Hoboken University Medical Center — Local services in Hoboken

Hi, I'm reviewing the CCIS.

I am as of today thirteen years old. Now after looking back at what happened when I was nine I can see the full extend of the mess. After an attempted suicide at age nine and another meltdown my parents where forced to call 911. I was brought to the hospital into the emergency room of a different hospital. I stayed there for one day, after that I was brought to Hoboken University Medical Center. The people working there where unprepared for treating actual humans as it seems. My parents signed a form that allowed the healthcare workers to use sedatives as a LAST RESORT, remember that. I was a terrified child without my parents. From that moment on the timeline is pretty distorted so I am going to list what went on.

The first room I was in smelled for fresh paint. As I am autistic this messed up my sensory processing, luckily my parents convinced the staff to move me to a different room.

I need magnesium pills which keep my digestive system from blocking up. My parents gave the necessary pills to the hospital. Unfortunately the hospital did not give these pills to me so I was in pain often at my time in the hospital.

I also need lactaid pills for consuming milk products as I am lactose intolerant. My parents gave these to the hospital as well. Again the hospital did not use these. Though less significant I instead had to watch the other 'children' eat foods that looked edible while I ate the same meals every day.

The sedatives that where supposed to be used as a LAST RESORT where used as threats against me when I did not my blood to be drawn on three separate occasions. I was also told to thank the man who had drawn my blood. I was terrified of sedatives being used against me so I gave the man my fake thanks.

My blood, as I already stated, was drawn three times in the five days I had been there. One arm had blood drawn from it three times while the other had only been drawn from once by the emergency room. My arms hurt a lot during my time at the hospital.

As a nine year old child I was terrified. Terrified of the fact that the other kids I was in the CCIS with were in the age range of fifteen to seventeen. Not only do I have a developmental disorder but I was at least five years younger than the younger kids there.

As a child I felt like the sedatives where going to be used on me everyday and was in a constant state of terror for five days straight. My parents occasionally visited me but I was too young to know the words to describe what was going on. I spent my time with my parents begging to go home.

I had brought a stuffed animal and a blanket with me. As an autistic child the blankets they offered were to textured for me. They took away the two things I had brought with me so I had to use two hoodies as blankets. I also replaced the pillow with a stack of my clean laundry.

That is the list I can remember when trying to dig through my suppressed memories.

I am still struggling with PTSD from this experience I had when I was nine.

If you are confused on the things I said about autism please do not trust any sites that used or are Autism Speaks. Autism Speaks is not using true information and is hurting the Autistic community. If you want reliable information try to get it from actual autistic people.

Thank you for reading this essay of a review and...

I honestly can say that when I had my first daughter 5 years ago it was amazing the nurses were outstanding with support as well as with teaching us how to handle our new born baby, fast forward 5 years and I’m having my son here ,it is May 28 2019 and I’m going to tell u I can’t believe how bad things have got they are so unorganized short staffed and it has bin a horrible stay for me and my wife. The whole 24 hour labor my wife went through was full of nurses coming in and out leaving the door open for people to look into while my wife was naked things that were needed for delivering the baby we’re not in the room so the nurses had to keep going in and out of the room while my wife is pushing and the strangers walking back-and-forth in the hallway During the actual delivery of our baby the doctors and nurses are having their own conversation is not taking it seriously and the doctors are trying to scare my wife by saying that his head is big while she’s pushing and just stressing her out .after 24 hours of labor and 35 min of pushing they just throw me and my wife in a maternity room , they don’t explain to her that they can help with the baby in the nursing room so she can get some sleep instead they wait until 2am while my wife is crying in tears that the baby keeps crying and she doesn’t no why- I had to bring up the fact that I had Received help with my firstborn daughter. They don’t teach my wife who by the way as a new mom how to burp the baby they don’t teach my wife who is a first-time mother What to expect for the first couple of nights although the nurses are very nice it’s very un organized. I guess it’s because these nurses and doctors deliver babies every single day that it isn’t as special to them as it is for us so they Made my wife’s first pregnancy first delivery A bad experience after 38 hours of being in the hospital waiting for the doctor to come and do the circumcision which was promised to be done by 4 o’clock in the afternoon , The nurses come into our room to notify us that they couldn’t get in touch with our doctor Dr. McQuilkin and that we should wait due to our frustration we decided we’d wouldn’t want the doctor to do the circumcision the next day we would like to schedule it for another day he responds by saying if you’re not going to wait for me to do it tomorrow then I won’t do it at all and tell us we can sign our self out without medical advice. Of course you know that means our insurance will not pay for the visit or the delivery which put us in a very tight spot. After talking to the nurse about our possibilities they ended up getting another doctor to discharge us . I honestly hate that I have to write this review but it is...

The psychiatric ward I was forced into was not a place of healing—it was a cold, filthy warehouse of human suffering disguised as a medical facility. From the moment I arrived, it was clear that the goal was not treatment, but containment. The walls were stained with decades of neglect, the furniture looked like it had been salvaged from a landfill, and the air stank of chemical disinfectants and despair. Any illusion that this place was meant for care was obliterated the moment I set foot inside.

The staff were not caregivers; they were guards masquerading as professionals. With an air of apathy and control, they treated patients like problems rather than people. Their favorite tactic was humiliation—screaming across the ward to announce someone’s medication, mocking breakdowns instead of treating them, and enforcing arbitrary punishments for simply asking questions. If you cried, you were “manipulative.” If you were quiet, you were “non-compliant.” No matter what you did, you were wrong, and you were punished for it.

Sanitation was non-existent. Bathrooms reeked and were rarely cleaned, food was barely edible slop served on trays that looked like they hadn’t seen soap in weeks, and basic hygiene products were handed out like contraband. If you asked for a toothbrush, you were treated like an addict begging for a fix. They locked up soap, towels, and even toilet paper behind staff-only doors, as if the mentally ill couldn’t be trusted with dignity. The whole place was a health hazard that wore the mask of a hospital.

What made it even worse was the total lack of humanity. There was no compassion, no understanding, no attempt to connect. Group therapy was a joke, led by overworked facilitators who clearly didn’t want to be there. Instead of listening, they read from scripts, checked boxes, and counted the minutes until the session was over. You were cattle, moved from room to room, drugged into silence, and expected to “improve” without being given a single tool for recovery.

This place didn’t help me—it hurt me. It left scars that I’m still trying to understand. It was a prison that wore a hospital’s name tag, a system designed to break people down and call it treatment. If anyone ever tries to call that ward a “safe place,” they’re either lying or have never seen the inside of it. There is nothing safe about being stripped of your humanity and left to rot under fluorescent lights. What happened inside those walls was not care—it...