He ate quietly and I was looking for the right moment to approach him. This is ridiculous…he’s going to get pissed…just do it…I pick the moment just before he’s finished. I start by asking if he’s not tired of eating the same thing day in and day out. He says he doesn’t mind. I launch into various things I can make, that he might like besides pan potatoes. I’ve carefully thought about all this and mention things that don’t cost a lot. Grilled cheese sandwiches, hot dogs. With coupons, I can get better stuff for less. I tell him the babies need better food than mac and cheese. He looks at me and says ok. Just like that. I don’t savor my victory just yet. Just because he said he would doesn’t necessarily mean he will. The dishes are done, the babies are in bed. I return to the living room and find him asleep on the couch. I look at him and my heart constricts a little. He looks small and lost…so pale. It makes me think of that time when he was in the hospital…when he’d taken the pills.
I remember getting to the hospital and watching Suzy Morse, pregnant and all, being swallowed up by the emergency room doors, just ahead of me. What I didn’t know then, was that I would be in her position soon. This turn of events would be the trigger. His attempted suicide would lead to my feeling really bad and trying to do something good in his life. My feelings would lead me to giving in. Giving in would change how I felt about him. It would make me see that I really didn’t want to “be” with him, that I didn’t really love him…that somewhere down the road, when I thought he would be stable enough, I would have to tell him…but by that time, it would be too late. I would be pregnant…life would drag me down this road without asking. Looking back on it now, seeing Suzy, that day at the hospital, was a sign of things to come. It was already too late…
Only when I entered the antiseptic stink of the emergency room did I realize he might be in the psyche ward on the 3rd floor and they may not let me see him. The doughy faced admissions lady barked that he was on the 2nd floor. He’s not dead…He must be ok if I can see him…Just before I find his room, I stop and take a deep breath. What do I say? What do I do? Before I can answer and panic, I just push myself into the dimness of the room, painted in meaningless shades of depression by the rainy, late afternoon light. And I hate the smell…a cocktail of bleach, urine, disinfectant, starch and puke.
I almost don’t recognize him. He’s buried in pillows, making him look small and vulnerable. He’s so pale. He’s sleeping. He’s wearing pajamas. I’ve never seen him sleep or in pajamas. I feel like a peeping tom. I quietly sit down in the chair beside his bed and watch him. He’s breathing very calmly, almost imperceptible. I small line of drool is creasing in the corner of his mouth and pooling on the stiff pillow case. I wonder where he is…does it hurt where you are? Is it a better place than where you’ve been? What’s it like…tell me… I really look at him. It bothers me how fragile he appears. I pull my legs up underneath me…I watch and wait…
Next -> Breakdown
Tags: bleach, cocktail, depression, disinfectant, urine