Chapter 1: The Day of Treatment

This narrative aims to convey my personal experience with ECT, not to dissuade others from considering it. Many individuals have found this therapy beneficial, and I encourage anyone to pursue it under the guidance of their healthcare providers.

At 5:45 am, a gentle knock on my door stirred me from my restless thoughts. I was already awake, fully aware of the day’s events ahead.

"Heather? It's time to go," Jack, my night shift counselor, called from outside.

I slowly rose, wrapped my hospital gown tightly around me, and opened the door.

The psych ward's overhead lights remained dim, and the air felt unusually cool in the empty corridors. The atmosphere mirrored that of an abandoned asylum, fitting for my state of mind.

"Please have a seat," Jack said, gesturing to a nearby wheelchair. "I brought an extra blanket for you in case you feel cold."

I let out a barely audible sigh, thanking Jack for his kind gesture as I covered my legs, feeling a bit like an elderly woman.

We took the elevator down three floors to the Ambulatory Surgery unit. The hospital was eerily silent; we encountered no one as we navigated the empty hallways.

No doctors bustling about, no nurses in colorful scrubs, and no visitors carrying cheerful balloons or flowers.

Jack wheeled me into Ambulatory Surgery, a bright, sterile room that contrasted sharply with the dimness of the halls.

Lost in thought, my wheelchair suddenly halted beside a bed against the wall.

"Here you go, Heather. Lie down with your feet by the wall and your head towards the center of the room," Jack said cheerfully, adding, "Good luck."

His words felt hollow; he would leave, while I was about to stay behind.

Once on the bed, I noticed the room was alive with activity. Staff moved gracefully like a well-rehearsed dance, preparing for the procedure.

Jack's instruction made sense as I realized they positioned us this way for easy access during the treatment. After all, they weren’t shocking our feet.

"Good morning, Heather!" a loud voice chimed from behind. I turned to see a vibrant woman with red hair, introducing herself as Deb. She was clearly the one in charge.

After checking my veins for an IV, she assured me, "You have tiny veins. Let's warm this up a bit."

Deb wrapped a warm blanket around my arm, providing a moment of comfort before she disappeared.

Stan, a mental health counselor, approached next, attaching various medical devices.

The blood pressure cuff, pulse monitor, and electrodes were placed on my body, making me feel like a science experiment.

He looked a bit like Beaker from the Muppets—an amusing but unsettling comparison given my situation.

I remembered my psychiatrist explaining that a muscle relaxer would accompany the anesthesia to prevent injury during the induced convulsions.

This procedure is called Electroconvulsive Therapy for a reason.

The muscle relaxer could render me immobile, necessitating general anesthesia. The blood pressure cuff on my leg ensured the medication wouldn't affect my foot, where the doctor would observe the impending seizure.

The day’s patients were few, but I felt utterly alone. I wondered if anyone else shared my terror—was I the only one feeling so afraid of this medical process?

Deb returned, removing the warm towel from my arm. "Looks like we have a good vein," she announced as she inserted the IV needle.

The saline solution coursed through my veins, and I could taste it—a sensation I had learned was unique to me.

Moments later, a tall, handsome man introduced himself as Dr. Sharma, the anesthesiologist.

After a brief review of my chart, he stepped away, leaving me alone with the beeping monitors.

A tear slipped down my cheek as I faced the reality of what was about to happen.

I felt as if I was on the verge of an execution, with the doctor I needed to meet remaining a stranger.

Finally, the moment arrived as Deb and Dr. Sharma returned.

"You are going to be fine," Deb reassured me, squeezing my hand.

He placed a mask over my face, instructing me to breathe deeply. The scent of antiseptic and rubber filled my senses, igniting fear within me.

It wasn't long before everything faded to black…

When I regained consciousness, I felt as if I were clawing at the air, panic setting in as I realized I was coming to too soon.

Voices surrounded me, but I couldn’t comprehend their words.

"Please don’t let them shock me while I’m aware!" I thought in desperation, wanting to shout but unable to voice my fear.

It felt eerily similar to stories of waking during surgery. Dr. Sharma quickly adjusted my anesthesia, and I drifted back into unconsciousness.

When I next awoke, I was back in my hospital bed, unaware of how I got there.

Hours later, I emerged from the fog with a pounding headache.

A nurse had thoughtfully closed the blinds, darkening my surroundings, but soon my stomach churned, and I rushed to the bathroom, experiencing nausea despite having eaten nothing for hours.

As I lay back in bed, I wrestled with the reality of my experience, dreading the thought of enduring several more sessions like this.

Little did I know that the trauma, especially from the anesthesia awareness, would linger with me for over a decade.

After multiple treatments, I had to stop. The fear became too overwhelming to manage.

Ultimately, the ECT did not alleviate my depression; rather, it erased significant memories and left me with PTSD.

Despite the statistics claiming an 80% success rate for others, I was not among the fortunate ones.

Bipolar disorder is unpredictable.

Chapter 2: Understanding ECT's Impact

The journey through ECT is not just about the treatment itself but also about its profound effects on mental health and personal well-being.

The first video, "ECT - Caroline's story - How Electroconvulsive Therapy saved my life," highlights a personal account of how ECT can bring hope and healing.

The second video, "Kitty and Michael Dukakis speak about ECT - Electroconvulsive Therapy," presents insights into the procedure and its potential benefits from a notable perspective.