What the heck had happened? Not wanting to tussle with my new medications, I decided not to recall the pre-hospitalization. If not, Dr. Rimmed Egghead, or the quarterly bald psychiatrist who saw me wouldn’t be happy. He would look like a dented ostrich egg, you know. Suffice to say I was at the lowest low of my Clinical Depression. On 22 June 07, I broke down and hence touched down on the Planet of the Nuts – again.
That was psychiatric ward of Selayang Hospital, Selangor, outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. No nut case, no peanuts served there, but another psychiatrist with the pot belly of Nutty Professor. Followed by the three other Medical Officers, they were the psychiatric ward squad of Selayang Hospital.
I had only one regret. I had forgotten to ask my brother to take pictures with his hand phone when I was wearing the wasabi-green hospital uniform. I felt the green color of it also painted on my face. I looked greenish pale and grayish haggard. Imagine. I was with the excitement of an 18 years old but looked 10 years older than my real age, 37. (Do that Gwen Stephanie sultry moves, the ala Madonna hungry eyelash fluttering!)
There was something that I did not quite understand. Is the mental health standard in Malaysia still remained in the Third World? I was given 300 mg of Seroquel at different doses per day, and injection of Fluanxol per month. I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and Eating Disorder (ED). So, why the heck that I was given and injected with antipsychotic, which were meant for Schizophrenia? Or OCD not in the hospital vocabulary? Strange.
No wonder. The strong doses worked in the beginning. My deep, excruciatingly painful Depression was swept away. I was constantly feeling lifted, high on my tip toes. Too bad, this isn't the happy ending that I died for. The awful side effects from Seroquel and Fluanxol such as severe drowsiness and weakness, suffocation, loss of coordination and focusing, and muscle stiffness only manifested after 3 weeks.
Feeling great in the hospital, I became chatty like a crow and did my stiffed-tendon creaky dancing in front of the TV whenever there was a MTV.
And very much to my delight, a young Medical Assistant (MA) named Mohd. N., aged 25, followed me everywhere I went! (Not bad for a 37 years old, eh?). We talked like kids, played like kids, watching TV together like kids till he was scolded by the nurses!
Well, he liked me, so? Anything wrong for a MA to spend time with a patient after finishing all his paperwork? And he complimented that I looked like the dead Mongolian model Altantuya Shaariibuu! (…Whut?!).
Next. I finally discharged on 9 July 07. Nothing went well the rest of the month. My medicines had to be rearranged and a new medication, Zoloft added in, after I was struck by the deadly side effects. I only feel better TODAY. I’m hoping for brighter days ahead.
Picture: My hospital wrist band.
That was psychiatric ward of Selayang Hospital, Selangor, outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. No nut case, no peanuts served there, but another psychiatrist with the pot belly of Nutty Professor. Followed by the three other Medical Officers, they were the psychiatric ward squad of Selayang Hospital.
I had only one regret. I had forgotten to ask my brother to take pictures with his hand phone when I was wearing the wasabi-green hospital uniform. I felt the green color of it also painted on my face. I looked greenish pale and grayish haggard. Imagine. I was with the excitement of an 18 years old but looked 10 years older than my real age, 37. (Do that Gwen Stephanie sultry moves, the ala Madonna hungry eyelash fluttering!)
There was something that I did not quite understand. Is the mental health standard in Malaysia still remained in the Third World? I was given 300 mg of Seroquel at different doses per day, and injection of Fluanxol per month. I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and Eating Disorder (ED). So, why the heck that I was given and injected with antipsychotic, which were meant for Schizophrenia? Or OCD not in the hospital vocabulary? Strange.
No wonder. The strong doses worked in the beginning. My deep, excruciatingly painful Depression was swept away. I was constantly feeling lifted, high on my tip toes. Too bad, this isn't the happy ending that I died for. The awful side effects from Seroquel and Fluanxol such as severe drowsiness and weakness, suffocation, loss of coordination and focusing, and muscle stiffness only manifested after 3 weeks.
Feeling great in the hospital, I became chatty like a crow and did my stiffed-tendon creaky dancing in front of the TV whenever there was a MTV.
And very much to my delight, a young Medical Assistant (MA) named Mohd. N., aged 25, followed me everywhere I went! (Not bad for a 37 years old, eh?). We talked like kids, played like kids, watching TV together like kids till he was scolded by the nurses!
Well, he liked me, so? Anything wrong for a MA to spend time with a patient after finishing all his paperwork? And he complimented that I looked like the dead Mongolian model Altantuya Shaariibuu! (…Whut?!).
Next. I finally discharged on 9 July 07. Nothing went well the rest of the month. My medicines had to be rearranged and a new medication, Zoloft added in, after I was struck by the deadly side effects. I only feel better TODAY. I’m hoping for brighter days ahead.
Picture: My hospital wrist band.
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