According to popular myth, psychiatrists lead an easy life. The time between their few consultations is spent sipping herbal teas and nodding sagely over the latest research journals. Alison Moyet's dulcet tones ooze softly from a nearby stereo and photographs of Freud line the walls, while cigarette smoke coils languidly towards the ceiling awaiting the genie of the lamp.
This sedate image is in stark contrast to reality. One stormy morning, as lightening flickered behind our gloomy building, I found myself dealing simultaneously with an absconded patient, a gentleman who had been dealt an overdose of heroin, someone waving a Samurai sword in the Casualty department and my bleep incessantly singing out of tune. Where was my herbal tea and Freud wallpaper? A nurse-cum-messenger interrupted my musings. Apparently an anxiety sufferer wanted to look around to see whether he should attend our reputedly tranquil ward for treatment. Today of all days! Beam me up Scotty was not happening. Captain Kirk (otherwise known as my boss) had left the building and I was left, leader of the pack.
I dealt with my assorted emergencies and went forth to meet our guest. Adopting my best "doctor - patient" attitude, and feeling vaguely like a tour guide, I showed him around the "grounds". I avoided the high security wards and diverted neatly into a cosy interview room when three nurses in keystone cops pursuit of a patient hove into view. All was going well, and I was confident that he would begin his journey to recovery as our patient. The morning rain had passed and the afternoon sun streamed though the open windows, the combined scents of carnations and air freshener wafted gently on the breeze. As we chatted our guest glanced towards the window. Suddenly his expression became one of horror. Turning, I followed his gaze. Where moments before there had been only the uninspiring sight of the facing building's fifth floor windows, there was now a man. He was standing on the ledge, cigarette in hand, calling " I am jumping off the window to heaven " to the pursuing nurses. Soon he was hanging upside down, calmly smoking while the nurses gripped his legs. Our guest made his excuses and fled, his mumbled promises to return tomorrow almost drowned by the sirens of approaching fire engines.
Tomorrow arrived and to my surprise so did our prospective patient. I concluded our interview and took him to see the ward where he would be staying. As we approached a door burst open, disgorging a dishevelled gentleman. Blood gushed from a lengthy slash on his arm. Our guest halted, appalled, as I leapt to assist the injured gentleman. From behind me came mumbled promises to return tomorrow. On the morrow I received a note " Dear Doctor, I am returning to my job. My anxiety is completely cured, and I will not be coming to the hospital". With a wry smile, I went about my duties. Was this what we called an alternative cure?