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Hope and Healing
By Lisa Vail
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| Photo: Lisa Vail |
I was 16 years old when I knew that I was supposed to be a nurse. During the summers that I was 18 and 19, I had the opportunity to work with patients who were mentally ill or developmentally challenged. Although they scared me at first, I grew to love them. I began to see them as people with an illness. They were not unlike any person who needed medical care--only that their illness was in their minds. I realized that when I became an RN, this is where my calling would be. I would be a psychiatric nurse.
I now work in the intensive care psych unit of a large Christian hospital. Some days when I walk though the locked doors it feels like I’m walking into another world. The patients here aren’t struggling to heal a broken bone or recover from surgery. They’re struggling to heal a broken mind and recover from the wounds of the past and present.
Trying to convince someone who has a mental illness that they need help is one of the hardest parts of my job. There is also a high level of unpredictability with patient behavior. They’re often violent and need medication assistance or at times restraints. Sometimes patients are so ill that they have absolutely no sense of reality and appear to be simply existing. Other patients drain me emotionally when they are verbally abusive, yelling and screaming obscenities, personally attacking someone, or just being loud and obnoxious.
But the positive aspects of my job definitely outweigh the negative. Since many of the patients return for help, I get to know them personally. Such was the case with Darla.*
Darla’s Story
A very intelligent woman, she was attending college and majoring in a foreign language. She already knew several languages and had traveled extensively. She was also a published author. Although divorced, she was very close to her parents and siblings, and had wonderful family and friend support.
She first came to us for help because she was psychotic and had suicidal ideas. Having quit her much needed medication, she complained of auditory hallucinations--hearing voices that were saying damaging things to her. The voices would call her vile names and command her to kill herself. At times she felt overpowered by these voices and by the urge to obey them.
Whenever Darla was under my care, my job was essentially to keep her safe. She would often actively try to kill herself, and would use whatever was around to hurt herself, whether it be a plastic eating utensil or a colored pencil. She would often bolt for the unlocked doors if they were opened for any reason. When she was in this state, a staff member would need to sit with her around the clock.
I was drawn to Darla the very first time I took care of her. About my age, she had old scars on her arms from previous times when she was commanded by the voices to hurt herself. She was quiet and gentle, and clutched a stuffed animal for comfort. She was never demanding, and answered all of my many questions, even though it was very obvious that she was actively hearing voices--and actively seeking a way to kill herself. When she opened her mouth, only polite talk came out. She described in detail what it felt like to be mentally ill—unlike any patient I have ever had. Her openness fed my desire to understand.
I would often simply sit and talk with Darla, the way two girlfriends would sit and talk. As I got to know her I would speak comforting words because she needed constant reassurance. I had to repeatedly encourage her to take her meds, and to tell her over and over again that she would feel better once the meds started taking effect. Darla also needed to be reminded of how much value she was, because she truly believed the awful things the voices were telling her. I often told her what I would do to those terrible voices if I could get my hands on them! I constantly assured her that they were wrong and that she wouldn’t be feeling this way forever.
“I’m praying for you,” I repeatedly told Darla. She appeared relieved and would always thank me for telling her. I also told her that God was going to help restore her to the way she was before the voices. She would again thank me for this reassurance.
Usually after a two-week period Darla would suddenly smile, say the voices were just whispers in the background, and that she no longer felt controlled or had a desire to kill herself. We would all rejoice when those days came! When she was well enough to go home, I’d hug her goodbye and remind her with a wink to take her meds. And she promised she would.
Lessons Learned
I learned several valuable lessons from Darla.
I learned that God sometimes heals through a sudden miracle, but He also heals through medical professionals and medication.
I learned that a person who is mentally ill is no less of a person than anyone else with a disease that needs a cure.
I learned that love and friendship could push through the barriers that mental illness can erect in someone’s mind.
I learned that Darla, and many people like her, are truly the forgotten ones. They are among “the least of these” who desperately need our attention and care.
And I learned to appreciate Jesus even more as I tried to be like Him. The Jesus who would touch the untouchables; speak to the ignored; eat with the outcasts; and make the weak strong. The Jesus who never fills a person’s mind with deplorable words about themselves, but rather with words of love and acceptance and worth. The Jesus who will never reject even those who the world might reject, because He has promised that “All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never drive away.”
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