Quiet Room - Lori Schiller [118]
The best key of all was the 9925 key. It was the universal passkey to all the doors on and off the units, to the nursing station, the pantry, the therapeutic activities building—even the Quiet Room. It was the key that Dr. Rockland and Dr. Doller and Dr. Fischer and all the staffers used to come and go from the unit. Patients never touched that key. That key was power. It was the key that opened the locked doors that stood between me and freedom.
Freedom meant loss. In a strange way I had even become fond of this seemingly terrible place. After all, it had been my home for—altogether—nearly four years. I knew the way my bed felt. I knew when the heat came on, and how the place felt in the morning. I knew the times of day when you woke up. I knew when and where to line up for my medication.
I thought about leaving behind all this security. The rules and procedures that had been so foreign to me so many years ago when I had first entered the hospital were second-nature to me now. I was used to community meetings, used to the system of asking for passes. I knew what food was served in the dining room, and how to get seconds and find secret hiding places for the things I liked best.
I knew I was going to miss the staff. Some of them had followed me through all three of my hospitalizations. I thought about the staff who had stood by me, encouraging me. I thought about J.J. and Margo and Jean, who had been with me through the worst. I thought about Rose, who had been my pal. I thought about Barbara, who had given me poems and notes urging me not to give up. Most of all, I thought about Sorin. How was I going to make it without Sorin there behind me? I had a fleeting moment of fear. It passed. I would make it. I would make them all proud of me. I would show them all what I had learned. I would show them all I could make it.
On my last day I was quiet, withdrawn. All the feelings inside me were so hard to control. Quietly and without much comment, I said goodbye to each one, giving each a little gift to remember me by. And then they gave me a gift too. They handed me the 9925 key.
On November 6, 1989, I opened the door to the outside world all by myself, and left the hospital forever.
Epilogue
Lori Hartsdale, New York, 1994
Today when I walk through the doors of New York Hospital, I do so not as a patient but as a teacher. When I walk through the entrance, I might be wearing a stylish linen jacket, slacks, boots and hoop earrings—not baggy warmup suits.
On weekends I work part-time in a gift shop. This isn't a hospital gift shop selling newspapers, candy, gum and flowers for patients. It's a funky place called What's What, selling everything from stuffed animals to designer handbags to mirrors that laugh when you look at them. I enjoy helping people pick out gifts and making neat corners when wrapping packages. I've even worked full-time as a counselor in a halfway house—the same kind of place I lived myself just a few short years ago.
These days I don't live in a bare room with the furniture removed, or even in a community residence anymore. I remember well the day just over a year ago when I moved into my own apartment. After my friends from the halfway house had lugged up the last box and left me alone in my new home, I sat down on the parquet floors. I just looked around me in dazed happiness. I couldn't quite believe I was here at last.
The apartment I live in today is a beautiful place, filled with furniture I picked out by myself, and with food I like in the refrigerator. All kinds of little things about my new life please me. My desk. My floor lamp from South Africa. My fax machine. The fancy tea kettle I keep ready for company. The shower curtain covered with bright-colored fishes. My limited edition animated cartoon art. It's all mine. If I break a mug, it's my mug. I can keep everything neat and clean just as I want it. I can walk around the house in my underwear if I want. The message