Ruth was 14 years old and being treated for an eating disorder when she died after being detained under the Mental Health Act. She wasn’t allowed to see her family for more than a few hours a week. How did the system we trusted – and I worked for as a GP – fail us so tragically?
I remember so clearly the moment it dawned on me that the mental health ward where my teenage daughter was being treated felt like little more than a prison. Ruth had been so trusting. So had we. That all changed the day she was moved from our local hospital to Thames Ward at Huntercombe hospital in Berkshire. When we left, she walked so easily down to the hospital transport with me and the play therapist – who hugged her tight and waved goodbye. When the van door opened at the other end, the stark building loomed over us. We were met and escorted up a flight of stairs and through the double, air-locked, doors, one slamming closed behind us, the person with the keys waiting for the first lock to click before opening the next. This was a sealed unit, devoid of natural light, my eyes aching already from the harsh glare overhead. We were taken to an inner room, lined with windows. The goldfish bowl, they called it.
Ruth’s hand slipped into mine, head down as they told me it was time for me to go. “But I haven’t settled her into her room or met any of the staff yet,” was met with: “Parents aren’t allowed on the ward.” I asked again, and they conceded I could see her room, just once, but then I had to leave immediately. It was hospital policy.
