by Andy Behrman
February 3, 1998.
Today, before she is executed in Huntsville, Texas, pickax murderess Karla Faye Tucker requests a final meal of a salad and a peach. What can she be thinking? The meal I had before my last ECT treatment—and I didn’t know for sure it was going to be my last—was two cheeseburgers, onion rings, and a Coke, followed by Entenmann’s chocolate-covered donuts and milk before bed. If Dr. Wallenstein electrocuted me I was going to die happy. That treatment was a scary one—I saw myself as a Keith Haring figure, with flashes of energy shooting from my body and the sounds of loud drumming in the O.R. keeping my heart pumping and my oxygen circulating—and I was scared I wasn’t going to make it through this one and the image and the sounds wouldn’t disappear.
Blind Date
My friends Deb and Paul Kogan are the best matchmakers in Manhattan. They’ve made three matches that resulted in marriage and brought together a handful of couples who have stayed together for more than six months. Once they were even daring enough to set me up on a blind date with a friend while I was in the middle of electroshock treatment. Now they want to fix me up with Jody, a woman they met at a friend’s summer house and think I’ll like. Deb gives me all the necessary background: she went to a small school somewhere, worked in the Peace Corps in Uzbekistan for two years, and is pretty and funny. Sounds interesting. This is my first real blind date in a long time. We decide to meet at Henry’s on the Upper West Side at 7:30 P.M. I get there fifteen minutes early and drive myself crazy wondering if each woman walking by is Jody. No, too tall. No, too WASPy. No, too young. Maybe that’s her. We spot each other looking for an unfamiliar face outside the front door and introduce ourselves. Over Heinekens she asks me about what I do; Deb has only told her I used to be in public relations and in the art business and that now I’m working on a book. Unavoidably, the subject of manic depression and electroshock comes up. She has no negative reaction. Good thing, since it’s the only thing I think I know how to talk about after five years, with the exception of my brush with the law. Luckily these stories seem to entertain her. I definitely need another beer at this point but force myself to be strict and have a Diet Coke. But she goes ahead and orders another drink. I really miss how alcohol eases my ability to interact and converse. Jody tells me some great stories from Uzbekistan, like having to drink her neighbor’s awful homemade vodka every night to stay warm and being bombarded by snowballs hurled at her by young boys as she walked through town. This is the first time in years I’ve socialized in such a normal way. When I get home that night, I’m so relieved and energized that I return to an old favorite habit: I make a list of things to do in the morning. The list seems so normal and do-able compared with my old lists. I can walk to the corner instead of hopping on a plane.
1. Toothpaste, toothbrush, shaving cream and deodorant
2. Pick up prescriptions
3. Pick up twelve rolls of color film
4. Leave keys with Deb and Paul
5. Buy new knapsack at Eddie Bauer
I even feel that I’d like to see Jody again, and we have dinner a few more times. But I let things go, I don’t call her back. I’m scared entering into a relationship, no matter how tentatively; I’m not ready to be intimate with a stranger. At the same time I realize I’m making a mistake by letting her go. And my biological clock is telling me I want to be married and carrying a kid on my shoulders. But this one will not make Deb and Paul’s wedding record list, and I’m a little pissed it didn’t work out. But I know that whoever the right woman for me is, she’s going to have to be incredibly compassionate, and I’m fully confident that it’s just a matter of time and will happen when I’m ready.
Journey to Paradise
May 18, 1997. Galápagos Islands.
I’m snorkeling off the coast of San Cristóbal Island, in the warmest water I’ve ever swum in, skimming about fifteen feet below the surface. I follow a school of bright red and black fish—there must be three hundred of them—until they dart quickly behind a rock and I can’t keep up with them any longer. Then from the corner of my eye a school of neon blue fish, about five hundred of them, come swimming past me, looking like a flag waving in the wind. It’s so quiet and bright down here. I come to the surface and spot my dad floating twenty feet away. His nose and cheeks are getting sunburned, and I warn him for the second time to put on more sunblock. I guess that’s my job as the overprotective son on the trip. It feels good to be looking after him for a change. We swim to the beach and crouch down to watch shiny black sea lions huddling on the rocks, thousands of wrinkled iguanas lounging in the sun, and boobies doing their awkward mating dances. These animals have no fear of us. The sea lions lollop right up to us and roll over on the beach, eager to play, covering their slick black coats with grains of sand. Then they swim into the ocean and come back out, glistening with a fresh shine. We’re thousands of miles from Manhattan, in the middle of the Pacific, and the beach looks exactly like it must have looked when the HMS Beagle landed on San Cristóbal in 1836 with Charles Darwin aboard. This trip to Ecuador to see the Galápagos, the Amazon, and the Andes was a birthday gift I had promised my dad seven years ago, but we had to postpone it, first because my passport was being held by the U.S. government during my legal troubles and then because of my hospitalization and illness. This is the first time I’ve been out of the country in five years, and although I’m nervous about being away from both of my doctors, I’m also thrilled to be traveling again. And I’m with my dad, so I feel shielded. I’m also armed with a knapsack full of medication, which I keep with me at all times. My dad is having the time of his life, photographing multicolored butterflies in the middle of the Amazon jungle and the crazy Galápagos cacti, which look like wind-twisted sculpture. After exploring the sea and the pure clean beaches, we return by panga to the Parranda, to sit on deck, have a drink, and wait for the sun to set. It happens too quickly for me each day. Afterward, we eat dinner with two young couples: a poet and a cardiac resident on their honeymoon and a pair of neurologists. Conveniently, there are three psychiatrists on the trip as well, and I feel reassured, like all these doctors are on call for me in this extremely remote place. But I’m also reminded of my illness. I’m dead tired tonight from the sun and snorkeling. My dad looks over at me to see that I’m feeling okay. He’s been keeping a close eye on me ever since we left New York, and I’ve been watching every step he takes, not because of his age—he’s in excellent physical shape—but because I’m concerned about him, too. I’m aware that my manic depression has changed my relationship with my father; it’s an enemy that we have to battle together. It’s brought me closer to my mom and to Nancy, too, but at the same time it’s made me more dependent on my family for support at a time in my life when I thought I’d be independent, with a family of my own.
It’s about 11:00 P.M., and I go down to our cabin and take out my pills for the evening. I pour them out of their vials into the palm of my hand. Three peach Depakote. One white Risperdal. One brown Symmetrel. Three amber Topamax. Three blue Klonopin. One white BuSpar. One orange Propranolol. One pink Benadryl. One white Ambien. They look like SweeTARTS. I put all fifteen pills on my tongue and take a big gulp of water. The Propranolol, the tiniest pill, the one that keeps me from shaking and trembling and dropping glasses, the one that makes me able to sign checks without slipping off the signature line, gets stuck under my tongue, and I have to maneuver it back onto my tongue and swallow more water to get it to go down. It tastes bitter. I climb into my bed and look out the porthole, and all I can see is ocean and sky. I hear the engines of the ship starting up. As I lie in bed, I’m soothed by the rocking of the ship. I am almost one thousand miles away from the closest continent on my National Geographic map. My father walks in and turns on the bathroom light. The light spills out into the small room.
“Did you remember your medication?” he asks.
“Yeah, thanks for asking, Dad,” I say.
“Just checking,” he says. “I’m going back up to
the deck for a while. See you in the morning.” I feel safe in the cabin; it feels like my spaceship has returned from space and is floating in the middle of the Pacific.
A Little Crazy
June 5, 1997. New York.
The return to the city from the pure fantasy of escape in the Galápagos is not as difficult as I had imagined. I still love the smell of hot tar and bus fumes and enjoy the comforts of air-conditioning, the telephone, and television. Comparing the beauty of the Galápagos to Manhattan is like comparing a gorgeous naked woman to one who is wearing layers of clothing in the winter; there is a certain beauty and mystery to the latter. And both San Cristóbal and Manhattan seem like such absolute islands to me. Each has order and structure and is easy to navigate. You can take a boat around Santa Cruz or the 1/9 downtown to the West Village. I feel very safe in Manhattan.
July 15, 1997.
Shortly after my return from Ecuador, I feel a bubbling of old urges and restlessness from the past, and I impulsively fly to Los Angeles to see if I can put in two full days of appointments and meetings. It’s more of a test than anything else. I get my luggage. Pick up car at Avis. Check in at Sunset Marquis. Check messages on answering machine. Meeting with artist interested in representation at his studio. He’s convinced he’s Jackson Pollock. His work is shit and there are so many canvases to go through; I don’t know how to tell him gracefully I’m not interested. So I tell him I have a dinner appointment and that I’ll speak with him soon. I really do have plans for dinner with my college roommate, his wife, and their son at their favorite Mexican restaurant. It’s odd at first to see my roommate, whom I met when he was eighteen, with a three-year-old and his wife, but it makes perfect sense and feels right. Return to Sunset Marquis and hang out at Whiskey Bar for a few hours. Drink two cranberry spritzers. Smoke two Marlboro Lights. There are some rowdy girls from Texas at the bar with a bunch of men, and I’m watching them getting very drunk and feeling very left out.
July 16, 1997.
I wake up feeling ready for a productive day. Requisite poolside breakfast at hotel: egg-white omelette and fruit salad, $18. Drive to Fred Segal and buy some baby gifts for Annike and her boyfriend, who are living together; she’s due in a month. Lunch with former self-help writer/client at the Palm. Drinks at the Mondrian Hotel with a prospective health-industry client who’s been referred to me by a former author. Dinner with my father’s sister Gloria in the Valley. On the way back, feel like driving past Sunset exit all the way to San Diego (about 130 miles) but only go a few miles past the exit and then turn around and drive back to the hotel. In the past I would have driven all the way to Baja, but I don’t need the thrill and just decide to watch television in my luxuriously anonymous hotel room and get to sleep early. Wake up next morning and leave for airport after another egg-white omelette and fruit salad. I’ve kept myself busy for two days.
When I get back to New York after my two-day L.A. spasm, I wonder if I might be experiencing hypomania, a moderate form of mania in which one exhibits increased energy and rapid speech. Dr. Fried thinks this is probably the case, that I’m definitely not having a manic episode, and she doesn’t feel the need to alter my medication. “I feel kind of normal,” I say. “Normal, but a little crazy,” she says. It’s nice to realize that I’m relatively stable and can assess my own condition. After years of trying, I’m able to keep a close watch on my moods.
Group
Group therapy in midtown Manhattan. It feels like a private club meeting every Monday at noon. I’m sitting at a conference table with six other people—men, women, single, married, divorced—with all sorts of common issues—relationship, family, intimacy, work, and communication. At opposite ends of the table sit our two leaders, Dr. Sternfeld and her colleague, who is taking notes. Some of us are drinking bottled water, some are eating salads and yogurts. We all look around the room. Karen starts off the session by talking about her ex-husband, an alcoholic, who continues to call her a year after their divorce. Cheryl talks about her struggle with breast cancer and difficulty as a single mother. Paul is having trouble keeping employees at his company. We ask one another questions as we weave from topic to topic. Tammy, who has a pattern of dating married men, surprises us by announcing that she has finally broken off a long-standing relationship. I talk about my fear of becoming sick again and dependent on my family and how real the possibility seems some days. It’s taken me almost a year and a half to figure out that my manic-depressive personality does not define or set me apart in this group. It’s a safe place to talk openly about what’s on my mind and to get feedback.
A Delicate Balance
This illness requires constant vigilance. After several years of being on medication for my manic depression, I develop an awful cold and sinus condition, so I buy the first over-the-counter medication that I see on the pharmacy shelf and take it every four hours for relief. After four days on the medication, I’m sitting in a diner somewhere on the Upper West Side when I become completely confused about what city I’m in and what day it is. My legs are paralyzed. “Just take deep breaths and drink,” my friend Bobbie says. I sip my Diet Coke slowly, but the panic jumps in my veins. I frantically call Dr. Fried on my cell phone, but her message says she’s on vacation, so I call her covering doctor, who doesn’t respond to my page, infuriating me. Bobbie starts dialing for me because I can’t focus on the keypad. My blood pressure is rising and I’m feeling increasingly manic; my thoughts are becoming psychotic. I feel locked inside a globe, like the one I grew up with, showing all of the continents and countries in relief. I’m suffocating underneath South America. I can’t hear very well and can’t concentrate. I think I’m knocking things over on the table. Bobbie holds my arms trying to calm me down, and I attempt to change my tone and the subject. “How are your parents?” I ask her. “They’ve been dead for years,” she tells me. “Oh, poor Claire and Paul,” I say blurrily. I’d forgotten this and apologize to her. Then I leave slurred and hostile messages on Dr. Fried’s answering machine. When I try to stand up, energy flows from my torso through my legs and I feel like I’m going to crash through the floor and shoot into the basement. I’m scared enough to feel like I want to be rushed to the hospital, but I don’t feel like making a scene. Instead, Bobbie suggests getting some air and returning to my apartment. My legs are stiff, so I shuffle more than ten blocks to my apartment, where we wait for the covering doctor to return my call. He finally calls back three hours later and asks me if I’ve taken any other type of medication. After lecturing him about his delay in returning my page, I tell him the name of the over-the-counter medication I’ve taken and he tells me that’s the cause of my current condition. He assures me I’m not in any immediate danger and suggests I ride it out for a few more hours until I finally fall asleep. This is just a reminder of how easily I can slip into a manic or psychotic episode because my system has become so sensitive to medication, let alone the interaction between medications. Neither he nor Dr. Fried knows which medication the cold medicine interacted with. I should have been wise enough to ask the pharmacist first. I’m relieved that this isn’t going to be a long psychotic episode, but I still have my cold.
Bodega Roses
My niece’s birthday is coming up, and I want to find the perfect card for a ten-year-old. She’s really grown up so quickly since the day she came home from the hospital, back when I was just getting into trouble selling counterfeit paintings. She knows nothing about that. It’s hard to find just the right card for her because she’s a very particular kid. I buy her a lava lamp. She’ll love it. On my way home I pass a bodega, whose awning shelters row upon row of bright flowers from the February drizzle. I carefully pick out two dozen magnificent white roses for only $8 and carry them home like it’s Valentine’s Day. But they’re just for me. I rummage for the vase that came with the flowers Nancy gave me when I came home from electroshock treatment at Gracie Square a few years ago, put my finger under the faucet until the water gets cold, fill it all the way
up, pour in a packet of the magic plant powder, and then arrange the perfect roses and place them on my cherrywood and slate-top desk next to my computer. They no longer look white against the white walls, but ivory. The stems are bright green and sturdy, supporting the delicate blooms, which I love to stroke with my fingers. They feel silky and are almost translucent. As the days pass, I watch the roses unfold and hear them crackle as they open. I also notice that the water level is decreasing; they are thirsty, and I replenish their supply. Is there anything else I can do for them? I promise to keep them alive until the first day of spring. The roses open to grand proportions I’ve never noticed before. Had I never paid attention? I hear them crackle as I gaze at the screen and hit the keyboard. I stop what I’m doing and stare at them to examine them as they expand. Grasping the vase, I turn the bouquet in a circle and look for the one rose that is really making progress. “There it is,” I shout. “That’s the culprit.” It’s standing taller than the rest, and I can actually see it moving in slow motion. I’m impressed by the beauty of these roses, and all I can do for them is caress the petals lightly and take care of them. “Maybe roses need sunlight,” I think. The room smells fragrant, and I am indebted to each of the twenty-four roses.
