I work in a Behavioral Health unit. The psych unit of the hospital. We get alot of patients, from major mental crisises, to unmanageable depression. The object is to help someone out of their crisis and hope they don’t have to come back.
But there will always be the patients who come back. The ones who count on us to help them, the ones who need us.
Because of that, there are patients that we get to know. We see them when they are at their worst, and we nurture them back to stability. We come to love them, in our way.
In a way, they begin to become like old friends. And each time I discharge them, I give a kick in the pants, and tell them I better not see them round these parts again… And then I give them a hug, and tell them that seriously, we will always be here if they need… And then they are gone.
And days go by, and weeks, and months. For most people, it is, out of sight out of mind. The doors of our unit revolve too quickly to dwell. But for those who have the softest parts of my heart, I imagine I haven’t seen them because they are doing so well in the world. I don’t let my mind imagine the worst.
But sometimes it happens. We live in a small town. And when I happen upon the news article declairing one of my most special patients dead… a piece of my heart breaks away.
There are downsides to every situation, but this is the very worst part of my job. Everybody dies, it is something a hospital is very familiar with, but when one of my patients dies, it cuts me as a failing.
Why didn’t you come to us for help?
I am not a doctor. I’m not even a nurse. I am the person who gets you coffee, who sets up and cleans the shower, the person who wakes you up in the morning, the person who tells you that the sun is out and if you’re not quick, you’ll miss it! I can’t take away your problems, or your pain. All I can do is offer my hand when you’ve fallen, and try my damnedest to help you remember how to smile.
And today, I pushed myself to get up, to go out and see the sun, to smile… because I would never be able to do that for you again. I smiled, because I would never see you smile again..







(It was at that particular moment that the dog had decided to also stop. And drop a load. I quickly wrestle a small plastic bag from my pocket and scoop up the mess from the lawn like it is some prized treasure. In this quiet and pristine neighborhood, they are strict, and I am not entirely convinced that there are not cameras hidden in the trees.)We walk on. Dog sniffing, me breathing, footsteps falling. Birds singing. Leaves rustling. I never walked an area like this in Alaska. Though indeed, surrounded by evergreen trees and birds. It was different. Larger, wilder. The trees heavy with mosses. Old Man’s Beard, or that’s what we used to call it. Pale green and draping off of branches, catching any gentle breeze. The ground underfoot, dirt, and moss, and twigs. Every step clearly made with snaps and crunches. Foot falls were so audible we once scared ourselves as children. Imagining into reality that we were surrounded by ghosts, their foot steps so real in our ears, but our eyes saw nothing. And when you truly did hear the snap of a twig, not brought on by your own feet, you did not stick around. For wilder and meaner things resided within the thick forests of Alaska than neighborhood watchmen.By the time we turn back, the sun is starting to kiss the horizon. The trees are bathed in a different sort of light. Above me, a tree, naked save for a few brown and dead leaves still hanging on, bursts golden in the last love of the day’s sun.
The house comes into view and the dog becomes excited. She no longer needs to sniff. She turns her head towards me, excitement in her eyes and a smile only a Golden can wear. I know she wants to run. I give her the end of the leash, but it is too heavy and she drops it, which scares her and causes her to bounce away into the ditch. I pick up the stupid leash and apologize. She picks up a stick, renewed excitement. Her ears flop. The flop of a happy dog. She will walk that stick home in victory. But the stick is a little too big and it breaks as she drops it. She picks up the smaller piece, no one needs to know it used to be bigger. She could still walk this stick home in victory. But she eventually drops it too. So I unhook the leash and she bounds the last few steps to the front door. Happiest that the walk is finally over.















