In the letter, my father returns to the idea that his life may hold some greater purpose:
Dear Corny,
Your letter written from the Saranac Inn was a powerful communication. As with all of your letters, I have found it profitable to read your last letter several times and I have found much enjoyment in listening to what you had to say. I find great comfort in your belief that my recent reversal of fortune may lead “in the end to something of great worth.” The stormy course of my life during the last twelve years has proved to me that many good fortunes lie concealed in apparent disasters. Certainly in wrestling with adversity one learns to attain added courage and strength, and one learns to find beauty wherever it may be found regardless of the background.
Strange as it may seem, my periods of so-called illness are usually associated with certain productive powers not ordinarily available to me. Certain new abilities have come to light during my manic attacks. Perhaps this is a clue to the “something of great worth” which may come out of these misfortunes. Out of the cauldron of despair, came forth a rather lengthy manuscript which one expert describes as a “magnificent work of art.” I am not convinced that the book deserves this amount of praise but I do know that in it, I have attained a style of expression that was available to me only during “illness.”
To finish this book is the one thing that I most want to do in life and I am working on the project now. It will involve telling the story of manic-depressive insanity, weaving in the lives of many really notable people who have suffered from it, recounting my own story. There will be commentaries upon modern hospital care with its queer barbarities and shortcomings, messages for friends and relatives of persons so afflicted, lines of reasoning, argument and education, built up in the hope of improving the general viewpoint about this type of insanity, perhaps improving general tolerance for it.
To reduce or remove certain prejudices would make worthwhile all efforts spent in writing the book. The book is already quite a long one and yet I haven’t come anywhere near the end. There will come a time to cut out parts here and there. It will probably require several more years to complete the job in the right way.
Here the letter ends. My father never signed his letter to Corny, nor did he send it. As with so much of his life’s work, the letter remained unfinished. Yet I find great redemption in its survival and marvel that it has somehow found its way to me, and now to you, through the pages of our book.
EPILOGUE
In March of 2013, nearly twenty years after I first inherited my father’s papers, I traveled to New York to meet my editor at Crown Publishers, an imprint of Random House. The city sky was still wintry and gray, freshened by an icy wind coming in from the river. I approached the glass entrance to 1745 Broadway, the headquarters of Penguin Random House, with feelings of nervous excitement, emerging through revolving doors into a large, sleek lobby with soaring ceilings.
On either side of me stood vast, gleaming glass bookshelves, each illuminated from within, with shelves holding row upon row of books. I walked over to one of the cases, scanning the spines, reading the names of countless titles and authors. Here were old Modern Library editions of Hawthorne and Melville, an original copy of Ulysses by James Joyce, and of Dr. Seuss’s Oh, the Places You’ll Go. I even glimpsed a name I recognized very well: William Styron, whose Darkness Visible was one of the early books that had given me an understanding of mental illness.
I paused a moment longer, still trying to absorb the enormity of the moment. I thought of my father’s own journey to New York in 1932, in the middle of his first severe manic episode, when he had been determined to meet with an editor and find a publisher for his writing. I thought of Westborough, where he wrote his book, the book he had hoped would offer a window into his devastating condition. I remembered all the years his manuscript had lain in an old briefcase in my cousin’s garage, forgotten by all but a few.
My father’s desire for publication was finally being fulfilled. I am not someone who is prone to emotional displays—my mother dubbed me the ice princess with good reason—but standing in the lobby that morning, I felt tears, both unexpected and happy, springing to my eyes.
After the meeting in New York, I returned to Vermont to finish preparing the manuscript. My editor had asked me to go back into my archive of my father’s writings and to transcribe every single word that I could find there. I made many new discoveries during this time, scraps of writings I had originally overlooked, medical records I’d never completely scrutinized, letters I’d only scanned but never mined fully for information. In the coming weeks, I sat on my living room floor surrounded by a circle of paper stacks.
At moments, it was as if I was reading my father’s words for the first time. More than ever, I felt aware of the terrifying power of his manic energy. I began to fully acknowledge both the violence done to him while he was held in hospitals and that he had exerted on his surroundings and others. I faced emotions that I had held in abeyance for most of my life, dwelling on everything my father had lost to his illness. So much had been taken from him: his family, his business, his home, his reputation, his vocation, and his mind. I allowed myself to finally imagine the enormity of those subtractions.
I thought about how my father had prevailed with his experiments in his research laboratory, no matter how many times his work was interrupted by his incarcerations in mental institutions. I considered his determination to write his book despite so much heartbreak and despair. I read and reread his words, assembling the pages as if piecing together a broken mirror in which I was beginning to find my own image reflected.
I found myself taking more walks than usual, staring into space, staying awake at night, feeling dazed when the morning came. I realized I was experiencing a momentous shift in the foundation of my identity. I had spent my lifetime searching, wondering, deciphering. Now the defining mystery of my father had been put to rest. I knew who he was, what he had endured, and what had been his legacy. One day, sitting at my desk, pausing from my work for a moment to stare into the dark green leaves of the ficus tree that I had brought into the house from the winter cold, I was struck by the extraordinary timing of it all. I had just turned seventy-five years old. I had come to these discoveries late in life, but it had not been too late after all.
Notes
1. going to The Country Club My father capitalizes the definite article when he refers to The Country Club, where he was a member. The venerable club just outside Boston was the first of its kind in the nation, and the club and its members capitalize the definite article in its name to this day.
2. Harvard Medical School graduate Days after my father’s death in 1959, my stepfather happened to meet Dr. Thomas Lanman, director of alumni relations at Harvard Medical School’s Alumni Association. My stepfather mentioned that his wife’s former husband—a Harvard Medical School alum—had just passed away. A few days later, Dr. Lanman wrote my stepfather the following letter:
I have looked into the matter of degrees at the Medical School … Perry received his M.D. in 1928, magna cum laude, and I believe that this was given not only because of his high academic standing, but for his brilliant work “in a special field,” for he wrote an excellent thesis in the field of physiology. I think we are entirely correct in saying that he received the highest academic honors ever awarded at that time to any medical school graduate.
However, I have no doubt that he would have been awarded a degree summa cum laude but for the fact that the University did not give a summa cum laude in medicine. It was about 1940 or 1942 that the Corporation and the Board of Overseers granted the authority to the Faculty of the Harvard Medical School to award an M.D. degree summa cum laude. There have been only two summas since then. Just why the Corporation felt no doctor should be awarded a degree summa cum laude until 1940 I am entirely unable to state. In any case, Perry received the highest degree possible at that time.
3. applied for my father’s medical records I obtained my fa
ther’s medical records a year before the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA) was introduced. Had I waited until 1996, when the new rules around patient privacy were rolled out, I might never have been able to obtain these documents.
4. the operation successful Information on Walter Freeman and lobotomies is taken from Great and Desperate Cures: The Rise and Decline of Psychosurgery and Other Radical Cures for Mental Illness by Elliot S. Valenstein (1986).
5. lobotomy “cure” From Last Resort: Psychosurgery and the Limits of Medicine by Jack D. Pressman (1998).
6. $17.5 billion in medical costs Information on John Cade comes from The Australian Dictionary of Biography, Vol. 13 (1993).
Acknowledgments
As many authors know, writing is a lonely occupation. After years of working alone, my circumstances changed with a single phone call. In the spring of 2012, Amity Shlaes, the author and syndicated columnist, asked me what I was doing after retiring from my trusteeship of a small non-profit. Meekly, I replied that I was writing a book. The next thing I knew Amity had introduced me to her good friend, Carol Mann, of the eminent Carol Mann Agency, who agreed to become my agent.
Carol’s calm guidance, perception, and encouragement became essential. Wisely, Carol assigned me an editor, the talented Eve Claxton. Enter the smart and determined Domenica Alioto of Crown Publishing. In December she spoke with Carol’s able assistant Eliza Dreier, who alerted her to my father’s manuscript. Soon after, Domenica and Crown agreed to publish our book. Thank you to Amity, Carol, Eliza, Eve, and Domenica for believing in He Wanted the Moon.
There were many individuals who helped bring the development of the book to fruition. Howard Coffin assisted in the early days of creation and discovery. Audrey Brown brought a fresh eye to the material. Among the early readers of the manuscript were: Susan Diamond, Mary Beardsley Fenn, Susan Haffenreffer, Cassie Horner, Truett Moore, Jane Rabb, Sheila Tanzer, Sally Thursby, and Robin B. Osborne, Ph.D. Dr. Osborne is also my therapist and it was she who suggested that I write a synopsis of my father’s work for the book section of a psychiatric journal. Jeffrey L. Geller, M.D., M.P.H., who served on the editorial board of the journal, allowed Robin’s idea to become a reality. It was this journal that Dr. Elliot S. Valenstein read and realized the historic significance of one of my father’s scientific papers. I am deeply grateful to each of you.
None of the above could have taken place if not for the discovery of my father’s onionskin manuscript. In April 1994 I traveled to Texas and met with my uncle L. P. Baird, my father’s youngest brother. It was he who told me of the existence of my father’s work. Thank you, Uncle Philip. My deep gratitude also goes to my cousin, Randy Baird, and his wife, Karen McLinden, who for many years kept these papers safe. Thank you for entrusting them to my care. Without them there would be no He Wanted the Moon.
Without interviewing the following people, the personal side of my father’s life would never have emerged: Barbara Bartlett, Dr. Marshall Bartlett, Dr. Bradford Cannon, Virginia Fenno, and Francis G. Shaw. A special nod to Mrs. Fenno, for it was she who said, as I turned to leave her home, “You know, Mimi, he wanted the moon.”
The never-ending support of my family and friends sustained me through this long expedition: Gregory Baker, Patricia Higginson Biggar, Anne Bourne, Sally Ryder Brady, Margaret Davis, Margaret Edwards, Deborah Ellis, Bonnie Davis Gerrard, Kurt and Phyllis Gerrish, Teresa Golding, Patsy Highberg, Dan and Deb Jantzen, Sarwar Kashmeri, Deborah Kell, Tom and Diana Hayes, George Cabot Lee II, Richard Shattuck Lee, Deborah Morgan Luquer, Betty Masterson, Harold McLaughlin, Garda Meyer, Barnes Newberry, Giovanna Peebles, Frank Procopio, Sarah Reeves, Dr. Joseph M. Rosen, Catherine Baird Smith, Nina Rosselli Del Turco, Gay Travers, Susie Whitehurst, and Mary Stewart Wilson. Thanks also to Horst Dresler and Alex Kim at Anything Printed in Woodstock for the many copies and image scans they completed for me in the course of this project.
The incredible work of Kate Bradley will live down the years. Kate graciously took on the job of typing my father’s entire manuscript. We had a tight schedule. Through the cold of those winter days of 2013, many nightmares, and lots of chocolate, she deciphered each and every word. We made the deadline. Thank you, Miss Kate.
Special recognition goes to Dr. Radford C. Tanzer, for not only knowing my father, but for telling me so; and Dr. William D. Morain, for obtaining the correspondence between my father and Dr. Walter B. Cannon. I had the pleasure of working for these two doctors and who could have imagined they would play such an important role in sorting out the threads of my father’s life.
One of the stars in my universe is Domenica Alioto, my editor and guru at Crown Publishing. Her unique vision and intuition saw to it that my father’s work would see the light of day. Nothing was spared as she gathered many talented people around He Wanted the Moon. Her clear vision for this book remained an inspiration through the writing and editing process. Thank you, my friend.
Thank you to Barbara Sturman, our book designer, who took manuscript pages, photographs, text, and medical records, unifying them in pages of great elegance and sophistication. Much credit is due to Elena Giavaldi for designing a book cover that conveyed the many threads of the story inside. Thanks also to our devoted production editor Ada Yonenaka, our production manager Heather Williamson, and our exacting copyeditor Rosalie Wiedros (whose appreciation for this book showed in the extraordinary attention she gave to its every word).
The Crown publicity and marketing teams are unrivaled. Thanks to Annsley Rosner, Lauren Kuhn, Jay Sones, and Danielle Crabtree for the attention and intelligence they brought to the task of alerting the world to He Wanted the Moon. Thanks also to the superb Crown sales team. And of course, to our publisher, Molly Stern, for her superlative leadership—and for giving me the extraordinary opportunity of seeing my father’s words in print.
And then there is the marvelous Eve Claxton, my expert in all things that make editing an art. Her first words to me were, “Your story knocked my socks off.” Well, Eve, you have knocked my socks off. Your never-ending wisdom, patience, and understanding helped make the months of work fly. We faithfully spoke on Fridays at 4 p.m., a day and time that will always bring a smile to my face. Thank you, Eve, for everything tangible and intangible.
And lastly, from my children’s point of view, the evolution of the book was a significant undertaking. During the days of discovery, they showed grace and compassion in trying to assimilate the facts I was carefully sending their way. It is my hope that by understanding their grandfather’s victories and misfortunes, it will allow them to gain a better insight into our family history, and, at the same time give them a perspective that will enhance their lives. It is with the deepest love possible that I thank Jake and Meg for sticking by me all these years.
Photograph Credits
fm.1 (Dr. Perry Baird’s manuscript stack): Frank Procopio, Woodstock, Vermont
3.1 (postcard of Westborough State Hospital): Perkins and Butler Inc. Worcester, Massachusetts
10.1 (postcard of Baldpate Inn): W.R.M Haverhill, Massachusetts
All other photographs: Baird Family Collection
Source Credits
All manuscript pages, correspondence, and medical records of Dr. Perry Baird are courtesy of Mimi Baird.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:
Copyright Clearance Center: Excerpt from “Biochemical Component of the Manic-Depressive Psychosis” by Perry C. Baird, Jr., M.D. (The Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease, April 1994). Reprinted by permission of Wolters Kluwer Health, rights administered by Copyright Clearance Center.
The Dallas Morning News: “Obituary of Perry C. Baird” (May 1959). Reprinted by permission of The Dallas Morning News.
Harvard Alumni Association: Excerpt from a letter by Dr. Thomas Lanman. Reprinted by permission of the Harvard Alumni Association.
The Harvard Medical Library: Excerpts from the le
tters of Perry C. Baird (Papers of Walter B. Cannon [H MS c40, box 110] and James Howard Means [GA 54, box 1]). Reprinted by permission of The Harvard Medical Library in the Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine.
Dr. Elliot S. Valenstein: Excerpt from a letter by Dr. Elliot S. Valenstein to Mimi Baird. Reprinted by permission of Dr. Elliot S. Valenstein.
About the Authors
MIMI BAIRD, a Bostonian, is a graduate of Colby-Sawyer College. After working in the Dean’s Office at the Harvard Graduate School of Education, she later moved to Woodstock, Vermont, where she worked as a manager at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center. This is where she met a surgeon who had once known her father, a meeting that prompted her quest to finally understand her father’s life and legacy. Her trusteeship at the President Calvin Coolidge Memorial Foundation led to the building of the President Calvin Coolidge Museum and Educational Center in Vermont. Mimi has two children and four grandchildren. This is her first book.
EVE CLAXTON was born in London and moved to New York in 1995. She has been instrumental in creating six works of nonfiction as a cowriter or ghostwriter, and is the editor of The Book of Life, an anthology of memoir. She has also worked for StoryCorps, the National Oral History Project, sourcing and recording stories for the broadcast segment on NPR and for the organization’s books. Eve lives with her husband and three children in Brooklyn.
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