Tony arrived at eight that night. He had obviously been briefed by Nurse Patterson—now back on duty—because he eyed the untouched dinner tray with unease, and sat down on the bed, and looked at me with a mixture of hopelessness and distaste and worry (yes, my complex husband had the singular ability to radiate all three moods at the same time, with just a few minor facial contractions). He didn’t kiss me or touch my hand—and, once again, he had a hard time looking at me straight on. But he did say “Hello.” When that got him nowhere, he then said, “Jack is good.”
And then, “They’re genuinely worried about you not eating or talking.”
And then, “Okay . . . I’ll go now.”
Is that his way of saying “I know when I’m not wanted”?
Agnes’s husband (or partner or significant other or whoever he was) showed up that night. He surprised me. I’d envisaged some elegant, muscular Jamaican—well-dressed, exuding confident swagger and easy charm, and every other cliché about Afro-Caribbeans you care to mention. As it turned out, he was a quiet, reserved white guy in his late thirties, dressed in a standard-issue gray suit, blue shirt, dull tie; slightly hesitant in manner and careful about his comportment in this situation. But what was also abundantly clear was that he adored Agnes—and was also genuinely unsettled by her present situation. He sat next to her, holding her hand, talking in a low, reassuring voice, even making her laugh on one occasion. You can never fathom other couples, can you? Never work out the spark of attraction in two such opposites, let alone the complex ties that bind, and whether they are robust enough to survive a crisis like . . . well, like this one.
What a gray little man he was—and how I so suddenly envied her such predictability, such ongoing stability (while well knowing that appearances are always deceptive). When Nurse Patterson arrived during the visit with my sleeping pills, I took them at once, without prompting. Because I didn’t want to watch this happy scene anymore.
Once again, the sedatives did their wondrous chemical work and I slept for a massive eleven hours, waking up just after six-fifteen the next morning. God, how fogged in I felt. Because these pills didn’t really induce sleep. Rather, they clubbed you over the head and left you stupefied. It took me a good twenty minutes to find the equilibrium necessary to stand up and pull myself (and my IV stand) to the bathroom.
The day followed a similar pattern to the previous days. The Scottish nurse offered me breakfast. I remained silent. Agnes tried to engage me in conversation. I remained silent (even though I was pleased to see that a degree of mental clarity was coming back to her). She went off to play with her son, Charlie. I squandered the morning staring at the ceiling, and wondering why I was squandering the morning like this, and also having no energy to do anything but squander the morning like this.
Then it was lunchtime—and I didn’t eat lunch, except courtesy of the tube in my arm. Then it was three PM, and Dr. Rodale walked in. Like actors in a bad play, we knew our prosaic lines by heart. Or, at least, she knew her lines, whereas I simply had to maintain my weak, silent stance. The interview went according to form . . . with the good doctor making her usual noises about the increasing gravity of my situation, and then finally saying, “I will be calling your husband at his office this afternoon to discuss your situation and the options open to us.”
Tony arrived around eight that evening. This time he did kiss me on the cheek. He did pull up a chair close to me. He did take my hand. And said, “You have got to start eating.”
I just looked at the wall.
“Your doctor—Rodale, isn’t it?—she called me at the paper and said, if you didn’t start consuming solid food, she wanted to consider ECT. As in electroconvulsive therapy. As in shock treatment. She said it was the best way to bring you out of whatever place you are right now—but she’d need my consent to do it.”
Silence. He wasn’t looking at me again.
“I don’t want to give my consent. But I also don’t want to see you continue in this state. So—” He leaned forward. “I’d snap out of this if I were you.”
I turned away.
“Sally, please . . .”
I pulled the covers back over my head. Oh why do I pull infantile stuff like this? Suddenly, he pulled the covers off me. Looking me straight on, he hissed, “Don’t force my hand.”
Then he left. And I found myself thinking, He’ll sign the papers in a New York minute. And then I can assume my new role as Electro-Girl. Juice me up, Scotty . . .
After he was gone, Agnes got out of bed and walked over to where I lay. Her gait was still hesitant. So too the focus of her eyes. But she sounded lucid.
“It’s Sally, right?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well, listen up, American. My husband didn’t want to sign the papers either. I mean, he begged me for a week to try to come ’round and eat something and act like I knew where I was. But I didn’t. And when I kept tearing the feeding tube out of me . . . well, it left them with no choice. The night before they began the therapy, my husband sat by me and started crying, pleading with me for one last time to eat something, anything. But . . .”
Pause.
“. . . the next morning, I pulled the tube out again. And that evening, they started the ECT.”
Pause.
“Just had my fifth yesterday. Guess it’s doing some good, ’cause I’m eating again, and I’m able to play again a bit with Charlie. But . . .”
Pause.
“. . . they say you only suffer short-term memory loss. But that’s not what I’ve been suffering. Kind of more like an entire section of my brain’s been wiped. And I keep trying to find it—keep rooting around for it. But . . .”
Pause.
“. . . know what I think? I think all that electricity ends up frying it right out of you. Burns it to a crisp. The doctor keeps saying, once the treatment’s over, it’ll all come back again. But I don’t believe her. Not for a moment. ’Cause—”
Pause.
“Listen to me. You can avoid this. You can. Just one mouthful of food, eh? Just one. Here . . .”
She pulled over the table, on which sat the untouched dinner tray of food. She reached for a bread roll and pulled off a piece of it.
“. . . just a piece of bread. I’ll even butter it for you.”
She did just that. And put it next to my face. I turned away. She used her spare hand to pull my head back.
“Come on, you can do this.”
I turned away again. She forced me back. I turned away. Suddenly she put the roll directly against my mouth. I turned away. She yanked me back, her grip tight now. This time, she forced the bread against my teeth. Which is when I snapped, and brushed it away, and spat in her face. Without stopping to think, she suddenly backhanded me across my face. The shock was ferocious. So too was the pain. And I heard myself shouting, “Nurse!”
Nurse Patterson came into the room.
“So . . . you can talk after all.”
Of course, I retreated into silence for the rest of the night. Of course, I didn’t touch the dinner tray. Of course, I took my knockout pills like a good girl, and then waited for sleep to club me. But when I woke the next morning . . . no, I wouldn’t say that the fog had lifted, or that I was suddenly feeling reborn, rejuvenated, or at one with myself and the world. On the contrary, I still suffered from post-sedative fuzz and a general feeling of all-purpose toxicity, combined with a strange weariness . . . even after another eleven hours of unconsciousness. But, for the first time in days, I actually felt hungry. And when the Scottish nurse brought in the breakfast tray, I mumbled two words, “Thank you.”
This made her look up at me, a little startled, but rather pleased as well.
“You’re most welcome. Think you can eat?”
I nodded. She helped me sit up and rolled the table over the bed, and set up the tray, even opening the paper napkin for me, like a waiter in a restaurant.
“Could you drink some tea, perhaps?” she said.
&nb
sp; I nodded again.
“I’ll be right back.”
Eating was not an easy process after nearly a week. But I did manage to ingest half a bowl of porridge. It was slow going—and, once or twice, I felt distinctly queasy. But I kept at it. Because I knew I had to.
The nurse poured me a cup of tea and looked on as I ate, beaming. I realized that, to her, any patient who turned a corner was a success story.
“Don’t worry about finishing everything,” she said. “You’re doing grand.”
Halfway through breakfast, Agnes stirred awake. Like me, she too was on heavy knockout pills, so it also took her a moment or two to work out where she was, and what she was doing here. But then, gradually, the world came into focus again—and she caught sight of me hovering over the breakfast tray, fork in hand.
To her credit, she said nothing. She just gave me a small nod, then got up and went to the bathroom. When she came back, she came over to my bed and said, “Sorry about last night.”
“It’s okay,” I said, just about getting the word out.
“How did breakfast go down?”
I shrugged.
“That’s how I felt too—first time I ate after . . . Then again, the food’s such crap around here . . .”
I managed a little smile.
What I found difficult, though, was the actual act of talking. I could get a word or two out, but then something seized my larynx, refusing to let go.
“Don’t sweat it,” Agnes said when she saw me struggling. “It takes time to come back.”
When lunch arrived, I managed to eat half a chicken leg and the white goo that they passed off as mashed potatoes, and a portion of overcooked carrots that had a decidedly plastic texture. But it was important that I make a good show of my lunch—because Dr. Rodale was due in shortly—and I wanted to be absolutely certain that my rediscovered appetite was noted for the record.
She certainly walked into our room with newfound pleasantness.
“I’ve just heard your good news, Sally,” she said. “Breakfast and lunch. Most reassuring. And I gather you’ve even managed to articulate a word or two. Do you think you can speak a bit now?”
“I’ll try,” I said, the words taking some time to form.
“No rush,” she said, clipboard and pen at the ready. “But it would be most helpful to know . . .”
And she ran through the entire checklist again. My answers were largely brief—and I seemed to be using words of one syllable. But with her coaxing, I was able to answer all her questions—and, courtesy of my cooperativeness, I seemed to have brought her around to my side. Because when she was finished, she congratulated me on “a job well done” and emphasized how her previous tough tone was a way of breaking through the barriers that had been constructed in my head, courtesy of my postpartum depression.
“Of course, the road ahead is by no means certain—and it must be negotiated with prudence. For example, do you feel ready to see Jack yet?”
I shook my head.
“Perfectly understandable,” she said, “and under the circumstances, probably sensible. You should see him when you feel ready to see him—which, we hope, will not be too far off.”
She then explained that what I was going through was undoubtedly horrible for me, but by no means unique. Now that I had started to place my feet back on terra firma, it was possible to treat my condition largely through the use of antidepressants. With any luck, I should start to see some significant improvement within six weeks.
Six weeks? In here?
Dr. Rodale saw the shocked look on my face.
“I know that sounds like a horrible length of time—but, believe me, I’ve seen depressions that, in their most virulent phase, have dragged on for months. And the good news is: if you start responding well to the antidepressants, we will be able to send you home as soon as you’re judged fit to go home.”
You mean, when I’m no longer a danger to myself and my baby?
But as soon as that thought crossed my head, another one cut in: Knock it off now.
“You look like you want to ask me something,” she said. “Any questions?”
“No,” I said—and the sound of my voice brought another pleased look to her face.
“No questions at all?”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
EIGHT
THE DOCTOR WAS right. Just as there is no such thing as a free lunch, so there is no instant cure for depression—no fizzy Alka-Seltzer evaporation of the black swamp into which you’ve plunged. Rather, it’s a slow, piecemeal progression back to terra firma (whatever that is), with frequent manic diversions en route, just to make certain that you’re not getting too damn cocky about the rapidity of your recovery.
Still, Dr. Rodale often reminded me that I was free to leave of my own accord whenever I wished. Not that she actively encouraged me to flee the coop. Rather, I sensed that she was legally obliged to keep informing me of my freedom of movement. She also felt professionally obliged to tell me that, for my own sake, I really should stick it out in the unit until (as she so inclusively put it) “we all feel comfortable about your return to the home front.”
The home front. As in: the place of quotidian tranquility to which you return after bloody combat on the battlefield . . . though when did my London home front ever resemble a serene refuge?
Still, Tony decided to play the role of the dutiful, caring spouse—and even expressed contrition for his anger toward me when I was still in coma land.
“You know, I was just articulating a desperate frustration . . . and worry,” he said the evening after I started eating again. “And it was also an attempt to help you . . . uh . . .”
Snap out of it?
“Anyway, it’s good to have you back. The alternative would have been . . . frightful.”
But electrifying . . .
“Been to see Jack yet?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“No rush, none at all,” he said. “The doctor told me it’s going to take a little . . . uh . . . time, and the two of you could be in here for some weeks . . .”
Tony did his best to mask his glee at such a respite from la vie conjugale, not to mention the broken nights of early babyhood (not that he’d had much experience of Jack’s sleep terrorism, courtesy of his office aerie).
“I’ve informed the editor about your . . . uh . . . condition, and he’s been most sympathetic. Told me to take as much time off as we needed.”
To sit by my bed and hold my hand and keep me company? I don’t think so.
But Tony proved me wrong on that one. Day in, day out, he showed up at the hospital and spent at least an hour with me, always bringing me a collection of that day’s newspapers—and, as I started to become more compos mentis, a steady supply of novels and back issues of the New Yorker. He even went out and splurged on a Discman with an FM radio and a very fancy pair of Bose headphones, which had a little power pack that helped block out all external noise. And he gradually brought in around twenty or so CDs from home. Much to my surprise, he showed an appreciation of my musical taste. Lots of baroque concerti grossi by Handel and Corelli. My prized 1955 recording of Glenn Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Ella Fitzgerald’s sublime collaborations with Louis Armstrong. And Bill Evans’s famous Sunday at the Village Vanguard disc—which, ever since I’d heard it in college, always struck me as the height of sophisticated cool . . . and did even more so now from my confined vantage point of a South London hospital.
The music became a touchstone for me—a way of measuring my gradual return to some sort of sentient state. But I was also aware of something that Dr. Rodale told me: “At first, you’ll possibly wonder if the antidepressants are doing anything. It takes a little time to bite—and it never works the same way with everybody.”
She warned me about possible side effects—and before there was any sense of the drug biting, there was no doubt that its chemical byproducts were playing games with my system. First came a dese
rt-like dryness in my mouth, spreading rapidly to my throat and eventually (and most disturbingly) to my eyes.
“We’ll get you some liquid tears to keep the eyes hydrated,” Dr. Rodale said. “Meanwhile, keep drinking two liters of water per day.”
Then there was a kind of nausea—in which my stomach began to heave, but nothing followed.
“This should settle down—but you must keep eating.”
Food was Dr. Rodale’s big obsession—making me wonder if she’d spent a lot of time treating anorexics (or had herself been one). I suppose she had a point—because, according to Nurse Patterson, refusal to eat was a common postpartum syndrome, and one that tended to exacerbate the depression, for a lot of obvious physiological reasons.
“When you don’t eat,” she said, “you become even more susceptible to the downward curve.”
I was eating again—but my progress back to something approaching an appetite was slow, due in part to the horrendous slop they served at the hospital. So Tony began to do a Marks and Spencer’s run for me every day, picking up sandwiches and salads, and even conferring with the nurses about what I should be eating.
Once again, his solicitousness surprised and pleased me. Of course, I knew he’d never articulate why he was suddenly being thoughtful and considerate.
“Does it matter what his motivations are?” Ellen Cartwright asked me. “The important thing is: Tony is showing concern. And don’t you think that’s a good thing?”
Ellen Cartwright was the unit’s resident therapist. Dr. Rodale pushed pills, Ellen got you in touch with your inner idiot. But like everyone I’d met so far at the hospital, she was a serious pragmatist—and someone who also adopted a very English point of view about the messiness of life: there’s a great deal to be said about muddling through.
Ellen favored long, capacious skirts and big, baggy linen shirts. She was in her early fifties—and from her style, her long gray hair, and her taste in Subcontinent bangles, I sensed that there was a touch of the subculture veteran about her. But when it came to dealing with the complexities of my condition, she was reassuringly practical.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 86
