The Sixth Floor: A Narrative

Bianca Pollard
RHET 4318 Writing Auto/Biography
September 17, 2013

I find it odd that the ward on the sixth floor of St. Vincents will give you short pencils,
but wont let you bring in a book to read. At least the latter isnt a choking hazard.
Not that I would have tried to swallow one. Showing progress and getting out of the ward
were my priorities. If the nurses or doctors or psychiatrists held even the slightest suspicion that I
was at risk of harming myself in any way, who knows when I would be able to return to the real
world.
I left this real world on a Monday. After being accompanied to the emergency room by
my roommate, Rachel, and a few friends, Logan, Maddie, and Adrian (where I was essentially
bumped up to VIP status the moment I wrote down how many pills I had willingly ingested
earlier that afternoon), I was escorted to a large room, empty except for the bed, some cabinets
near the door the nurses used to come in through, and a chair. The doors were incredibly tall and
wide to accommodate the different pieces of equipment routinely wheeled in, and they were
thick. Sound didnt travel through them very well at all.
A nurse gave me a massive set of papery scrubs and placed my belongings into a baggie
while I changed out of my clothes and placed them into a bigger plastic bag. After rounds of
waiting, vitals checked, waiting, vitals checked, a couple different nurses finally gave me two
bottles of sickening liquid charcoal to flush out the toxins in my body. They were sweet and
sympathetic, and even mixed in some cherry flavor to help take off the edge. It didnt, but at least
I managed not to throw it up.
Apparently that was a good sign, for they soon sent my friends in to sit and chat with me.
See, my roommate had been the one to come home and find me, and she had just made plans to
have the others come over to discuss their editing class. They urged me to drink water, then
decided this was out of their hands and took me to the nearest hospital. Now we were talking,

sometimes loudly, sometimes laughing. Aside from the crap taste in my mouth that threatened to
send me reeling towards a trash can at any given moment, I was feeling better.
The phone in the bag the nurse made me put my things in beeped pitifully. It was running
out of battery. I hadnt realized it still had any juice, and decided that was as good a time as any
to finally call my mom, even if I dreaded telling her the bad news.
They all looked at me incredulously when I told them who I was calling. Maddie almost
shouted. You havent called your mom yet?
A little ashamed, I said, I thought my phone was dead. Plus I dont want to hear her yell
at me. Or cry.
You could have used our phone, geez.
So I called my mom, and she was quiet. This was not my first offense of this nature, but it
certainly was the first that landed me in the hospital and not just a fuzzy couch. She asked me
where I was and assured me she was on her way.
I remember more vividly these few moments before 3am more than some of the events
that followed. My mom and step-dad came and my friends departed to get back home. I felt tired.
My mom shrugged her coat off and placed it over me like a blanket and urged me to sleep. I did,
and when I woke up, my throat was scratchy and dry. She handed me a cup of ice water, and I
noticed I was covered in blankets.
My mom laughed. My step-dad spoke very little English, but he had taken one look at me
and stormed out to demand blankets from the nurse. She too cold, he insisted.
Where is he now? It was just me in the bed and my mom sitting next to me in the chair.
In de waiting room. He said he want to watch terebision. He probably sreep on the
couch now; dont worry. Keep dreenking water. I go and talk to him, tell him you wake up.

She left the door ajar and I waited. My stomach was making gurgling noises and I was
sure my insides were being torn apart. I ran to the bathroom, barely sitting on the seat in time.
When I was finished, I cleaned up and staggered outside where my mom was waiting outside my
door.
All three of us collected back in the room. He asked my mom to ask me why I had done
it, and she waved him off. A nurse knocked and entered, telling me I was getting my vitals
checked again. Then she told me I was moving up to the sixth floor, where I had to voluntarily
commit to at least 72 hours of inpatient care.
We rode the elevator together, but my mom and step-dad were forbidden from going any
further. They were told visiting hours were Tuesday and Thursdays for a couple hours in the
evening, and a little earlier on the weekend. It was 3am Tuesday morning.
Dont worry sweetie, we be back tonight, OK? We exchanged hugs and kisses. I felt
enormously guilty, since my parents worked tirelessly all week and my mom especially had been
awake all last night watching me sleep. My mom retrieved my belongings and told me she would
charge my phone.
Oh, she cant bring that in here, the nurse said.
She cant have a phone?
No, maam.
How she spose to call?
They have phones in the lobby area.
I imagined the other patients would be clamoring up to use them first. Would I have to go
an entire day without calling anyone to let them know where I was? What about my professors?
My parents wouldnt be able to contact them, especially not the professor of my online class

since they were both technologically impaired. I would just have to miss class, without any
notice, and risk failing. Maybe lose my scholarships. And my ambassadorship, too! My hands
shook nervously.
I almost wished I had succeeded what Id started.