Lunatic’s Mate

3. Talking to the nurse

Changing in the same room was odd. They didn’t let me leave for anything. Why was everyone acting as if I was a danger?

When I slept, I felt at peace, free from everything—the constant fear of losing my life, losing my house, losing my son, losing myself, and losing the good graces of those who held power over me. Knowing that social services couldn’t hurt me or find anything to blame me for was a relief.

If only I could sleep in my own bed. This bed was uncomfortable, and I felt that if I asked for anything, they’d say I was asking too much. Why was it wrong to ask for a break from responsibilities, especially when I hadn’t done anything wrong? All I did was divorce a narcissistic, abusive rapist to give my son a better future.

Why was I being punished for being free? At least I knew my son was safe with my mother.

Letting myself rest for a while longer, I heard a microphone being tapped, and I became annoyed at the interruption. Opening my eyes, I was met with three PC screens, each showing a different woman, including my son’s social worker—the same woman who had helped me divorce my ex-husband.

They were asking the same questions that Ingeborg had asked me, and at the end, the woman claiming to be my social worker asked:

“Is the house under your name, or is it still under your ex-husband’s name?”

I was too tired to care anymore. Everything I did was never enough, and when I finally accomplished something, there was no acknowledgment—not even a “congratulations.”

“Are we done?” I asked.

She didn’t let it go and stayed. “I’ll check with your ex-husband on these matters. Thank you for answering us.”

The PC screens shut off, and two nurses pushed the cart with them away from me. A while later, I wanted to use the bathroom and remembered I was on my period. Not even with my body could I find peace. Waking up, I looked around the empty room that felt so cold.

I walked to the door, which was open, and a nurse was stationed outside.

“Is there a bathroom I can use?” I asked.

The woman glared at me, and I didn’t understand why she was in such a sour mood. She got up and walked to a small door I hadn’t noticed. She opened it, and I went in, but she stood in the doorway, blocking me from closing it.

“Thank you, I’ll be done soon.”

She crossed her arms and said, “Hospital policy for mental patients—you can’t be in a closed room, and you can’t be alone either. Hurry up; I have work to do.” She glared at me, and I decided to make it harder for her.

Nobody asked her to be mean to me. I wasn’t asking for anything but to take a pee in peace.

“Alright, but I need a pad. I’m on my menstrual cycle.”

She rolled her eyes and demanded, “Let me see.” I walked back to the toilet, sat down, took off my underwear, and showed her my full pad.

She took it, groaned, and shouted into the hallway, but nobody replied. She looked back at me and said, “Don’t move from there.”

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes, and she seemed taken aback by my response. Without another word, she left, and I stayed, doing my business while thinking about going home. I felt a bit rested and knew I could do a lot of work.

I was happy to know that Ingeborg had helped me take some time for myself without any trouble. Lucky would be resting or enjoying some TV shows.

Just thinking about my little Lu made me smile, and all my energy returned—at least emotionally. The cramps from my period weren’t helping, and I knew I needed to rest a bit more.

“Mental patient.” The words echoed in my mind as I pushed the bloody cloth aside, my feet feeling ice-cold. Why did she say I was a mental patient? The thought reminded me of a movie that had traumatized me when I was growing up.

I couldn’t remember the movie’s name, but I remembered the blonde woman who was put in a room with other patients, all of them women with worse diagnoses. They were forced to sleep whenever the staff said so.

That same blonde hid beside her bed and overheard a doctor entering the room with two officers. She witnessed one of the officers raping a woman who was clearly mentally impaired, much like my son. Shivers ran through my body, and I couldn’t continue what I was doing due to the fear.

Suddenly, the realization of not seeing my son hit me, and I started to hyperventilate. What would happen to my son? Was he really with my mom? I needed to ask the nurse, and if she didn’t answer me, I’d make myself a pain until she did.

“Here is a pad. Are you done?” I heard the nurse say, and I took it, only to ask her:

“My son, can I know how he’s doing?”

Her face was stony, showing no visible reaction to my question.

“You will know when you get to the institution.”

Hearing that, I panicked and stuttered, “Institution? But I didn’t do anything other than sleep. I only answered her questions, and then I came here because I was told to.”

She moved to touch me, and I snapped at her, pushing her away as I started putting on my clothes after cleaning myself.

“Why were you about to touch me without my consent? Don’t touch me!”

She didn’t come near me again. I walked back to the bed, and when I saw another nurse, I spoke up.

“Are you taking over for her? Can I file a complaint against her? She tried to touch me without my consent, and I don’t appreciate it.”

The nurse greeted me but ignored my questions. Why wasn’t I being taken seriously all of a sudden? I got up, and she looked at me with a smile.

“Hey, look who’s up. How are you feeling?”

Annoyed, I tried to be as pleasant as possible. “Can I please file a complaint against that nurse? I feel violated, and it’s not right to take advantage of me like this.”

She didn’t reply and just went back to her paperwork. I was growing anxious, and I needed to know how my son was doing.

For hours, I kept trying to get her to make the call, and then the same nurses returned with a PC set. The nurse moved me back to the room, and I took a seat, feeling tired and drained from my period.

“Do you want a Midol? Tylenol?” the nurse finally asked, and I glared at her just as the cameras turned on.

“I’ve been here for hours. I asked to file a complaint against that nurse who was clearly taking advantage of me in the bathroom because I’m on my period, and I haven’t had any assistance for hours. Why am I being treated like a joke when I have rights?”

The screen came on, and I saw a bald man beside another man, both wearing ties. On the bottom screen was my ex-husband. A fourth screen turned on, showing the judge from our divorce. It was all surreal, and I wasn’t happy to see these people.

“Hello, Miss Green. Thank you for being available today for the custody hearing submitted by your ex-husband, Sir Rosado. We will be brief, as I have been informed you are in the process of being institutionalized. The court finds Sir Rosado to have fifty percent responsibility for Lucky’s care once he moves to his new place next week. Is that correct, Sir Rosado?”

I saw my ex-husband smile brightly at her question, and I felt my entire body on the verge of collapse.

“We’ve already moved to the new home. Lucky has his own room, and so does my second son. He is receiving ABA therapy, and I will make sure he continues with it.”

Hearing him mention the bare minimum that Lucky needed, while ignoring his entire progress, made me snap.

“Lucky is starting kindergarten this semester, with occupational, physical, and speech therapy. You can’t just turn down his education for only ABA if he’s showing progress—”

The judge cut me off, yelling, “Miss Green, I asked Sir Rosado about his plans for Lucky, not you. You are mentally unstable to give your perspective until your psychiatrist and neurologist say otherwise.”

Her harsh words made me start to hyperventilate, and the nurses grabbed my arm to check my blood pressure. Seeing the pressure machine and my ex-husband’s widening smile at my distress made me cry until I heard the nurse say:

“We have to sedate her. She isn’t responding well to the news. Hurry and check the transportation; we can’t keep her here much longer.”

Everyone kept moving around, and then I heard the judge calmly say:

“Miss Green, because of the pandemic, you need to receive treatment, and it is my responsibility to ensure Lucky’s well-being. Your belongings are under your mother’s care, and the house has been put up for sale as you did not follow the divorce instructions. Once you are discharged, we will have another hearing. For now, full custody is granted to Lucky Rosado’s father. This case is dismissed until the next hearing.”

The screen shut down, and a needle was injected into my arm. Almost instantly, I lost consciousness.