The Trip - Part 3

But there I was, in my father's hotel room searching for a psychiatric hospital.

He adamantly said that he did not want to go to a hospital in Slovakia. I told him that I didn't even know if there are any such hospitals close by in Slovakia anyway. The nearest one would probably be in Bratislava, which was about an hour drive away. Since his hotel was so close to the border, Vienna was really the only feasible option.

After searching for about 15 minutes I found two hospitals in the Vienna area that seemed decent. One was public and one was private, and knowing how expensive medical care is at private Vienna hospitals, I decided to go with the public option. Reviews were decent (I'm still not sure what to make of reviews for such a place) and it looked to be in a nice, green area of the city (though Vienna is very green in general). Pulling up the directions on GPS I saw it would be about a 45 minute drive from the hotel in Slovakia.

"Okay, I found one in Vienna. It seems good. The reviews are good."

"It's in Vienna? Are you sure it's not in Slovakia?"

"Yes, I am sure it is not in Slovakia," I explained.

"It will take about 45 minutes to get there. Do you need to pack anything?" I asked.

"No, I didn't unpack. I don't even care about my things," he said, again with his standard aggressive tone. My father in one of his depressive states like this was never what you, or at least I, would imagine someone distraught to be. Aggressive is not an adjective I would imagine many people use to describe a depressed person.

But that was my father.

"Okay, well, you might need something in your suitcase. You might get bored anyway, so it would be good to have your computer or books or something."

"I don't care! I don't care about any of it! I'm going to kill myself, I need to go to the hospital!," he said again.

"Alright, look, fine, I'll just take your stuff in case. Let's go then."

I grabbed his bags from the hotel, he put on his sport coat (he wasn't even wearing a winter jacket despite the cold) and hat, and I struggled awkwardly with his suitcase and surprisingly heavy briefcase while he carried nothing out the door.

You may think I am being petty, but even this simple thing is an example of my father always getting other people to do things for him in his life.

We were soon out the door, down the hall, into the elevator, out of the building, and into the car. I put in the address to the hospital in the GPS, it calculated, told me it would be 45 minutes with current traffic, and I tapped the start button.

At that point it finally seemed real.

My father had barely been in Austria for 10 hours and I was taking him to a psychiatric hospital.