She’s well-dressed, her white hair a sporty short style, her make up well done. I’ve met her only once, almost two months ago during her stay on the psych ICU. She had just tried to kill herself the second time. We did rounds and called her in to talk to her, the attending, two interns and myself. I didn’t say a word.
She still remembers me, tells me where I sat during that conversation. I didn’t think she would, she seemed so closed off at the time, wrapped up in unhappiness, wishing she would have succeeded with taking her life.
She seems different now. Talkative, enthusiastic, open. We talk about a lot of things. She’s glad I’ll be able to see my grandmother on her birthday. She talks about her own grandchildren, and her eyes sparkle.
I ask her about what happened when she tried to take her life. “Oh, when I went to take a bath?” she giggles. She took pills and went to drown herself in the lake, in the middle of winter. Luckily, because otherwise her family wouldn’t have been able to find her. There wouldn’t have been any tracks, no snow.
I’m taken aback and I tell her. She becomes serious and tells me, I still sometimes wish it had worked. Being like this, it doesn’t mean I’m well. It doesn’t mean I want to live.
She has nightmares about promising her doctor not to hurt herself, the day before.
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