing wooden desk, fountain pen poised over crisp white paper, waiting for me to utter something worthy of scrawling on his pad. On my way back to the ward I would push my way through the overcrowded smoking room, acrid smoke stinging my eyes. At the top of the stairs I’d shuffle past the nurses’ station and slip into my room unnoticed.

I lay waiting but the consultant didn’t come that night. Instead his registrar appeared as I was getting into bed.  Embarrassed, as I was wearing particularly hideous yellow pyjamas, I pulled my duvet up to my chin and shuffled down the mattress. He sat down and started talking to me. I can’t even remember what we talked about but I remember him.  I remember him because for the first time, someone had seen beyond my label, beyond my diagnosis. He saw me.

bright burn burnt candle
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Earlier that Spring, the anorexia had reached a point where I couldn’t carry on. My weight was at a critical point. My periods had long stopped. I had been started on antidepressants with little effect. My poor mother didn’t know what to do. I agreed to be admitted but there were no local eating disorders units for me to go to. The postcode lottery meant that this hospital, over an hour from home, was the only place I could get a bed. Somehow it seemed better than nothing.

corn fields under white clouds with blue sky during daytime
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Nearly 20 years have passed since I lay on that bed in the psychiatric hospital. A vulnerable teenager locked behind huge iron gates; not allowed to leave.

I can still see people’s faces: the middle aged lady who sat beside me describing her suicide attempt, the bearded man who sat on my bed and cried.

I remember.

I remember the face of the young woman I befriended who then tragically took her life. I remember it all. That was my normal.

And as I replay these images like an old movie in my mind, I see the registrar. The only doctor during those three months who saw me, who listened and who reached out to a young lonely teenager.

 

Be that doctor. Listen to your patients. See beyond their label. See them for who they really are.