Memories of the Nevada State Hospital ... reflections of a nurses' son

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Editor's note: This first person story was written too late to be included in the history book that will be available later this fall.

My name is Kevin McKinley and I have taught junior senior level psychology at Nevada High School for somewhere close to 19 years of the 26 I have worked with the school system. My favorite unit to teach my students has to do with the field of abnormal psychology.

During the summer of 1985 while in college, and later again in the summer of 1990, I had the opportunity to work at what is known by several names as the State Lunatic Asylum No 3 in Nevada. I was an activity aide, which is very similar to the job of a physical education teacher. I played basketball with the patients, softball, checkers, board games, took the clients on van rides, and walks around the grounds. I have a lot of memories of coworkers and clients.

I worked with those clients classified as mentally ill as opposed to the greater population in the Habilitation Center that were classified at the time as mentally retarded. I loved working with this particular clientele (MI) because they provided me with a vast knowledge of various illnesses that I would talk about in my psychology classroom: schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder, Alzheimer's disease, alcoholism, drug abuse, and delusions of grandeur to name a few.

I had the unique opportunity to work with my mother, the late Diane McKinley. She was the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. nursing supervisor on Section 4 of the Nevada State Hospital for over 20 years. My mom taught me compassion and professionalism through her example and treatment of the clients. Because I was her son, I had almost instant credibility with the clients when I started work there. I tried not to let her or the clients down with regards to this inherited reputation.

Some names of clients I remember ... some I have forgotten. But for privacy sake, I will give fictitious names to the true stories I am about to share.

George: From the hills and hollows of McDonald County.... George stood about 5 feet 2 inches tall and was very physically fit into his 50s. He suffered from Alzheimer's. He loved to speak in rhymes to me and the other workers: "I am on the road again, hopping like a rabbit who had lost his skin, when I walked up behind him and kicked him in the rear end," was one of his favorites.

Wayne: Wayne, along with another patient on a particular same ward, thought he was Jesus Christ. He wore a St. Louis Cardinal baseball cap and loved to place dandelions behind each ear (flower facing forward). He wore his pants and his belt over the top of his pot-belly, giving him the illusion of a very short torso and long legs. One day Wayne asked me to break him out of the hospital. I told Wayne, I am sorry... I could not do that, to which Wayne replied, "then it is the Lake of Fire for you McKinley!" I hope he really wasn't Jesus....I can hardly bare the heat today as it is.

Mr. Black was the other patient suffering from delusions of grandeur ... he too thought he was Jesus. He was a highly intelligent Ivy League educated man with a post-graduate degree from Chicago University. Soft spoken, he never threatened me with Hades.

Frank was a victim of drug abuse and spoke incoherently most of the time. The only word he spoke that I clearly understood was ..."cigarette"... but strangely enough articulated and sang the song "The Letter" by the Box Tops perfectly and played the guitar like a professional. Those my age and a little older may remember this tune...

There was a patient that many workers didn't care for. I can't remember his name but remember he was in his late 70s or early 80s and was extremely bossy and had an authoritarian personality. For some reason we hit it off right away. He liked to go watch the other clients play softball at our field just north of the hospital. The elderly gentleman was often too tired to make the walk back to the ward. On more than one occasion I carried him piggy back to the ward. My mom put an eventual stop to that. But the old man and I remained friends until it was time for me to go back to school at summer's end.

My boss was David Mosher in the summer of '85. He was a high school classmate of mine and also taught me how mutual respect goes a long way with those suffering from mental illness. I remember those lessons until this day. David died tragically at a young age not long after that. I miss him to this day. Other individuals that I worked with were also consummate professionals: Frank Drummond, Larry Black, Monty Hawks, June Fecht and Donna York-Shorten just to name a few.

I would have loved to submit some stories to the book that has been compiled about the state hospital but at the time I spoke with Ms. Chestnut by phone, I lost my mother a few short days later. It was just too hard to put the memories down until now. But my mom often shared with me a quote that allowed me to gain a philosophy in dealing with those who are challenged and how to treat them....

"To rob a man of his dignity and self-respect is to quietly kill him."

Thanks mom...I will try and remember this version of the golden rule you taught me in how I deal, not only with those suffering from mental illness, but all of my fellow man.