July 29, 2019

I woke up around 7.30, wobbled to the pay phone and called my kids. I don’t remember which daughter answered but I let them know where I was and that I was OK. It made no difference as I think they spent most of the day looking for me anyway. I hadn’t been admitted to WCH so, of course they had no record of me. The next thing I remember is being in a cubicle on a stretcher. I believe I was belted down on the stretcher. It could have been because I wrote on the wall of the room or it could have been because I kept wrapping myself around the toilet bowl as soon as they left me alone. A woman doctor was standing beside me - holding up and displaying my torn sweater. “we can’t have this Mrs Bishop” I remember her saying “I am sending you to the Psychiatric Hospital on Queen Street”. I begged her not to send me there - “my children know that hospital is for mentally ill people”. Instead she sent me to Whitby. I was so glad - actually I am still glad - I have often seen Queen Street patients mulling about on the grounds of the hospital. No privacy at all. I later did volunteer work at that hospital [I forget its new politically correct name] and I think Whitby was probably better. There were no healthy pedestrian gawkers wandering around Whitby Psychiatric, it was in the country.

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