The bus pulled into Wellesley Station and descended underground. From there, Marion took the subway to Queen Street, then the 501 streetcar to Ossington. As they rumbled past 999 Queen Street West, she became uncomfortably aware of the local myth manifesting: some of her fellow passengers were holding their breath, wanting to avoid catching whatever contagion was within the walls of “the nuthouse.”
When the streetcar reached her stop, Marion exited on Queen Street then walked through the centre’s entrance, which was part of the institution’s new Administration Building. It had been constructed ten years ago, directly in front of the old structure, and since the two were the same width, the asylum was completely blocked from view for anyone passing by. Again, out of sight, out of mind. In a few years, the original building would be demolished, along with the old system of care.
“Good morning, Dr. Hart,” chirped the secretary by the entrance. A vase of fresh tulips stood in a sunbeam on the corner of her desk, their bright red petals curving toward the source.
Marion inhaled the nutty aroma of coffee with pleasure. “Good morning, Miss Prentice.” She paused by the folders affixed to the walls, checking for anything that might have come in for her, then pulled out the week’s schedule, a listing of two new patients, a memo about a staff meeting—the usual.
“I hope you enjoyed your weekend.”
“Oh yes. We went to my grandparents’ house, and my father was in charge of the barbecue. He claims he’s never burned a hot dog in his life, but his perfect record ended yesterday. Afterward, we shot off fireworks. Did you get to see any?”
“A little,” Marion replied, scanning a file. “I watched from my balcony, so I saw what I could over top of the other buildings. Better than nothing. Is Dr. Bernstein in yet?”
It was a silly question. Her boss was always there early.
“About an hour ago.”
“That man never sleeps,” Marion muttered. “I thought I was the early bird.”
Miss Prentice brightened. “That’s all right. There are plenty of worms to go around.”
With her paperwork clutched to her chest, Marion headed down the hallway and peeked into Dr. Bernstein’s office on the way by. He was there, of course, bending over a pile of paper and squinting through thick glasses. Almost ten years past retirement age, he was slowly losing his sight, but he was as stubborn as he was old. Dr. Bernstein was polite enough, but he clearly disliked her. She was confident that was due to her sex, since she had never knowingly offended him.
There were 136 beds in this new building, ten more than what the builders had planned for. Of those, Marion was responsible for twenty-six women. She checked her notes then knocked on the door of the first patient room on her left.
“Good morning, Barbara. It’s Dr. Hart. May I come in?”
A muffled groan came from within, which Marion took as an invitation. Barbara Voss was twenty-eight years old with neurotic depression. She and her husband had admitted her a few months ago, after she suffered multiple miscarriages and plunged into despair, becoming emotionally unstable. She’d lost her job, stayed in bed for days without eating, and terrified her husband by entertaining suicidal thoughts. After an admittance interview, Marion had given Barbara a room at the hospital. It was exactly what she wanted and needed, but even then, her anxiety had fought her on it.
“How much is this going to cost? I don’t have any money. My husband is worked to the bone. I can’t—”
“Barbara, do you remember what Prime Minister Pearson introduced last year? The Medical Care Act? All your expenses here are covered by Medicare.”
The relief that had come over the woman’s face was a beautiful thing to see.
Marion understood that question, though. She was doing relatively well these days when it came to finances, but she was still a penny-pincher. Her parents had raised their daughters in a small house, and while they had never gone hungry, they certainly didn’t splurge. It was a mystery to Marion thather parents, on their very limited income, had been able to send her to university, let alone medical school. Many times, seeing them in obvious need, she had threatened to quit school, feeling sick with guilt, but her father had not permitted her to consider it.
“We have the money,” he had assured her, over and over. “It’s been put away so you can be what you always wanted to be. Do your best and make us proud. That’s all we ask.”
So she had done exactly that.
At a recent meeting, the general consensus between the doctors was that Barbara’s dosage of 75 mg/day of Tofranil should be increased. Marion believed 150 would be too high in this case, so she upped it to 100 mg instead. She wanted to observe and be certain. Barbara was also undergoing counselling, including group therapy. She’d improved tremendously under that course of treatment, to the point that she was now labelled “domiciliary.” That meant she required a safe place to live, three meals a day, and some treatment, but for the most part she was able to administer self-care. That was a relief to Marion, considering the future plans for the hospital.
Marion’s next patient, Alice Sumner, was twenty-two. She was a diagnosed schizophrenic who had lived there for six years, and, as Marion had discovered firsthand, she was sometimes dangerous. The second time Marion had met with her, she had taken a seat at her bedside, and Alice had punched her in the face. Marion fled the room and rushed toward the washroom with a hand cupped over her bleeding nose. On her way to cleaning herself up, she’d accidentally bumped into Dr. Bernstein.
“What happened?” he asked flatly, squinting at the mess on Marion’s face. “Did you fall? Did your patient hit you?”
“The latter, but I’m not sure why,” Marion replied. “We were having a pleasant conversation about how she was feeling, and she punched me.”
He folded his arms. “Do you have unresolved disagreements with the patient?”
“I’ve only met her once before, Dr. Bernstein. That meeting was uneventful and cordial.”
“The Stanton-Schwartz phenomenon suggests otherwise.”
Marion had read Stanton-Schwartz and did not agree with it, but she was in no position to argue with her boss. Besides, she didn’t have time. She needed to get past him, wash her face, and see if the bleeding had stopped.
“Are you familiar with the phenomenon?”
