Challenges in Patient-Centered Care: My Mercy Hospital Story

Voluntary Admission: Seeking Help at Mercy Hospital

More recently, I spent around two weeks in the psychiatric unit at Mercy Hospital in Lorain, Ohio. This experience, sadly, turned out to be even more distressing than my previous one. Overall, it seems to boil down to a lack of patient-centered care, particularly from a critical member of my treatment team, my psychiatrist.

I checked myself into the hospital voluntarily after an unsuccessful suicide attempt. Despite feeling absolutely awful and having my reservations due to past negative experiences, deep down I knew I needed help – both physically and mentally. I was hoping for an understanding, therapeutic environment where I’d finally be heard and could find some relief from the obsessive, relentless thoughts that had driven me to this point. However, despite my active and willing pursuit of treatment, I found myself treated more like a threat.

Emergency Department: A Brief Respite

My stay began in the Emergency Department, where, to my surprise, I felt somewhat comfortable. I was monitored but also given a degree of space. Things changed when they started suspecting serotonin syndrome. I was then moved to a different unit for closer observation.

This place was cold, both literally and figuratively, and overcrowded. I found myself sitting in a chair, shrouded in blankets to fend off the chill. Alone and preferring my own company, I couldn’t help but overhear other patients discussing how long they had been waiting for a bed. It seemed like this unit was a mere overflow area for the main psychiatric wing. Thankfully, the nurses here showed kindness and helped me maintain some semblance of comfort.

Confronting Anxiety: Pre-Psychiatric Unit Worries

After a seemingly brief period, I was transferred to another room in a different part of the hospital, a temporary stop before moving to the psychiatric unit. This is when my anxiety really began to ramp up. Left alone with my thoughts, I spiraled into worrying about all the possible negative outcomes of being in the psychiatric unit, likely fueled by the trauma from my previous inpatient experience.

A Clash with Authority: Security Intervention

When they finally came to move me to the unit, my instincts kicked in hard. I just didn’t want to go, despite knowing deep down that I needed this. My refusal led to them calling security to my room, as if I needed ‘motivation’. The security officer was the biggest asshole in the building. He didn’t offer understanding but rather wielded his authority like a weapon, threatening to charge or arrest me for reasons I still don’t fully understand. It was a dehumanizing experience, and I remember his face vividly – the embodiment of unempathetic authority.

I knew I couldn’t realistically escape going to the psychiatric unit, but I was shocked and appalled by the lack of attempts to explain things to me or show any empathy. It felt like I was viewed less as a human being needing help and more as a problem to be managed.

In an act of frustration and a desperate attempt to regain some control over the situation, I ripped out my IV and threw it to the ground. It was a small act of rebellion against their forced medication, which I knew was a hefty possibility. Under the looming threat of undefined charges, I begrudgingly complied and got into the wheelchair, scared and uncertain about what lay ahead.

Entering the Psychiatric Unit: A Turn for the Worse

My memory of being wheeled into the psychiatric unit is fuzzy, but I remember the overwhelming sense of imprisonment as I passed through those doors. Once I was inside, it felt like there was no turning back.

Struggling for Rights and Dignity in Treatment

I can’t quite recall if I was already hysterical by the time I got to my room, but I do remember eventually breaking down, crying and panicking. The staff’s response was to sedate me. I refused, so naturally, their next response was to forcibly medicate me, threatening injections if I didn’t comply. It was an utter violation of my body and my basic human rights – the right to have a say in my own treatment.

Waking up on suicide watch, I was monitored by a small, short woman in her 50s with short, graying brown hair. It was understandable, given the circumstances of my admission. However, she insisted on me keeping the bathroom door open, which was just too much. I stood my ground, insisting on my privacy, and she eventually backed down. It was important for me to hold onto that bit of dignity.

By then, my trust in the system and the people around me was completely shattered. I had come in seeking help, yet I felt more like a prisoner than a patient. I mostly stayed in my room, trying to sleep away the time. But there was a ray of hope when a lovely treatment specialist was assigned to watch over me. We chatted about video games and walked laps around the unit. For the first time since my admission, I felt treated like a real person, which gave me just enough motivation to participate in the program – even if my main goal was to get out as quickly as possible.

Confronting a Disconnected Psychiatrist

My interactions with the psychiatrist were another low point. He was a stubby-armed man with abysmal social and active listening skills. He seemed more concerned about my children than me, pushing for meetings with their father under the pretense of my children’s safety. I refused every time. It felt like a violation of my privacy, and I couldn’t fathom why he felt it was his right to share my medical details without my consent. I even bluffed about having a lawyer to get him off my back. When that didn’t work, he threatened to call CPS. I was so angry, I stormed out of his office, slamming the door behind me to make sure everyone knew just how pissed I was.

Feeling Trapped: The Paradox of Voluntary Admission

After that whole mess with being moved to the psychiatric unit, I remember thinking, “I brought myself here, maybe I can just leave?” I wanted out of the program, feeling like it wasn’t doing anything for me. It was clear I wasn’t being heard. But when I asked to leave, they shut me down, saying I couldn’t, despite the fact that I had signed myself in voluntarily. They told me the psychiatrist could issue a court order to keep me there, claiming I was a risk to myself or others. It seemed all too easy for them to do. I felt trapped, like I had unwittingly signed away my freedom. All I wanted was to be back in the safety of my own bedroom, not in this place that felt anything but safe.

A Tense Encounter with Child Protective Services

Then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the psychiatrist, whom I had dubbed ‘Stubby’ for his lack of bedside manner, actually called Child Protective Services (CPS). They showed up to talk to me, and I cooperated, answering their questions, even though I was seething inside. It felt like I was being punished for seeking help. By the end of the conversation, the CPS worker told me I couldn’t go back to the house where I lived with my kids and their dad, based on his request. In my mind, that translated to me not being allowed to see my kids, though she clarified I could see them, just not stay there. Great, just another thing to worry about – where was I going to live when I got out?

The Fight for Personal Autonomy: Access to Communication

At one point, I desperately needed my phone to arrange a paycheck, find a place to stay, and borrow some money. But getting my phone turned into a major hassle. It felt like I was fighting a battle just to access my own stuff. I wasn’t doing anything wrong; it was my phone, after all.

They eventually relented and allowed me to briefly use my phone under their supervision, and with strict instructions to only view my contacts. When I opened my phone, I couldn’t help but notice the notifications for my bank showing that I had a much lower balance than expected. Someone was spending my money while I was locked up in this place! Great! Now I’ll have no home to return to and no money once I get out.

Naturally, I was concerned and wanted to know more, but my concern was none of theirs. Immediately, they started telling me to stop and threatening me with punishment if I did not comply. Their overbearing control for no good reason infuriated me. So, in a fit of spite, I ended up throwing my phone on the ground and storming back to my room. And because of that, they took away my one chance to have a visitation meeting with my children. I was beyond frustrated.

Despite all this, I tried to comply with their program as best as I could, even though I had no idea where I would go after being discharged. I did manage to make a few friends in there, and we bonded over our mutual disdain for Stubby’s lousy psychiatry. It was comforting to have people around who understood what I was going through. It’s ironic, though, that these friends, and not the key members of my treatment team, were the ones who offered me understanding. I remember one girl comparing the place to a prison, and honestly, I couldn’t agree more. It felt like a jail, not a place for healing.

Discharge and Facing Uncertainty: Life After the Psychiatric Unit

After what felt like an eternity, they finally let me go, probably because my insurance wouldn’t cover a longer stay. I had no home to return to, no money, and a job that required me to work remotely. Thankfully, one of the friends I made, who had been discharged before me, let me stay at her place for a couple of days. The hospital set me up with aftercare therapy, but beyond that, they just wished me luck. Luck – that’s what I apparently needed to avoid homelessness. Being homeless seemed a better option than staying in that place.

Reflecting on Psychiatric Treatment: The Need for Empathy and Change

Reflecting on the entirety of my experience, not everything about the inpatient stay was terrible. Some of the nurses were genuinely nice and tried their best to be helpful in a difficult environment. But what really struck me was the amount of power my psychiatrist had. He seemed to wield this power not for healing but for compliance, making me feel more like a subject than a patient. It was disheartening to see how the system wasted both tax and insurance money on what felt like nothing more than causing me anguish.

I’ve been told to expect cold, uncaring attitudes from psychiatrists, but why is this the norm? Why do we give them a free pass to lack empathy? Maybe because they are in high demand, we let them get away with being hyper-analytical and detached from patients’ feelings. The best psychiatrists I’ve encountered, though few, have been child psychiatrists. They typically seem to genuinely care. However, I’ve come to expect adult psychiatrists to be cold, terse, and to-the-point. While I’ve accepted this as common, I don’t believe it’s how it should be. Having a stressful job and bad days is one thing, but in mental health care, there’s no room for causing harm. As care providers, they should be aiding healing, not contributing to the pain.

This whole experience has really opened my eyes to the importance of patient-centered care. It’s clear that both psychiatry and security staff desperately need better training in compassion, care, understanding, empathy, and compromise. The entire field of psychiatry needs an overhaul though. Why do we accept mental health professionals who lack these critical qualities? We need mental health professionals who are not just clinically proficient but also empathetic and understanding. It’s about time we challenge the stereotype of the detached psychiatrist. Mental health care should be about connecting with patients, understanding their journey, and providing support that respects their individuality. After all, in mental health, the approach to treatment can be just as impactful as the treatment itself.