Ashes to Ash: Remembering Metropolitan State Hospital

by Madeleine Kando

Mark is taking us on a nature walk again, this time through a thick pack of snow. The area is called 'Beaver Brook North Reservation', a 300 acre piece of conservation land in Belmont. It is a beautiful winter day, the sky is blue, the air is crisp and the branches on the trees are motionless, patiently waiting for the birds and squirrels to come forage for food or sing their morning song.

Our walk is taking us over a small wooden bridge where we peer into a brook with patches of ice that resemble delicate, transparent lily pads. We walk through fields where the invasive burdock lies dormant, waiting for the spring when it will conquer more of this native habitat. We pass by tall cherry trees whose bark looks like burnt cornflakes, next to some slender hazelnuts with bark as smooth as a babies' bottom. A patch of oaks whose branches droop under  the weight of blackened gouty oak galls, some others being choked by climbing ivy.

Then we come upon a beautiful open space, the snow tinted blue in the sunshine. It is surrounded by a rock wall, so typical of New England and in the middle stands an enormous tree. A sign reads: 'Metfern Cemetery. Burials from 1947 to 1979.'

Dredging through the snow, we come upon many gravestones, simple blocks of concrete. They all have a number preceded by a 'C' or a 'P', but there are no names or dates. I read the sign more closely: 'Served Metropolitan State Hospital and Fernald School. C on the tombstone indicates catholic burial. P on the tombstone indicates Protestant burial'.

With a jolt I suddenly realize where we are. These are the grounds of the old psychiatric hospital where I did my internship as a Movement Therapist many decades ago. Mental patients are buried here. Children, adults. Patients who have lived out their lives in these two institutions and had no family to claim them when they died.

The snow we walk on is one more layer that separates us from those poor souls who were already forgotten by society when they were locked up. Disturbing memories of dark corridors, of semi-catatonic patients aimlessly staring at nothing. Their few sources of pleasure were cigarettes which they constantly brought to their lips with trembling, nicotine stained fingers.

I flash back to one of our 'sessions', when our group of young interns were trying to engage the patients on the chronic ward into a group dance. They had little expression on their face, but sometimes a vague sad smile appeared as they listened to the music. They were interested, but their drug induced rigidity made it hard to even keep them from toppling over as we tried to get them to move. That was then, now they are here, under my feet. Or maybe they are in the buds of the invasive burdock, inside the bark of the cherry tree that I see standing next to one of the graves. Maybe they are patiently waiting to be reborn as a maple or an oak.

Mark leads us on a trail to the old water tower that looms large in the distance. It is rusted and covered with colorful graffiti. The tower is, or rather was, close to another structure, the Gaebler, where children were 'treated' for psychiatric illnesses. All that is left of the Gaebler, is this snow covered, overgrown parking lot and a small section of crumbling wall. This too brings up long forgotten memories of locked wards, pea-green colored hallways, and the odor of urine permeating the stairwells. Children as young as four were locked away here for years.

What happened to the vast complex of buildings that made up Metropolitan State Hospital? Has it been demolished? Is it now part of this beautiful sanctuary? When it was built, at the turn of the century, it was one of the largest of its kind. The hospital was officially shut down in 1992, but I couldn't imagine that all of it had been raised to the ground. During our sessions, I could see the water tower through the barred windows, but I wasn't sure in which direction relative to the buildings it was.

Mark is taking us back to our starting point via a loop around a beautiful bog, the reeds sticking up rigidly, standing guard against unwelcome intruders. But my mind has already gone its own way, eerily mixing this pristine, quiet landscape with the unnerving memories of patients in distress. I couldn't let go. The unmarked graves, the ruins of the Gaebler, the old, rusting water tower, they all seemed to vie for my attention. I listened to Mark explain the intricacies of plant life but I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about the vanished hospital. It had been visible from quite a distance, a large Victorian estate, in the middle of a rolling landscape. How could it have disappeared? **

We were back at the parking lot, tired but grateful to Mark who had managed to remind us, yet again, how much life there is, most of it so small and invisible that it takes a keen eye to discern it.

It had started to drizzle. I drove back on Trapelo Road, the official address of the old Metropolitan State Hospital, stretching my neck to peer through the wet windshield, looking for a large red-bricked Victorian style structure. Nothing. A road that looked like it had been built fairly recently veered off to the right. It said 'Metropolitan Parkway'. I followed it, winding through open fields on both sides until a sharp bend in the road revealed an old brick structure with a bell-tower. The windows had been boarded up and painted bright red, making it look like its eyes were bleeding. I followed the road until I saw a sign: 'Avalon Lexington Community'. A large complex of luxury apartments.

It looked clean, organized. Perfectly shaved lawns, pavement and parking spaces meticulously maintained. But then I saw it. The last complex was the way it had always been: a square indoor courtyard surrounded on all sides by wings jutting out. This design, called the 'Kirkbride plan', was meant to give each section of the building an equal amount of sunlight and fresh air. This was the chronic ward where I had danced with my semi-catatonic patients. Rebuilt and converted into expensive, one and two bedroom apartments, the courtyard now hosting a large swimming pool and a fancy playground. I wonder how many families in this upscale community realize that the rooms they sleep in are the same rooms where the mentally ill more than likely received electro-shock therapy.

Old Metropolitan Hostpal                                             New Avalon Cafeteria

Sorry Mark, I was going to write about all the wonderful details of plant life stored in your vast brain which you so generously share with us on these wonderful nature walks. But the past has a way of sneaking into the present when one least expects it. This was one of those moments. I am grateful to you for bringing back these memories, for the things that I experienced so long ago and for being able to write about it. leave comment here 

** The Kirkbride Plan refers to a system of mental asylum design advocated by Philadelphia psychiatrist Thomas Story Kirkbride in the mid-19th century.