Into the blue

I hate the hospital.

I'm sick of those buildings.

From all of them, the one I hate the most is the internist clinic in my city. They shoved together the infective ward, hematology, internist department, psychiatry and neurology. Why do I hate it, this intern clinic? Reasons are very personal and I shall write about it.

My mother used to say – "Love is multiplied by dividing, and the burden becomes lighter if you let it out of you”. And I will do that, because I will burst. They say paper can take anything, so let it take a bit more for the sake of my own relief.

Mom had three of us, very much alike in character. Micky is the youngest one, he is my sweetheart, gentle, bright blue eyes, 11 year younger than me. I still think of him as my child although he is a young man of 25 now. Two years ago he had an accident, a big one. The body gets ill, but so does the soul. His got sick, very much. We could see it as a family, otherwise shattered to pieces, but still a family, that something wasn't right.

The changes in his voice, body posture, some strange ideas he had, but we somehow ascribed it to him being overburden with studies, intense trainings, a family sliced to pieces...

Then this state started to get worse, and still not seeing the gravity, we begun a treatment in a private psychiatric ordination, for it to turn out that the doctor was completely incompetent and he gave him the wrong therapy which later ended in hospitalization at the psychiatry ward. He was 23 at the time and I was pregnant with my third child.

He came by often and we spoke long, until late at night. The trust between us was huge, and the love infinite. When I realized how dangerous his subconscious ideas were for him alone, and perhaps for others too at times, I told my dad that he had to go to a hospital. At least for an examination. I googled and read all sorts of stuff, nothing looked good.

Knowing his high intelligence and excellent physical fitness (he was a junior wrestling representative), with my heart in pain and feeling like the biggest traitor, I felt we had to trick him to go to the hospital, which was very difficult because his condition was followed by a severe paranoia, he had some mania about being stalked and seeing things.

My dad took on the responsibility upon himself to do it, for he said – "It's better that he hates me some day, not you. You two are one. He should think that I betrayed him, and not you".

My dad managed to take him for an examination and when they said that he had to stay there, my dad broke down, and asked if we could treat him at home. They made the decision, he stays there. They just looked at him and a few big-sized technicians, men, took over by force that beloved being of mine, the resistance was great, and they gave him an injection, a large dose made for a horse, and tied him to bed. He screamed, called, but my dad couldn't do anything but leave the room in tears... And tell me that the little guy stayed there.

He was tied down for nearly 10 days, and the first 3-4 days they wouldn't let us see him. Through a friend we found out that he was rarely awake, that he gets the drugs, those damn horse doses, through injections and that they do not change his sheets even though he empties himself tied like that. Horror! They denied, but we knew through an insider how things were. My dad tried hard that my little brother has a human treatment.

He invited me one day and asked – "Do you want to see him?" Of course I wanted to although I knew that it would be miserable and difficult. But that was my brother.

Climbing the stairs, and I'm out of breath... I'm crying before that, so I fix myself up by the door, to give them hope. They lock the door, and let me and dad in and they tell us not to stay too long. They show us the room. Uh, these people inside, poor, lost among the walls, some in rooms, others wandering the hallways. Male and female sections kept separate. The staff is rude, they shout at them. I guess they do not know of other methods. We reach the final room where he is. The room smells of urin. With him there is a boy and an old grandpa. The sardine cans are ashtrays. Everything is filthy. He lies there still, and while dad wakes him up slowly, so he sees us and doesn't get scared, with my head low, I am crying and cleaning his closet with personal belongings with aspsol, the poles from the metal bed, going through things to take the dirty home to wash. He barely wakes up and barely recognizes us. He sits on one chair, drinks a fruit yoghurt, and it pours down from his mouth, he cannot swallow. We patiently wait for him to freshen up. He barely utters something, halfway, unfinished.

Among his personal belongings that I was going through and cleaning, he kept icons, a rosary, and a little black book. That he really wouldn't let anyone touch, literally anyone. It later turned out that he kept there some personal records of his and mom's promises and prayers. Mom's prayers got realized, but her promises didn't. Or perhaps they did. I say they didn't because I felt a large betrayal from life when she passed away from the consequences of a stroke in that very same building.

She looked healthy, beautiful, carried like a lady and looked 35, not 59. A woman of spring, born in March, a woman of beautiful early fall, beautiful as the sound of leaves under the feet in the park. With a brisk, tiny step, just like when a squirrel runs and hurries to bring the fruits to the treehollow. And a chestnut when it bursts in autumn. It happened the same year my brother started to get healthier. I would tell you more about her, my mother, the woman that shined, and a lot more details about my brother, father, my mother's mother who is still alive and wrestling with life, and at the same time praying to rest her soul with her daughter and son whom she lost and outlived.

In the beginning I mentioned that there were three of us – me the oldest, and two brothers after me. My mother taught us to take care and to never ever fight about material possessions. At the inheritance proceedings, as it is called in the legal profession, the youngest brother and I agreed that the home in the village near the city where we live and where mom found peace after divorcing dad, goes to the middle brother. My mom’s savings, that were about 20.000 was divided between myself and the youngest brother, with hope that one day he will be himself again and find perfect use for that money. Maybe our mom’s promises, written in that little black book, will get realized at the end..

My middle brother found himself there – he has a state, horses, dogs, cats, bees, and most beautiful of all, he just got a baby girl, my little bumble bee. Just how adorable that little Ksenija is!

And I would write more, but please don't mind, I wake up early to go to work and take care of my three little guys.

And you know what? I feel a bit better. Thank you.