Chapter Thirty-Three
I stayed in the hospital for three weeks or so, in body. My mind was separate, battling the medication and roaming from pillar to post. I was in a compulsory therapy group and, while the talk ran high, I’d stray from what was being said, thinking things like, she’s pretty but I really hate her perm. Why do women do that to themselves? Or, that guy looks like trouble. Steer clear and watch your back. Sometimes I’d stop dreaming and focus. With my attention riveted, it often seemed as if the whole group would end up looking at me, waiting for me to say something. This lasted only seconds; you could call it an illusion. When it had passed, I drew comfort from the knowledge that no one there seemed capable of seeing past themselves – no one in the group was looking to me for my observations. When I realized just how insignificant my thoughts and opinions were, what remained of the uncomfortable illusion would vaporize.
I had to swallow pills on top of the injection I received. I was being soaked with medicine that was changing my brain. I could almost hear the bad neurotransmitters idling, waiting for me to make a break for it and quit the drugs so they could take over again.
On the other hand, if I listened hard I could hear the doctor say, “There is no way he is getting away this time, not without some type of reason intact.” If I listened extraordinarily hard I could hear the doctor whispering in the air wherever I went.
After a while I became so unsettled that it was all I could do to stand still. I felt overwhelmed and one day, as I mulled over alternatives to getting well I decided I would play the running game again. I had to go somewhere; I was so restless that I couldn’t stand it for another minute. Running was the obvious solution; it was all I could do, to run with an eye open for relief.
I hitchhiked to Oshawa. It was there for some reason that I hoped to find what I needed to settle me down. I was unaware that a bewildering restlessness can be a side effect of the medications used to treat schizophrenia and that there is an antidote for it. All I knew for certain was that what I was going through was somehow unnecessary, that there had to be more to life. After all, everywhere I looked people seemed to be happy, or, at least, happier than me
As could be expected, my hopping from one foot to another and endless pacing was still active when I reached my destination. I couldn’t stand still in Oshawa any more than I could have in Yellowknife, Wawa or Fredericton. Wherever I went agitation would tag after me, so, I did the only thing I figured I could do – I went to those who promised to serve and protect.
“Yes, Officer?” I asked while dancing in front of the front desk.
“Well,” he said, impatiently.
“Yes Officer,” I replied.
“Your name, your name, I asked your name. Are you that stupid that you don’t remember your name?”
“No, well.” I caught myself before I slipped and said ‘Yes Officer’ again.
I supplied the man with as much information as he needed and as much of my life story as he could bear.
“Save it for the tabloids sport,” he said having lost interest or leastwise, patience. “Stop jumping around like that and take a seat.”
In a short while that seemed endless, the gears meshed and something happened. Two policemen came bearing down on me from the other end of the well-waxed hall. For no reason I could think of, I felt guilty. As they got nearer I saw that they were big, strong looking men in blue shirts who would certainly make me think twice before making mine a life of crime.
“I didn’t do it,” I said and smiled, half serious and half not. The two men regarded one another. As if reflecting my statement one of them looked grim while shrugging his shoulders while the other laughed and shook his head.
“Come on, Capone,” the laughing cop said, “you’re going back to the puzzle factory and we’re taking you part way.”
Once we had navigated our way to the highway and our journey had commenced, I was made wise to what had gone on behind the scenes. I learned that the law had contacted the hospital and they had confirmed my story. I wasn’t surprised when I discovered that the hospital claimed innocence with regards to my struggle with fidgeting. When they learned of my odd behavior they recognized it as a reaction to the medication. It seemed they had been unaware that I was having side effects. They pointed out that I hadn’t said anything.
In any case, medication would be administered that would deal with the adverse effects. Further, whatever belongings I had in the hospital would be packed and waiting for me. I was to remove them and myself from the premises. They’d had it with me; they couldn’t control me and were through trying.
The police dropped me at roughly the halfway point between the two cities leaving me to find a ride to take me the rest of the way, which I did in short order.
The hospital had been in touch with the provincial hospital in Kingston on my behalf. If I wished to be treated there I would have to find my own way. I didn’t have to pack. Somebody had gone ahead and manhandled my stuff for me and then, perhaps, had made haste to wash their hands.
The doctor strongly suggested that I find some way to get to Kingston, the sooner the better. Having administered advice he gave me some medication and a prescription. They officially shut their doors on me. I was once again reduced to being data, perhaps a curious case, nothing more, and nothing less. I wondered briefly if I might possibly be a memory to someone there and then I realized that it didn’t matter.
When the gloomy night finished its business of settling over me and a light chill slightly complicated my life, I swallowed my pills. Later I found a hidden spot and there I slept fitfully with my coat on until dawn.
Every night the last glimpse I had of creation was the yellow stars that seemed to be property of the brooding and possessive black night. The sky was like a shroud that I sometimes pulled over myself when I was neither sleeping nor awake. Close enough to sleep to believe that the heavens could be stroked; I would wonder how the moon and stars felt when I took their backdrop from them.
As I continued to take my medication I started to shed these strange, poetic notions. When I was greatly improved I found myself more concerned with finding a place to live than anything.
I didn’t like being homeless anymore; it made me feel foolish and dirty. I wanted to find a solution to the problem of waking up in a park, my clothes wet with the dew. I despised the early morning pet lover who was watching me. I disliked his way of walking on tiptoe as though he was passing my bedroom, while his dog looked embarrassedly for the right place to deposit whatever it was that he’d been harbouring throughout the night.
I needed the care of a doctor whom I could see regularly and for more than a few minutes. I needed some money in my pocket. I could do with a friend who would sit with me, who would have a beer and watch the game with me. I had to repossess myself. I thought a lot about Kingston and became convinced that going there was my portion at the time. As disconcerting as it was, I believed that the government hospital in Kingston and I were destined to collide.
I swallowed my pride and phoned home. I told my father that although I didn’t know what I was getting into, I thought that going to the provincial asylum in Kingston was the best thing for me. Since hearing about the facility there, my father had trumpeted it as being quite possibly just what I needed. Up until my ungracious exit from the Peterborough institution, Dad’s zeal had been enough to keep me away from Kingston, but now I had put the ball in his hands and he ran with it.
I think that my father believed that I should go to Kingston because I wasn’t getting any better in Peterborough. He was well meaning but misguided, or perhaps misinformed. The quality of care wasn’t keeping me from being healthy. With a few exceptions the quality of care is the same from one hospital to another. There is only so much that can be done. You can’t stop brain chemicals gone cockeyed from proceeding to misbehave simply by admonishing them. You can tell neurons and dendrites to smarten up all you want. Unfortunately for those of us who wish they would, they don’t respond. All that can be done is to bathe the brain in chemicals and hope everything slows down and is eventually still. However, if I’m not a danger to myself or someone else, you need my permission to proceed with any therapy, drug or otherwise, and, there’s the rub.
I bunked in with my folks prior to going to Kingston. I’m sure that I crossed the line from houseguest to house pest by the time day one was over. I smoked my Dad’s cigarettes and helped myself to just about anything else that was within my reach. When I wasn’t helping myself, I was watching TV. At supper I piled my plate high and behaved as though I was raised by wild boars.
I was told to remove my earrings and I did so. I shed more blood than you’d think could possibly come from the earlobes. I cursed more than was necessary.
The morning that found us loading the car for the pilgrimage to the hospital wherein I was to be set on the straight and narrow crept up on me. When I woke on that day the morning was mocking me. The kettle screamed shrilly, telling me I was no good. The bacon spat harshly, laughing hysterically because I was finally going away, quite possibly for a long time. It was a morning full of jeering and black mirth. I thought about a woman I had met, who had told me I’d never last in Kingston. I thought that since I now had no choice but to go I could at least prove that she was wrong. I knew I had to go to Kingston because there was nowhere else to go. On the drive to the hospital the wind that blew past us was fierce. It was a ride that couldn’t end too soon.
When we’d parked in the spacious lot of the Ontario government hospital, we sat and ate sandwiches. I looked around and was more depressed than impressed. My immediate surroundings became to me like a pin applied with increasing pressure to a balloon; I was quickly and entirely deflated by the look of the grounds. I was none too eager to leave the relative comfort of my father’s car. I wished I could conjure up a magical recitation to break the spell that seemed, at that moment, to have the whole world stupefied.
“Say, this is just some kind of warped nightmare, let’s go home, Mom, Dad, let’s get back on the highway and go far away. I won’t tell anyone we were here if you don’t.” Was I speaking my thoughts aloud again? Mom was still chewing and Dad was lighting a cigarette. They hadn’t heard. I fought the urge to repeat myself.
“Come on, son,” my father coaxed. I looked at Mom and though she didn’t let on I knew she had to be disappointed. She smiled shy and sad and I walked away with my dad.
“Hermes, Hermes, messenger of the Gods, come and bring Dionysus, God of wine and pleasure. After we’ve drunk and made merry, summon a herd of centaurs so I can leave this place behind. Arouse the compassion of Zeus…”
“Carmen, Carm, hey, big guy.”
“Huh?” Unawares, I’d been looking at the ground while I fantasized. Suddenly I was painfully aware of the small stones imbedded in the asphalt underfoot.
“We’re here son. Now don’t worry about anything, just talk to the doctor.”
“Dad?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Did you hear me thinking out loud?”
“No, son, I didn’t hear anything.” I took a quick look at my father and he looked as tired as he sounded.