I owe my life to a manic-depressive.

During my last year in nursing school, I had to spend 3 months at Chicago State Hospital….a truly horrible place in the 1960s.  At one point, I was assigned to a female lock-up ward with some pretty disturbed patients.  We were instructed to never attempt to take the blood pressure of one of the women.  I knew that, but one day I felt as though I was in a real predicament with her.

I had been assigned to check the blood pressures of all the patients on the unit.  After taking the blood pressures in the day room, I proceeded to the corridor outside where there were a few chairs in what amounted to a “dead end.”  As I checked the blood pressures of the patients in that little cul-de-sac, I realized that my exit from the area was blocked by the patient whose blood pressure was not to be checked.

Standing between me and a way of escape, she asked, “Why don’t you take my blood pressure like everyone else’s?”

My brain was spinning weighing the possible answers and what she might do as a result.  No other staff members were in sight.  Partly in naiveté and partly stalling for time, I replied, “Do you want me to check your blood pressure?”

“Yes,” she said.

I thought to myself, OK…I will just wrap the cuff on her arm but I won’t pump it up.  Maybe it is the pressure on her arm that sets her off, and I can get away with faking this.

But, I had no sooner wrapped the cuff on her arm, than she was on me with the agility of a cat and had her hands around my throat.  She squeezed, and things started to go gray.

But then….I heard a cheerful voice.  A heavy-set lady who was manic depressive, and fortunately for me, in a manic state, came bouncing down the corridor saying, “What are you doing to the little nursie?”

She grabbed my attacker and pulled her off in one swift movement…not even a struggle.  I rapidly retreated to the safety of the nurses’ station grateful to have survived.  I had finger shaped bruises on my neck.

A few weeks later, while assigned to another ward, I was asked to take a group of sociology students on a tour of the grounds.  It was winter, and I was wearing a blue wool coat over my uniform, as we went between buildings.  We entered one of the units as the patients were finishing their meals.  A lady hopped up and came running toward me with her hands covered in mashed potatoes.  “Oh, Nursie,” she said, and gave me a big hug.  My nice winter coat now had mashed potato handprints. 

I had to forgive her, because she was the patient who had earlier rescued me.