‘British sovereigns. That’s the way to go. Here, I’ll write that down for you.’
‘Dad, she doesn’t need you to write it down.’
My father’s voice slowed, became emphatic. ‘I am writing it down.’ He finished and handed his note to the banker with a flourish. He smiled. ‘When the meltdown comes, your best bet is gold.’ You couldn’t argue with that. I smiled at the manager. She moved through the forms, my father filled his box up with gold, and we escaped without incident.
Now, with the gold safely squirrelled away, I considered my father and how best to help him. I got the car and we drove to the hospital. To visit Mom, I told him, and then go from there. My mother seemed unchanged – cleaned up, but no better. No one at the desk knew anything. My father leaned over her bed and whispered encouragement. He pulled her beat-up old Bible from his Presbyterian bag and read a psalm quietly, his face close to hers. He prayed for her. He loves her so much.
Next, I took Dad to our psychiatrist. Bryant was efficient. He asked one simple question and let my father do the rest. ‘So, Richard, how are you doing?’ At that my father rambled for five minutes, discussing medicine, interdenominational feuds, God, opera, his mother and mine. He modelled his Presbyterian book bag, holding the great P to his chest – a sort of crazed denominational superhero. Bryant finally cut in. ‘So, Richard, you would say you are –’
‘Wonderful.’
‘Well. Quite frankly, Richard, you shouldn’t be. Your wife’s in the ICU; she may have had a stroke. You shouldn’t be wonderful.’
My father dropped his smile and took another tack. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I am quite concerned. I think it was the medicine you were giving her, frankly. But she’s in good hands now. David Lovelace is here and things are moving along well.’
‘I’m afraid you’re acting inappropriately. I understand religion is important to you, but you’re using grandiose religious terms –’
‘You’re Irish Catholic,’ my father injected dismissively. ‘You’re anti-religious.’
‘Richard, you’re delusional. You’ve given me every indication of a manic break.’ He pulled out the green pad. ‘I’m giving you a prescription for Seroquel. That should help you sleep. I’ve got some samples here somewhere.’ He rummaged in his filing cabinet. Psychiatrists’ cabinets may or may not contain files, but are regularly filled with brightly boxed samples: psychotropic candies, Wellbutrin pens and Zoloft staplers.
Bryant found what he was looking for and gave me two boxes. He asked my father to wait outside. ‘I agree with you. Your father’s full-blown. I suspected as much and he’s just confirmed it. He left three increasingly incoherent messages on our machine last night.’
‘He loves answering machines.’
‘Yes, well. Are you all right?’ he asked me. I nodded. ‘Your meds good? You’ll need to keep it together. Stay in touch. Now, we should get him in right away. We’ll try Northampton first. Can you get him to go with you, sign himself in?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll call Cooley Dick and recommend hospitalization.’
I told my father we’d head back to the hospital around dinnertime to check on Mom. No change. I took my dad to the snack bar and told him what I thought, what Bryant thought. I could see his thoughts race now, looking for a way out. ‘Look. It’s up to you, but the psych ward isn’t bad here. You should consider spending a few days, just to get your meds straightened out, get some regular sleep.’ The last thing he wanted was sleep – he had too much to do – and there was no chance in hell he’d take Seroquel without supervision. Your average mood stabilizers – lithium, Depakote – are aspirin compared to antipsychotics like Seroquel. Seroquel is better than most, but any antipsychotic hits like a club to the head. They knock manic patients out of the trees. Twenty years ago doctors had given me the granddaddy of them all, Thorazine, and it hammered me. My muscles went rigid and my mind stopped dead and I lurched through the ward like Frankenstein’s monster. I want to say I’d take it again if I needed it, but I fear that I wouldn’t. I’d run.
I know my father considered it and he might have done it but for my mom. ‘Mom will be right downstairs,’ I said. ‘You’ll be on the fifth floor and Mom on the third. You could visit.’ I knew there would be no visits. The fifth floor was a lockdown. This was the first of my lies. ‘Look, Dad, you’re a little out of whack. That’s all. You’ll be out in a few days.’ Another lie. ‘You heard what Bryant said, you just need to slow down a bit so you can take care of Mom. She needs you.’ That much was true.
‘Bryant is anti-religion. He doesn’t believe in the efficacy of prayer. He’s friendly enough, sure’ – my father’s face twisted – ’but he’s not a Presbyterian. He’s not even Protestant.’
‘Okay. Forget Bryant. He’s a papist. I’m sorry I brought him up.’ It was strange. I was reasoning with Oliver Cromwell: milord, the blood-letter is not a heretic. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘let’s get you away from Bryant, get you hooked up with folks who understand.’ And so, Bryant’s judgements were rendered null, just like that. He was my father’s enemy now, perhaps all Christendom’s, and I wouldn’t mention him again. Dad would never take his drugs now.
‘ You know the drill, Dad. If you sign yourself in here, you can leave whenever you wish. But if you decide not to sign yourself in, well, then I’ll have to do it. Then a whole bunch of bureaucracy gums up the works. Just sign in. For Mom’s sake.’ I looked at him straight. I could smell his mind working fast, sparking. His eyes spun just like slots and I waited for the payoff.
‘All right, David. If you think it best. Personally I think it’s overkill. I’m perfectly fine.’
‘ But you’ll do it?’
‘ I guess.’
I moved quickly now. We exited the hospital’s main doors and walked around to the emergency entrance. A bit dramatic, I thought – provocative – but psychiatric admissions pass through those gates. Walking past the stacked ambulances, I prayed he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t turn and ask questions. The ER was bright, a scratchy electric yellow that hurt my eyes. It was a limbo and I’ve waited here, too, waited for the wheelchair upstairs, the next ferry over the Styx. Over there, on the ward, they knock you down dead and hope you rise again sane on the third day or month. My father was jittery, mercurial; the triage nurse was harried and dismissive. She pushed us back on the list. In the ER a cut finger – a handful of stitches – takes precedence over our often fatal disease, despite the bad odds. One out of every four untreated bipolar individuals dies by suicide. Not there on the ER floor, mind you, but later, after they give up and leave. Suicide is simply the finishing touch, an end to slow death by depression. You can’t blame them.
But my father stayed because I did, because I asked him not to leave. I did everything short of card tricks to keep him occupied, keep his paranoia at bay. A social worker finally took us in hand. She did not work for the hospital; she was not a psychiatric nurse. She worked for Safety Net, an independent, state-funded advocacy group. I had to get past her first, prove to her I was a good son, that my father was indeed mad. It was unfortunate that at this moment he looked remarkably sane, relaxed even, charming. He was good, all right; he managed the act better than I ever did. But after a forty-five-minute chat with my father, the social worker took me aside. ‘I agree with you and Dr Bryant. Your father could benefit from hospitalization. He’s agreed to sign himself in, and that makes it so much easier. Unfortunately, there are no available beds on ward tonight. Could you come back tomorrow?’
I looked at her incredulously.
‘You think I can get him back to commit himself again tomorrow? After two and half hours in the ER?’
‘I don’t know.’ Why did they wait to tell me? Were they just practising? My father would have to wait