One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest Short Summary

Thankfully, the interview with the beleaguered Catrina ended, and Gwen was led into the common area where a dozen or so patients sat on folding plastic chairs and worn couches. A nurse stood at the front of the group and implored people to share about their days. A few people dominated the conversation, especially Mr. CEO-Off-His-Meds, but Gwen found herself riveted by his stories and others. The old One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest images of a mental hospital were inaccurate. Some patients fidgeted and spoke to themselves, but most of them just seemed sad or anxious. To her, they were all regular humans, struggling, and she did not view any one of them as inferior. It seemed more reasonable to adopt a We’re all in this together attitude.
She made her bed, then grabbed yesterday’s clothing out of the closet. She’d have to ask someone to send over fresh clothes, maybe Finna. Gwen realized she would need to build a network of support if she was to get through this, just as she’d heard one of her fellow patients talking about last night.

Gwen was considered a Step Three in terms of privileges, so she could dress in her own clothing (no belt or shoelaces) and did not have to be observed while in the bathroom, unless she wanted to dry her hair (because of the electrical cord) or shave (with a safety razor). Step One patients required round-the-clock care and supervision, and Step Twos were required to have someone present in the bathroom with
She was a beautiful waif of a thing, though milk-pale, with russet brown eyes and a cascade of wavy brown hair. When Gwen was younger, she would have called it Princess Hair. Gwen hated her unruly, curly locks when growing up. But once she reached her teen years, she started to appreciate the uniqueness of her Afro-Indian hair, which she inherited from her father. However, there were some days she still wished for the ease of caring for Princess Hair, like her Scandinavian mother had.

“Don’t worry about it. I was distracted and not paying attention.” The fellow patient’s voice was so quiet, Gwen struggled to hear. “I’m Mithian.” The young woman’s gaze dipped to the floor, and she didn’t offer her hand.

“I’m Guinevere. But everyone calls me Gwen. Less of a mouthful.”

“I noticed you in group last night.” Mithian spoke slightly above a whisper now. “I was wondering if we could sit together at breakfast. I could really use a friend here.” Her voice quavered as if making that request was a terrifying act.

“I am so glad you asked. I could use a friend, too. Desperately.”

Mithian’s mouth curved into a tremulous smile. “Good. They have muffins and eggs for breakfast. There’s also fruit and gluten-free toast. Then it’s time for morning check