Bunny sits in the chair across from Dr. Fitzgerald’s desk, and tells her, “I want to go home.”
“Good,” Dr. Fitzgerald says. “We can start you on the Paxil and Abilify tomorrow and, if all goes well, you’ll be home before you know it.”
Bunny closes her eyes, and she shakes her head, which the psychiatrist interprets as a different decision made, that Bunny has decided on electroconvulsive therapy. “If that’s what you want to do,” she says, “I’ll set up an appointment with Dr. Grossman.”
“No,” Bunny clarifies, “I want to go home now.”
“Bunny, that’s not possible,” Dr. Fitzgerald tells her. “You can’t simply check out. The staff has to agree that you are ready to be discharged.” She explains that, unlike every other unit in the hospital where you can get up and walk out even if the doctor has advised against it, the rules are different in the psycho ward, although Dr. Fitzgerald does not use the word “psycho.” She says “psych ward,” because the doctors aren’t allowed to say “psycho.” Or, at least not in front of the psychos themselves.
Bunny tries to comprehend the unfathomable. “You mean you could keep me here forever?”
“It’s for your own good,” Dr. Fitzgerald says. “And it’s the law.”
Bunny can’t sign herself out of the loony bin because, by virtue of her being here, she is not of sound mind. Nor is it possible for Albie to sign her out even though he is of perfectly sound mind because now that she’s here, the hospital is legally responsible for her safety.
With more compassion than she has heretofore exhibited toward Bunny, Dr. Fitzgerald tells her, “You can petition the courts, but it can take a long time to get a hearing.”
Bunny blows her nose into a tissue, and then blots her eyes with the same tissue, and she repeats, “I want to go home now.”
“And we want you to go home. We want you to go home as soon as possible. But you’re not doing anything to help yourself.” Dr. Fitzgerald picks up her pen and twirls it between her fingers. She is anxious to get back to her paperwork. “You’re refusing drug treatment, you haven’t gone even once to therapy, and you’re not partaking in Activities, either.”
“I went to Arts and Crafts, ” Bunny says, “and I go to Creative Writing.”
“You went to Arts and Crafts one time, and Creative Writing meets for one hour three times a week. What are you doing with the rest of your days?”
“I’ve been waiting for the dog,” Bunny tells her. “And I’ve been writing. Creatively,” she adds.
“Alone? By yourself?” Dr. Fitzgerald makes a bird noise. “How can you expect to get better when you are off in some corner all alone? Bunny,” Dr. Fitzgerald says, “writing is not the answer.”