"It sounds like a college party; doesn't it?" said J. Lawrence Dohan '55 as he approached the door to "G-3," a ward high inside Metropolitan State Hospital at Waltham, Mass. "Well, it isn't, he continued, without smiling. "It's a mental hospital, and the sounds you hear are coming from patients who were considered hopeless cases a little while ago."

Then, after unlocking the final, fifth door between the ward and the outside world, he stepped into a scene rarely found in hospitals for the mentally ill. The "Bunny Hop" was blaring on a little wind-up phonograph. A Radcliffe freshman was dancing with a wizened old man whose eyes were almost as lively as his feet. A Harvard junior was getting ready for a game of musical chairs with seven women whose ages were hidden behind prematurely-drawn faces.

Each woman had a yellow daffodil in her stringy hair, and they had all just finished gulping down cookies and purple punch. What had happened to the usual somber atmosphere of "G-3"? The simple answer was provided by a patient standing near the door. "The volunteers have come," she said, almost breaking into a smile.

A Violin Solo in 'G-3'

After several minutes inside the ward, it was not difficult for a visitor to sense that there was something gloomy beneath the carnival spirit. Although the ward of about 50 women--specially joined for the afternoon by men from another ward--was generally clean, a strange antiseptic-like odor permeated the place. And, if 25 of the women were dancing, another 25 were sitting sullenly in the two long lines of chairs on either wall--some watching the gaiety with scorn, others gazing vacantly out the windows, while still others were constantly chattering to themselves and to anyone who would listen.

Then suddenly one of the patients picked up the record and smashed it on the floor; the volunteers were packing up to go back to Cambridge after three hours of hard but rewarding work, and the tensions of the patients were again coming to the surface. Soon the corridor would return to its usual state.

Aside from the volunteers, who now come to the ward every weekday afternoon, these particular patients have little to break their monotony. Infrequently they do have access to the limited "occupational therapy" facilities, but generally they just sit--waiting for volunteers, bedtime, and meals. Meals, according to an occupational therapist at the hospital, are "quite a sight." "The food is mainly bread and macaroni," she bitterly explained, adding, "The patients are herded to the cafeteria, or rather to the mess hall--and I mean mess."

The ward itself is by no means a "mess." It is not even drab any more, for the volunteers have gone to work with brushes and paint and put colorful murals on the pale green walls. One attendant explained that the volunteers had offered to wash off the pictures, "but the patients," she said, "wouldn't have it, and the paintings are still here. They really brighten the place up, you know."

When Dohan began the volunteer program in October, 1954, "G-3" desperately needed brightening up. All day, every day, every week, every month, the patients found nothing but a long corridor. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to. Dohan had served as a volunteer at Boston Psychopathic Hospital a year earlier, but last spring switched to Metropolitan State, where there were no volunteers at all. Beginning with only two volunteers, Dohan has expanded the program, under Phillips Brooks House, to include, at present, over 200 Harvard and Radcliffe students.

About 70 students are working actively in two adult wards at Metropolitan State. As student leaders of ward activities, Maeda Jurkowitz '56, Ann Gaines '57, and Alice Bonbright '57, all from Radcliffe, are in charge of planning the dances and organizing the volunteers into groups of six or seven which return to the same ward once a week.

In addition to group activities involving the patients themselves, volunteers have distributed 250 pairs of shoes collected in a PBH clothing drive. They have also sponsored theatrical and musical entertainment led by students. As a hospital attendant commented, "Last week, I found a student playing a violin for about 50 patients, who were sitting quietly listening to the music. Now that's something you wouldn't have found in a mental hospital five or ten years ago."

Another hospital employee agreed, saying, "We appreciate the entertainment almost more than anything. There is absolutely no budget allotment for recreational therapy of any kind and the total occupational therapy figure totals only $300 annually. And that is supposed to be enough to provide about 1,700 adult patients with carnivals, dances, and all kinds of craft work. It's just not enough, and the volunteers help immensely."

The volunteers help not only in entertainment and in organized activities, but also in just treating the patients like normal human beings. As one of the volunteers said, "We don't try to cure the patients. We just talk to them, if they want to talk, or play with them, if they want to play."

One of the most amazing results of such talk and play has been the sudden and dramatic response of 12 patients who had not spoken to anybody for years. The case of Mrs. A., in "G-3," is typical.

Every day, for the past 15 years, Mrs. A. had been sitting in a hard wooden chair at the end of the hospital corridor. With her dress forlornly covering her hear, she had never spoken, rarely moved except when forced. One of the doctors compared Mrs. A. to a near-sighted woman hit by a car on a busy street: "She is now standing on the psychotic side," he said, "and is afraid to cross to the normal side. Everything looks out of proportion--the street wider, the cars bigger, the danger greater. So she turns her back to the world and closes her eyes."

Yet last month, Mrs. A. opened her eyes, uncovered her head and talked with a volunteer. "That's the same dress you had on last Friday, isn't it?" she said. "It's very pretty." When a volunteer asked her why she had hidden her eyes, she replied that she "did not like to look at all the strange things in the world."

None of the volunteers claim that Mrs. A. has been "cured," but they can rightly feel that something has been accomplished. As one of them put it, "At times you feel that you have really found something of value."

'We Play Games'

The Superintendent of Metropolitan State, William F. McLaughlin, M.D., describes the contributions of the volunteers in another way. "We don't have enough doctors and nurses to reach all the patients. And even if we did, we still don't know the real answer to curing the patients. But if you create a normal environment and activity program--as the volunteers do--the patients respond. It is the beginning of getting their trust again, and often it is a spring-board to a cure."

More and more of the patients are responding and giving their trust to the volunteers. One of the activities of the volunteers that is appealing to many is the hospital newspaper, "Metrolog." "C. G.," one of the women in "G-3," recently wrote a short article in the mimeographed paper expressing her thanks to the volunteers:

"The boys and girls from Harvard come to see us," she wrote. "We enjoy having them with us. We play games. Today they brought some paint for our fingers. Ellen combed and set my hair. We also play cards. They take us out walking and we have interesting conversations. It is very nice to see such a fine class of boys and girls."

The project at the adult wards, however, helps only a small fraction of the 1,700 patients; a more comprehensive and integrated program exists at the children's division of Metropolitan State. There, about 100 volunteers can concentrate their efforts on 110 psychotic children. Directed by John Liebeskind '57, Roy Shulman '56, and Karen Wilk '58, the work in the children's unit is generally considered one of the volunteers' most outstanding achievements.

Since treatment for psychotic children is still in its early stages, the volunteers can use great freedom in planning what they call "group specialty projects." Each volunteer leads from three to seven children in such activities as flinger painting, crafts, music appreciation, or newspaper writing.

Each volunteer goes to the hospital only once a week, but the larger ratio of volunteers to patients makes it possible for students to lead activities six afternoons and three evenings every week. This relatively close contact with the children makes the volunteers of considerable help to the doctors and nurses, who rely heavily on the students' written reports and frequent special discussion meetings.

Thaddeus P. Krush, M.D., clinical director of the children's unit, describes the volunteers' efforts as making the difference between a hospital "where the patients live, and one where they only exist." Mrs. Ruth E. Roman, chief psychiatric social worker, adds that "they not only solve the staff problems, but they have initiative and warmth which cannot be bought." She explained that the volunteers provide relief for the nurses and social workers, who can then devote more time to specialized medical care.

Dr. McLaughlin himself recently wrote a special letter commending the "splendid crusade for our youngsters.' "All the volunteers," he wrote, "have done well in situations new to them, have tried to understand the problems and frustrations in a state institution, and have shown patient friendliness at all times . . . children and staff alike look forward to a continued and rewarding relationship."

Besides ward work in both the adult and children's units at Metropolitan State, the volunteers have two other areas of activity. One is case work at Metropolitan State, and the other is limited ward work at Boston Psychopathic Hospital.

Boston Psycopathic is--along with the children's unit at Metropolitan State--one of the nation's outstanding mental institutions. Here, William C. Brady '57 leads a group of about ten volunteers in varied activities, including ping-pong, discussion groups, and again, newspaper work.

While volunteers need no preparation for ward work either at Boston Psycopathic or Metropolitan State, case work is a different matter. The 19 volunteers, led by Maeda Jurkowitz '56 and Michael Dohan '58, first participated in a four-week training program conducted by professional social workers, and then went to work helping patients who were able to leave the hispital adjust to community life again.

So far, volunteers have rehabilitated six out of 21 patients--one to a nursing home, three to their own homes, and two to jobs. They expect to return at least six more to the community by June.

The problem of placing patients back in society is difficult, but Metropolitan State Officials figure that 70 percent of all patients newly admitted to the hospital are out within a year.

Dr. McLaughlin maintains that the real problem is the "large back-log of patients who have been here6J. Lawrence Dohan '55, originator of the program, looks out the window and another volunteer looks into a balloon. Sometimes it helps to have someone share the view.