How I Rescued My Brain (14 page)

The long beachfront is divided by low-lying rock platforms, jagging out into the sea. I have my bathers on and swimming goggles in my pocket. I'm not feeling strong, so I won't do a big swim, but I need to give my body a sensory cleansing — sterilise it from the contamination of my circumstances.

I plunge in, and the expectant cold wraps around me unsympathetically. But to me the embrace is like that of an old friend. I am in the water: water that could have drifted from the bay where I swim regularly. It connects me with home and with friends.

I don't last in there too long, but as I towel off, I feel washed through.

LATER THAT DAY,
an older nurse, a small woman, comes up to me as I stand near the nurses' station in the psych ward, waiting for someone I can ask for toenail scissors. ‘David,' she says softly. ‘I think I knew your mother. Was she a psychiatrist?' She looks up at me intently.

This is such an unexpected question. I'm not sure if I've heard her correctly. My thinking is still slow. How could she know my mother? Mum's been dead for fourteen years.

The nurse mentions a psychiatric hospital and the ward of which Mum was in charge. Finally I get what she's asking me. ‘Yes,' I answer.

‘I'm Julia. I worked with your mother for many years. She was a wonderful person.'

Her remark sluices open my heart. I wish Mum were here now; she'd know what to do. I wrap Julia in a hug. ‘Thank you,' I whisper. And, momentarily, we seem to swim together in the memory of a treasured person.

‘Did you know that Doctor Franklin also worked with your mum?'

I had seen Doctor Franklin's name on one of the psychiatrists' doors. ‘No, I didn't.'

Now Mum's presence is here — in this woman, in Doctor Franklin, in this place. It's as if I have blinked and the view I had of the clinic staff as removed, even alien, has changed, transforming them into something almost like family. I tell Julia about my situation. ‘I've heard that Doctor Franklin specialises in post-traumatic stress disorder?'

‘Yes, he does.'

‘Could I see him? Doctor Banister said I would get a new psychiatrist.' I'm not keen to return to the young psychiatrist I saw on Friday.

‘I'll speak with him,' she says.

I remember to ask for the scissors, and she brings me nail cutters. She asks if I've been taking part in the group activities. No one has told me about the program of activities — or maybe they did when I first arrived, and I was in my mental fog. In any case, I have been left to my own devices. I don't mind, but I have wondered where most of the patients disappear to during the day. She points to a printed program on the ward noticeboard: now I see what I've been missing.

That evening, I sit on the sofa in the common room and place my sheet music on the coffee table. I've brought my classical guitar in with me; my steel-string would have required singing, and I don't have the confidence for that. Cocooning the guitar's body with my thighs, chest, and arms — holding it fast, like a child does a loved teddy bear — I begin to play. Other patients come into the room, to read or do puzzles, but they seem to sense how important this act is for me, and they keep their distance.

Soon I'm a teenager again, sitting in my bedroom, playing into the night's silence. An ageing hippy type walks in and says, ‘Hey man, I heard your playing from my room. You're a real guitarist!' Then he walks out. I smile. Someone thinks I'm worthwhile. It's been a good day after all.

9

THE NEXT DAY,
Monday, I decide to attend a morning group on ‘the locus of control'. This is undergraduate stuff in my field; I can guess what they'll be covering.

A middle-aged psychology intern presents the session, and he hardly looks up from his notes as he reads. It's a bumbling performance, difficult to watch. Even in my fog — which is now more of a haze — I could do better. When it's over, I wonder what the patients could have possibly got out of it.

After lunch, I attend a group-therapy session with Seaview's head psychologist, Peter. This is an open meeting, which means that membership changes from day to day. Today there are four of us, including Peter, sitting in a circle of chairs. Peter's manner is friendly, with a professional edge. He asks each of us in turn, ‘How are you going today?'

After we've responded, Peter turns the group's focus to Mario, the large, middle-aged man sitting opposite me. I hear that Mario, who suffers from depression, has been in the clinic for four weeks and is due to leave at the end of this week. He has just returned from a trial weekend at home.

‘I felt flat … scared. It was good to see the kids, but I — I don't think I can go back,' he tells us. The words struggle out of his mouth and quiver in the air. His bottom lip protrudes like a child's; tears are close. He slumps forward.

Suddenly, the familiar panic rises. I want to run out of the room. But I also want to stay and face this, for Mario and for myself. I try to generate a sense of compassion for him, to take myself out of my skin. The panic begins to subside, enough for me to say, ‘That's how you feel now, but feelings change. By the end of the week, you may feel differently.' I also offer a few more comments. But it's a strain. I want to fix him, and I'm not sure anymore that my advice is good. So I soon shut up, and sit out the rest of the session dumbly.

When it is over and the others have left, I ask Peter for a private word. ‘Sure,' he says, and pushes the door shut.

‘Thanks, Peter. Look, I'm a clinical psychologist. I have post-traumatic stress from work — it's a long story. I've been depressed and anxious and got really stressed recently, and now I think I've lost it. I've had a breakdown.'

‘I see,' he says.

‘I don't think I could sit through another therapy group; it seemed to trigger my anxiety. I almost ran out of the room.'

‘Um, yes. Stay away from the therapy groups. Have you tried the topic groups?'

I tell him of my experience with the locus-of-control session.

‘Give it another go. It'll help occupy you, and shouldn't trigger your symptoms.'

‘Do you think I could see you? It's hard to chat with the other patients because of my background.'

Peter agrees to see me the next morning.

THERE'S BEEN TIMES
this week when my mind drifts like flotsam, and I re-experience the calm that so infused me on my first day in hospital. It's a remarkable feeling, as if nothing bothers me, as though I'm stuck in the present moment.

But when Anna calls mid-afternoon and says that the developer has rejected our latest offer for settlement, the dread and panic returns. I have to walk up and down the car park for over an hour before the edge is taken off my agitation.

I've got to find other ways to relax.

Off the main corridor of my ward is a room where the nurses write their notes and store things. I walk in and ask the young nurse there for a relaxation CD and a player. She points to an invisible line on the floor. ‘Patients are not allowed to cross that line.'

If I were here in my professional capacity, there wouldn't be such an embargo. But she gives me the CD and a player. I listen to it while lying on my bed.

That evening, I have a long guitar-playing session.

THE NEXT MORNING,
I'm woken at six-thirty by a nurse — who, I can tell by her red-and-blue uniform, is not from the hospital. She stands by my bed and opens a suitcase. ‘I'm here to take blood,' she says, in a schoolteacher's voice.

I'm in a daze, and it takes a while to register what's happening. ‘But I had a full lot of blood tests done at Lismore Hospital,' I say. ‘Why do you need more?'

‘I'm just doing what I've been told.'

‘But that's silly. I don't see the point. I'm not giving any more blood.' I rest my head back on the pillow. I don't like her. Doesn't she know what it's like to be prodded and examined every day?

She steps away from me with a sneer, the skin around her nose tightening, as if I am a piece of talking dung. Then she picks up her case, turns, and leaves.

When I'm up, I tell Julia what happened. She says that she will check on the previous blood results.

After breakfast, I catch up with Peter. He's easy to talk to. ‘One way of keeping a lid on your panic is to do controlled breathing,' he says. ‘Are you familiar with that?'

‘Ah, could you go through it?'

‘Breathe in to the diaphragm, counting in … two … three, hold … out, relax… two, relax … three, relax.'

It's as if I am hearing this for the first time, even though I've taught breathing techniques to hundreds of others before. He gives me self-soothing statements that I can say: ‘I can start again' and ‘Anna and I have each other.'

I have made another human connection in the hospital, and my sense of aloneness diminishes a little more. I resolve to use Peter's techniques; I'm sure they'll help.

I just have time to attend a session on ‘reasons for change' before lunch. But as I make my way there, I see Alan. I recognise him immediately. He was an ex-policeman, running his own gardening business, when he came to see me a few years before, for help with anxiety. He would come to our sessions with a small notebook in his top pocket, having written down his worrying thoughts as he went about his jobs during the day. He practised the exercises I gave him. I sensed that he had issues from his police career that he hadn't resolved, but he didn't want to look at these — just at how he was managing day-to-day. He made good progress.

Today he is looking calm — still athletic, the same boyish face. I haven't seen him in the ward before, so I guess he must be attending the clinic for a day program. The fact that he is here probably means he had a relapse. Did I fail him?

Alan sees me across the crowd of people milling in the corridor, waiting to go into the various group-activity rooms, and our eyes lock briefly. It is a blowtorch on my sense of shame. I panic. I'm carrying a red clipboard with notepaper, and I quickly bring it up to my chest — trying to look like a busy staff member. It's an automatic response. I back off around the corner and wait for the noise of the crowd to die out. To stop my chest heaving, I count my breaths, like Peter told me.

When it goes quiet, I peer around the corner: he's gone. I think I know what room he went into, and I hurry past it, thankful that there is no window in the door. I'll need to watch out for other former patients who might know me. This mustn't happen again.

TODAY IS ALSO
the day of my consultation with Doctor Franklin, when I'll find out what hope there is for me, and why I'm like this. After lunch, I'm back in the characterless waiting room I sat in with Anna on admission. This time, I'm near the door of Doctor Franklin's office. It's very quiet, as if the carpet is soaking up all the sound.

I can't work out what is happening to me. Will I become a nervous wreck, unable to function ever again? Is it my fault that I've ended up here? If so, I can't trust my judgement anymore. Who, or what, do I hold on to? Julia's words, ‘Did you know that Doctor Franklin also worked with your mum?' tumble over and over in my mind, becoming solid and polished. I ache for Doctor Franklin to say something about Mum when we meet; it would be a connection, a consoling hand on the shoulder.

The door opens. A man wearing a black suit and a pale-coloured tie emerges. ‘Mr Roland?' he says.

‘Yes.'

He motions, directing me into his office. ‘Please come in.' His face is inscrutable.

I go into a small, square room, ordered and uncluttered. Framed prints of sailing ships hang on the walls — a nautical theme that's incongruous with the setting.

Doctor Franklin looks to be in his fifties, with a thin, youthful face, and hair in need of a trim. He's wearing nerdy spectacles. He sits down behind a gleaming wooden desk, clear except for a computer off to his left and some notepaper before him. I sit opposite, the desk a barrier between us. Behind him is a low bookcase filled with reference titles. There is only one personal item: a photograph of someone sitting at a camp table, silhouetted by the setting sun. I'd like to know who this person is, but Doctor Franklin's facial expression doesn't invite such frivolous enquiries.

He leans forward, forearms on the desk, silver pen poised. ‘We know someone in common, I believe?' he says, without a smile.

‘Yes,' I say.

And, as if that subject is now out of the way, he asks, ‘Tell me, how are you feeling right now?'

‘Oh, well — I'm in a daze. I'm not my usual self … my concentration's not good.'

‘Can you tell me what day of the week it is?' he asks, and I answer.

The familiar questions unroll; his gaze is intense and enquiring. He asks about my psychiatric history, work history, drug and alcohol use, medical history, family history, life stresses, suicidal thoughts … I see, upside down, my answers turn into indecipherable squiggles on his notepaper. My experiences are being squeezed into the boxes of his psychiatric protocol. It doesn't seem right, summing up rich and ragged life pieces and squaring them away like this. Yet, I remember, it's what I used to do.