“She’s going to be okay.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I spoke to the doctor and he told me so. They are treating her for catatonic depression.”
“What is that, Peggy?”
That’s when I saw her running down the outside stairwell and heading toward my Volvo. I rolled the windows down.
“Can you please open the door, Loretha?”
I did and she got in and flopped down hard in the passenger seat, then crossed her arms.
“You mind if I smoke?”
“Yes. No. Go ahead, I don’t care. First, tell me what catatonic depression is and what does it mean?”
She then reached down inside her sweatshirt, pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter, and lit a cigarette, inhaling like it was the last puff she’d ever have.
“It’s a kind of depression that can make it so you can’t move or talk, and you can just sit and stare at nothing for hours.”
“What? Then how did she get to the hospital?”
“A thoughtful McDonald’s employee had seen her sitting at a table for over an hour. Apparently she wasn’t eating anything and she hadn’t moved and she was just staring at nothing. When they asked her if she was okay and she didn’t answer, they knew something was wrong and they called an ambulance.”
“And this was three days ago?”
“Yes, and she might be there at least three more. She’s being treated. She’ll be okay once the meds kick in.”
“And you’re sure she’s not on drugs?”
“No, but she probably needs some. I have a pretty good idea what she’s going through.”
“And how is that, Peggy?”
“Because she’s suffering from the same thing her daddy suffered with. Depression. You didn’t know that’s what was wrong with Antoine?”
“No. I just thought he was moody and he drank too much and liked drugs. But when he was sober he was upbeat, which was when I liked him.”
“Well, he didn’t drink and do that other mess just to get high, Loretha.”
“How do you know that?”
“He was self-medicating. It runs in our family but, back in the day, there was no name for it. I did the same. But I got tired of feeling purple inside and drugs didn’t help, so I checked myself into a place with a ghetto plan just for folks like me. I was a mess. Jalecia reminds me so much of myself back then.”
I was shocked to hear this. But I was also grateful for her honesty. “Well, I just want to make sure my daughter gets the help she needs.”
“Well, let me say this, Loretha. She doesn’t realize she’s treating you badly because she’s sick. I didn’t speak to our parents for over a year. They pissed me off, but I couldn’t tell you why. I would disappear and they couldn’t find me. And back then we didn’t have cellphones. I liked knowing they were worried about me. But Jalecia’s not doing this intentionally to hurt you.”
“Right now I’m not worried about me; it’s my daughter I want to help.”
“Then wait until after she comes home.”
“I want her to come live with me after she’s released.”
“I don’t know if that would be such a good idea.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because Jalecia is up and down. Angry. And I don’t know why, but I know she seems to like taking it out on you. She needs a psychiatrist to prescribe the right medication to help her think clearly and not feel hopeless, and a psychologist that will help her talk about her feelings. Her thoughts.”
“She can talk to me. I’ll listen.”
“You might judge.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Loved ones always say that. Take it from someone who knows. I know you didn’t do anything to abuse her, but she might think you did. I know she believes you favored her brother.”
“Maybe I did, but Jackson never gave me any trouble.”
I was surprised to hear myself say that because I’d never really admitted it. In fact, I’d always denied it.
“I’ll find her both types of doctors,” I said. “But what if she doesn’t want my help, Peggy?”
“Well, she can stay here with me until you can find doctors who can see her regularly. I’ll convince her it’s what she needs to do if she really wants to feel better. She’ll listen to me. Only because she knows I don’t want anything from her.”
“I want to go see her.”
“I would wait another day or two for the medication to kick in. Seriously.”
“Then, I’ll just try to be patient.”
“I know I’ve said this before, but even though I know you’re not that crazy about me, please, please trust me. And it would sure help if you could send me a few more dollars to cover food and gas. And Jalecia’s car has been in the shop. Could you do that for us?”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Good. Three or four hundred would surely help and I’ll text you my account number so you won’t have to keep going to Western Union.”
* * *
—
I drove straight to Huntington Hospital, gave the attendant Jalecia’s name and then my name and told her I was Jalecia’s mother. I said I was here to see her and the attendant asked me for my ID. I gave it to her and she looked at her computer screen. I listened to her clicking the keys and scrolling down and then, when she stopped, she said, “I’m sorry but you’re not on her visitation list.”
“But I just found out she was admitted and I’m her mother.”
“I understand. You might want to call her later to see if she can add your name to the list.”
“Who is on the list?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but that information is confidential. You should call or come back tomorrow during visiting hours.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, and stormed out.
Because I had canceled two follow-up appointments with Dr. Alexopolous, I decided to keep the appointment I had scheduled with her for nine A.M. I figured I would have plenty of time since Jalecia’s visiting hours didn’t start until eleven A.M. I was not really in the mood to see the doctor since her new receptionist and then the doctor herself had left messages reminding me how important it was that I not miss my next appointment and also chastising me for not taking my health seriously. They said they needed to see me as soon as possible to go over the results of all my tests. But the doctor was late. And I’d been sitting in this waiting room for forty-five minutes. It was probably to punish me. In addition to worrying about my daughter, I was also a nervous wreck thinking about my A1C, which I knew without a doubt was higher than it was when I last saw her. Because no, I had not changed my diet or eating habits, and no, I had yet to incorporate regular and rigorous exercise into my life.
“Mrs. Curry, the doctor is running behind schedule and wants to know if you could possibly give her fifteen more minutes. She apologizes for the inconvenience.”
“Is she here?”
“No, but she’s on her way. She just left the emergency room at Huntington, so she’ll be here straightaway. May I get you a bottle of water?”
“That would be nice,” I said because I had forgotten my bottle in the car, rushing so I wouldn’t be late.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jalecia,” she said, and I almost lost it. She was of Spanish descent, that much I could see, and her straight black hair was down to her waist.
“Are you okay?” she asked, apparently noticing my expression.
“I’m fine. That’s my daughter’s name,” I said.
“I love my name,” she said. “Is she okay? Your face looks worried, Mrs. Curry.”
“She’s been struggling with depression.”
I couldn’t believe
I just said that.
“Aren’t we all?”
“You, too?”
“Oh, yes. But I got help. I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s just like any other illness. Believe me, working for a doctor helped me understand the stigma. So many people suffer from it but just think it’s the way they are. I learned the hard way that it’s not.”
Then the phone rang and she had to answer it. Dr. Alexopolous came storming through the door, her thin hair still sticking up like a rooster, and when she saw me she said, “Hello, Mrs. Curry! I apologize for being late. I had a patient break her ankle and I had to see how much damage she’d done. Rollerblading. So good to see you after all these months! Come! Follow me back to my office. Our appointment won’t take long.”
My heart was pounding so loud I thought she might hear it. I was tempted to turn around and run out the door because I didn’t want to hear that I might be terminally ill.
I followed Dr. Alexopolous, who was wearing a mint green smock, and it looked like she had dyed her hair a shade darker so I couldn’t see her scalp. She was now a brunette.
“Have a seat,” she said.
And I did. Her office was colorful. The wall had little photos of Greece and Greek artifacts.
Dr. Alexopolous sat behind her wide oak desk and crossed her palms. “So, your tests indicate you’re having second thoughts about the medication?”
“I don’t know. And I owe you an apology, Doctor.”
She started shaking her head.
“No, you don’t. I get patients all the time who don’t like my diagnoses or my prescriptions for medication that I know for a fact will help them. And like you, they lash out at me, but they often do return because I am a good doctor.”
And still a bitch.
“So, how’ve you been feeling?”
“So-so.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Just tell me this, Dr. Alexopolous: Am I dying?”
She looked shocked to hear these words come out of my mouth.
“What on earth would make you think that, Mrs. Curry?”
“Because I know I haven’t been eating right and I haven’t been taking my medication and I haven’t started exercising. I know my colon is okay and my bone density and my ears are okay but…I’m just worried.”
She pushed her chair back and walked around her desk and put her hands on my shoulders. I didn’t realize I was crying and she just said, “You’re not dying. But I would like to thrash you for not taking your medication because your A1C is pretty close to eight-point-five, which is too high. I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to take diabetes seriously. You’re a smart woman, so I’m sure you did your research.”
I shook my head to say, No you’re wrong, and then nodded to say, Right, I have done the research. I hope she knew which was which.
“Relax, Mrs. Curry. We can get it under control if you take the suggestions I have given you a number of times over this past year.”
She patted my shoulders, then gave them both a big squeeze and walked back behind her desk and sat down. She handed me a tissue.
“Are you okay now that you know you will probably live to see ninety?”
“Yes.”
“Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can.”
And then she laughed.
“Good, that means your hearing is good.”
And I let out a chuckle.
“Is something else going on in your life?”
I folded my hands and told her about Poochie and my daughter.
“Now I understand,” she said. “And if it’s any consolation, depression is very common and so many people don’t know they’re suffering from it. What are you doing to help your daughter?”
“Nothing yet. She’s been estranged from me for quite a long time. She’s over at Huntington Hospital right now.”
“Does she live alone?”
“No, she lives with her aunt in Compton.”
“Don’t say it like I should be alarmed. My husband grew up there. And don’t be shocked by that either. We were married thirty-six years. How old is your daughter?”
“Forty-one,” I said.
“So, is she catatonic?”
“What would make you ask that?”
“That’s usually how people suffering from untreated forms of depression end up in the ER.”
I nodded my head.
“Does she have any children?”
“She has a daughter. She’s in her twenties.”
“Is she in her daughter’s life?”
“Every now and then.”
“Drugs?”
“She drinks more than anything, but I really don’t know what all she does. All I know is I want to help her, but I don’t know if she’ll accept my help.”
“She will. It still might take a while, but just try to be patient. They’re going to treat her and give her antidepressants, but if she doesn’t take them or keeps drinking they’re not going to help her. Have you been to see her yet?”
“I tried. But my name wasn’t on the visitors’ list.”
“Try not to take that personally. Her thinking is just skewed. How many days has she been there?”
“Four, I believe.”
“Then the medication has probably brought her out of catatonia, so she’ll be able to talk.”
“I would really like to find her a good black psychologist and psychiatrist. Preferably female. Would you happen to know of any reputable ones?”
“I do. And do this: Check your text messages in about an hour because I’d like to call them both to give them a heads-up about your daughter’s situation.”
Then she came around the desk again and patted me on the shoulder. “It’s good that you’re trying to help your daughter. Don’t be discouraged if she refuses at first.”
“Thank you, Dr. Alexopolous.”
“But you. You have to start taking better care of yourself. Will you promise me?”
“Yes. So, that’s it for me?”
“That’s it. I’ll see you in three months and your numbers better be good. And I want to see at least twenty pounds less of you, but preferably closer to thirty. There are some really good cookbooks for diabetics and, just so you know, you’re also looking at a reformed diabetic. Am I a sixty-two-year-old sex symbol, or what?”
* * *
—
When I walked into the hospital, I was excited to tell Jalecia about the two reputable doctors I found for her. But she wasn’t there.
“What do you mean she’s not here? I was here last night and you told me to come back this morning to get added to her visitors’ list.”
“Well, she was picked up by a relative this morning.”
“What relative?”
“I can’t release that information.”
“But I’m her mother.”
“I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”
As I turned to leave, I stopped dead in my tracks and turned back. “If something happens to her, I’ll be back to sue you for negligence. She’s not well.”
I walked down to the cafeteria that looked more like a good deli and bought a slice of pepperoni pizza, a salad, a Diet Coke, and a chocolate chip cookie. Then after I slid my tray down to the cashier, I sat at an empty table and just looked at what was on it. I stood back up, picked the tray up, walked over to the trash, and dumped everything except the salad in it. Then I took my cell out and called Peggy.
“Is Jalecia with you?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Why?”
“Because she asked me to pick her up.”
“How?”
“She wasn’t in prison, Loretha. It was a hospital. She was able to call me and she said she wanted to come back to
my apartment.”
“I don’t believe you. Is she there? I want to speak to her.”
“Just a minute.”
I started tapping my right foot.
“Hi there, Ma!” she said as if she was happy to hear from me.
“Jalecia, why did you leave the hospital?”
“Because I was feeling much better. So, no need for you to be worried.”
“I found two good doctors for you, Jalecia.”
“For what?”
“I think it would be good if you saw a good psychologist and a psychiatrist. They’re both black.”
“That’s nice. But I don’t need to talk to any shrinks. I know why I feel the way I do.”
“Really, could you please tell me?”
“Not today. I’m tired.”
“I was hoping you might want to come stay with me for a while.”
“I’m too old to be living with my mama. I’m comfortable here. Plus, I’m thinking of going back to school and looking for a job and I have access to the Metro here.”
“Is your car still in the shop?”
“Not anymore. Aunt Peggy had my extra key and she went and got it. But her car isn’t running so well.”
“Well, all this sounds great. Just great. Give Peggy my best regards and I hope you two will be very fucking happy.”
And I hung up.
I was grateful and surprised when both doctors that Dr. Alexopolous had referred me to returned my calls. She had reached out to them and it was obvious they knew and respected each other personally and professionally. I explained my daughter’s history. At least what I thought I knew. That she has had an alcohol problem. That she has been distant for years and only recently came back into my life, but even that has been from a distance. I told them she was forty-one years old. Both doctors made it clear that it could take some time before Jalecia might be willing to talk to anybody. And until then, no determination about appropriate treatment could be made. They suggested I communicate with her either by text or email and give Jalecia their numbers. And should Jalecia call either one of them, they wouldn’t be able to tell me anything they discussed with her. It would be strictly confidential. I told them I understood.
It's Not All Downhill From Here Page 24
