The dance tipped the scales for me, and I bought a cheap wig and smuggled it home. I could rarely wear it, and then only for minutes at a time but I was now embarked on the slow road to for me at least- 'recovery'. N-'s mental condition was slowly deteriorating and her mental problems came back again stronger than ever. She found my wig one day and she became almost impossible to live with.

One evening when I was working the swing shift, the local hospital called to tell me the police were bringing her in. The mine is 30 miles from town, but it was only 45 minutes from the time I got the call until I was at the hospital-that included the time it took to 'step up' the crew to cover my absence, change clothes, arrange for a ride to town and to get there. The doctor had given N— a shot to calm her down and had sent her home. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee when I came in. I could tell her nerves were about to explode, so as calmly as I could, I asked her what was wrong. She said she had a problem that was bugging her and had called the police for help. They had taken one look at her and had called the doctor. The doctor agreed when she said she didn't want to stay in the hospital-she had done over $300 damage to the room the first time she was there and he had suggested that she should go to the State Hospital for help. (That was before her first trip there). Over coffee, she told me that she wanted to go back to the State Hospital because that was where she belonged. I figured she would change her mind in the morning, so I suggested we get some sleep and would leave after breakfast. "NO," she said, "I want to go NOW!" so I called the Hospital and the duty doctor told me to bring her in. We packed a few clothes and left about midnight. It is about 225 miles down there, and about 10 miles from there, she said, “I've changed my mind. I don't want to go in, let's go home." I told her they were expecting us, but that we would abide by the doctor's decision—if he wanted her to stay she stayed or she could come home if he felt she didn't need hos- pitalization.

During the admission interview, the doctor asked her what the problem was that had been bugging her so hard. She told him, and then blurted out, "My husband is a female impersonator-a Transvestite a Queer. He doesn't like sex, he's a homosexual-he needs help more than I do.' The doctor then told her that his primary concern was her problem— after she was helped, then he would worry about me.

After she had been taken to the Receiving Ward, the Dr. asked me to have a cup of coffee with him. He told me that when a patient was in such a state as she was, they didn't believe anything the patient told them. I asked him if it would help if I told him which of her statements

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