As I walk by the lobby at six o'clock in the morning waiting for the patients to come into the methadone clinic, I can see two members of staff at the reception area ready to assist the patients with any problems they may have. The mood is melancholic and laden with evidence of a sleeping healthcare facility struggling to come to life for another busy day ahead.
With the sullen preparations from the security guards to the nurses taking duty behind the glass windows and others pacing the corridors towards different directions, it is evident that the day will be packed with activities. From the long queue already forming at the clinic’s entrance in the wee hours of the morning to get their dose of methadone, it is hard to ignore a large number of patients who are suffering from chronic pain.
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Since the opening of this clinic, the number of patients taking methadone due to chronic pain has increased exponentially to the extent that the clinic has had to dedicate several windows to servicing the long queues that form every morning.
Moreover, I can see a security guard at the entrance ready to open the door and let the eagerly awaiting patients in. The patients enter the clinic, each scanning their card and making a line to see which window is available for their dose of methadone. The windows have three nurses each and have water containers for the patient in case they need it.
Later, it is seven o'clock and the doors open. The line is getting longer as I observe two women entering the facility. Instead of scanning their card, they both decided to sit on the chairs in the lobby. The older lady seems Hispanic, and the other seemed African American.
The Hispanic lady begins talking to the African American lady about her struggle with bipolar, schizophrenia, and depression. She wears a frown on her face as she says these and her facial expressions take an emotional tone. She seems attached to what she is about to say, and this is evident by the increased eye contact with the African American woman. From her yearning, for attention, one can conclude that these are friends who never get the chance to communicate. She speaks using tonal variations and gestures as a way of stressing her points and making herself clear to the African American woman.
She says she has not been on any medication for a year now. She does not seem to care much for these sentiments and makes it seem as though it is not a great deal even though she is evidently alarmed about her healthcare condition. Additionally, she says she had a psychiatrist but left the facilities and that they are trying to give her therapy instead of prescribing her medication. She seems to be adamant about the idea of submitting to treatment. From her tone of voice, it is clear she does not see the value or the need for surgery, and in that stead would like the doctors to prescribe for her medication.
She admitted to having had a history of suicide in the past and attempted against her life two months ago. The African American woman seems alarmed at the Hispanic woman's mention of death. She reaches out her hand and gently rubs the other woman on the back as a way of consoling her and telling her "sorry" in hushed tones. Her eyes seem teary, and she looks as though she remembers an event in her own life.
She makes as if to talk in response to this, but the Hispanic woman interrupts before she can utter a word. She says she cut her arms with a blade but did not go to the hospital. Her reason for not going to the hospital was the fear that no one would understand her predicament and that she only wanted the pain to go away. The African American woman asks her “Oh my God! So, what did you do?” She says she covered her wound with the local Elastoplast and that she does not know what to do anymore.
When the African American woman asked her about what was really going through her mind that drove her to the extremities of suicide, she said she just wanted the pain to go away, but she did not know how to do it. She felt like everything around her was working against her and that she had no power over her circumstances.
By now, the queue has grown even longer, and the mood in the facility has started to take a turn for the better. From the sombre mood that it once was, now it is slowly becoming a busy health facility. More and more people are approaching the windows for their dose of methadone, and it is becoming a struggle to hear the two women talk over their loud murmurs.
The Hispanic woman says her son lives with her and has a pair of cats that gave birth to kittens. She says she has told him she no longer wants the cats or the kittens inside the house due to the smell. She said he has to find a place for those "cats" or else she would do away with them. Additionally, she said he has a girlfriend of which she disapproves and is a "bad" influence on him due to the number of jobs she has made him leave.
She says he lacks respect for her house and stays out partying until five o'clock in the morning. She said it is a living hell in the house with her son's girlfriend not having respect at all. The African lady said she empathized, and she was not aware of all she was going through, and they both needed it to go out for coffee someday. Furthermore, she related her experience with chronic pain and explained her reason for coming to the health facility.
Finally, the two women get up from the lobby and make their way to the windows to get their dose of the drug. They stand side by side and snake their way through the lines until they reach the counter and collect their drugs, still talking about their personal experiences. They later leave the facility still talking and bid each other farewell.
