My mother could not grasp what had happened to her. She cried and begged Dad to take her home. “Did I really do all those things?” she would ask in such a pitiful voice, a memory burned into my own head forever. If I stop to think about it, I can still hear her frightened voice and it makes me sick inside; or when I think of her suffering through shock therapy and ice baths, I can barely contain my grief. I can see her, scared and screaming, wondering why this was being done to her. To make her well they would undoubtedly say. She was caught in a real live nightmare. It affected us so much, from then on, we were careful around her, watching what we did or said, always afraid to break her.
The following year, in the heart of winter, and for no reason I know of, the Madness began to lurk at my mother’s window again. It hid in dark corners, whispering to her when she was confused. This time we knew the signs; when she became unbalanced all the red flags went up. This time I was the one to deal with it. Dad was working the 3 to 11 shift when she became unglued. I called the doctor. He said to bring her to his office. I called Dad at work and he didn’t want me to do this. I didn’t know about the four men taking her out the previous year. I made the decision to do it anyway. I got her ready, told her we were going for a ride and called a cab. I got money out of her purse. She talked crazy talk and I trembled all the way there. Without incident I got her to Dr. Corbeil’s office. I was fourteen years old.
In the office, she began to dust imaginary furniture, cry about my brother Brandon and basically gave the doctor reason to admit her again. Madness is like that. It traps you, daring you to escape. It’s like going into some deep dark tunnel but when you get scared and try to find the light, you just spin in one place. The walls of madness are slick and slimy with your fears, making it impossible to hang on to the wisps of sanity you think are buried somewhere beneath it. The doctor helped me take her to the hospital. I wasn’t allowed to stay. It was already after 8 o’clock. I stood there helpless as they led her away. She looked back as if to say “why are you leaving me here?” and I ran out into the cold January night. I took the bus home. Then I ran from the corner, to my house, tears frozen to my face.
Dad and I didn’t talk. My aunties could not get over how I’d taken her all by myself like that. Said I was brave, I had courage. I didn’t feel courageous. I felt like I’d betrayed my mother by leaving her in that awful place, where I knew they would make her suffer again. Why did the Madness not leave her alone? I did not in any way witness what was done to her but I saw the shock rooms, the ice bath rooms. I lay in bed at night thinking of all this until I thought I would drown in my tears. I put the pillow over my head, in an attempt to block out my mother’s screams, echoing in my head and begging God to make it all stop.
Next -> Close Encounter of the Ugly Kind
Tags: cab, crazy talk, deep dark tunnel, shock therapy, walls of madness