Sanity

When my father was beginning to wane at the age of 92, on the skilled nursing floor and later in the hospital, he suddenly went into a psychotic break. His body seemed to be on super-drive. He saw Latin poetry floating in the air; he recited poems he memorized in German. He didn’t recognize either my sister or me when we came to visit him. Once, though, he said to my sister, “You look sad” and she burst out crying. Sometimes he saw music floating through the air, an Oliver Sachs moment. They tied his hands down. They were going to move him to a psych ward where he would be whare housed and die.

My dad was a beloved doctor of many in NYC. He spent time with his patients. He tried to figure things out, get them the best care. When my sister and I tried to contact my dad’s psychiatrist, he didn’t return the call for a long three days. Another five days went by without any visits. Frantic, we talked to the nurses. One nurse said, “Take him off all his medications, but don’t tell anyone I told you this.” It took another five days to plead with the doctors and the psychiatrists to try this. Meanwhile, my father’s eyes were glazed. He no longer was having flights of fancy. The Latin poems were replaced by nothing. The medication was doing its job. He was sinking into the world of the insane, possibly never to come out.

Finally, all medications were stopped. The next day he came back. He sat up in bed, asked for his breakfast. He remembered nothing. He recognized my sister and me and wondered what all the fuss was about?

Like all of us who are “temporarily able bodied” I believe many of us are temporarily sane except for the grace of a higher power. Perhaps artists of all sorts have more of a thin line between the sane and the insane.

Yesterday, I went to Border’s bookstore to sit in one of their cushy armchairs and grade final exams. Next to me was a young man with mental health problems. He kept asking the time, actually shouting out to people “What time is it? What time is it?” Because my husband worked for over thirty years with developmentally disabled seniors, and since I taught poetry classes at that senior center, I was familiar and not too bothered by this rather gentle but needy soul. I told him, quite directly, I have to get these papers done. So I need some quiet. He was very nice and couldn’t help himself every once in a while by asking, “How are your papers? How are your papers?”

But to the left of me, a well-dressed woman, probably in her thirties, was talking to herself. She must have had multiple personalities because her voice often changed, Sibyl-like, from female to male, young to old. She seemed particularly stuck in a child’s voice and when she started saying, rather loudly, “I have to go diarrhea” and then giggling hysterically. Two older people, separately, came up to her and firmly said, “People are trying to work here—to concentrate.” As I suspected, that only made her more angry. “What’s wrong with talking about diarrhea and urine?” Do you have a problem with that? Then she began saying, “I’m so embarrassed. “ Her face turned beet red. She was in a moment in the past. “What’s so bad about urine?” she shouted out again. The older people left. The other people were all plugged in to Ipods and looked up every once in a while but didn’t seem to care.

I stayed for quite a while, though her constant rants, crying, giggling did begin to bother me. The baristas looked on, not quite knowing what to do. She looked so beautiful, a white silk blouse, red skirt, long dark hair.

I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to these people? Perhaps for the "What time is it” man, a congenital brain injury, or a fall from a high chair(that happened to one of the beloved people in the senior center). For the woman—early abuse? Early loss? Or no one taking the time to listen, to help, to do what my sister and I were able to do for my father?

It’s amazing to me sometimes, that more of our brains don’t fragment—and important to make sure that everyone you love, at all times has someone to talk to, to help them through rough patches. And perhaps, especially in this season of “peace” that we remember, also, to fight to end all wars—so more young men and now young women don’t fragment before our very eyes.

I’m almost finished grading papers. My sweet white dog, Penelope is sitting next to me. I’m grateful for family, friends as we light up the darkness in this almost solstice night.