Bellevue Beckons

The following night, I strode down a long white hallway with two bright orange doors at the end. No paintings, just bare, black markings on the floor and a smell only a hospital could have. This was the Psychiatric Ward of Bellevue Medical Center—the place the Greek restaurant owner mocked, in a place I only referenced when cracking a joke. And now on this sunny, clear, crisp Friday afternoon I found myself wandering around the nuthouse.

“You want eighteen, twenty or twenty-one?” the lobby guard asked me when I arrived. I announced 18, not knowing what was there. At the 18th floor, I exited the elevator, pushed through two orange doors, and entered a reception area. I noted an alarm system with a special code box. I tapped on the glass window that separated me from three nurses having a discussion over a clipboard. All three started toward me. “Can we help you?” one asked.

“I’m a student from NYU and I would like to observe this unit,” I said. I figured keeping it clear, short and direct would be best.

“You’ll have to speak Dr. Chen,” she said. She shot a look at the other two, then opened the door to let me in. Her desk was bare except for two stacks of paper and a box of Kleenex. There was no plants, no music, no pictures. An eerie quiet lay everywhere.

I followed them down a narrow hallway lined with small rooms. I couldn’t see inside the rooms because the windows were covered. Who was in those rooms? What took place behind those doors?

The sound of our footsteps, a mix of the soft shuffle of orthopedic sneakers and the loud wooden heels of my cowboy boots bounced off the walls into the yawning silence of the corridors. Mental patients? Where were they? Behind those doors?

A right turn and another hallway. A door. Two nurses excused themselves. The third nurse knocked on the door and Dr. Chen appeared. She stepped back. I stepped forward, Dr. Chen had a short, serious haircut and wore plain simple jewelry. She appeared quiet and pleasant in manner, but her piercing stare was intimidating.

I repeated my one-line introduction with a smile. “Who authorized you to be here?” she asked, her Chinese accent thick and her tone impatient.

I had no authorization. My curiosity was my authorizing agent. I was drawn to that place because of my experience the night before with the stranger, who was said to come from this place. But she wouldn’t understand.

“I am a senior at NYU, majoring in journalism and I wanted to observe this unit for a story I am doing,” I replied.

“Yes, I understand, but who is watching over you? An advisor? Doctor?” she asked. Her arms were crossed and she looked down at the floor, as if looking for more examples of authority figures who could have legitimized my visit. But I had no guardian, and didn’t fill out paperwork or send e-mails to anyone asking permission. I just showed up to Bellevue with my NYU ID, cracked a joke with a lobby guard, and slipped into the entrance access of the proper elevator bank. The guard was half-asleep, anyway.

“I have no advisor,” I replied. I stuck with being clear, direct and honest. It wasn’t the time or place to play games.

“On your own?” she asked. “Show me your documents at least,” she commanded. I held only my yellow note legal pad full of notes.

“I have no documents,” I said. “ I just wanted to observe—to get a sense of what it would be like in a foreign place,” I added.

She stared at me like I was crazy. “You cannot just come up here on your own,” she snapped. “Special permission is required!”

Two minutes later I was back in the lobby.

As I walked outside a splash of sunlight struck me in the face and almost instantly the visit seemed unreal, forgettable, lost in the mix of city noise and action.