Shades of Yellow:
How to Not Walk Away
Page 4/5
“When addressing someone, and properly articulating each consonant and vowel, one should maintain eye contact, and easily balance an unsharpened number two pencil on one’s upper lip for the length of the conversation.” Years later, after she retired, and became a widow, she toured Europe on her own, and offered lectures to senior citizens and any type of community. Her lectures were on the Civil War, and her most popular talk by far: “Unmentionables—Antique Underwear and Lingerie through the Ages.” When I was a boy at her house in Lexington, Grammy once told me that during the nighttime, enormous bushes, beach grass, peonies and pear trees would sprout from her hands and arms. “I was panicked when I first saw these things,” she explained to me. “I thought people would think I’m nothing but a useless potted plant, or that I belong alone in a forest, surrounded by insects and those wild, cackling animals.” “What’d you do?” I asked. She gritted her teeth and balled her fists: “I reached in and ripped those shrubs, flowers, and trees out by the roots—just tore the damn things off, and tossed them through the back window, and soon I had these age spots sprouting.” I studied her face for a trace of a smile but I never saw one. I followed her to the back door, and she pointed to bushes, stray weeds and flowers growing beside her stone walkway. From time to time, I still drive by Timothy Francis Ahearn’s likeness at West River Memorial Park. Maybe artist Karl Lang’s creation only works as a visual pep talk for me when I’m feeling depleted, but if you happen to be on your way to the Yale Baseball stadium, or along Route 34 behind the Yale Bowl, take a gander. Pull into the park, walk over to him, and reach up. Feel the strength. I think of my father, and how much I’ll miss him when he’s gone. I also ponder lost peers, old roommates from the group homes and psychiatric hospitals who took their lives, or who’ve receded deeper inside themselves, and who don’t appear to be coming back out. Are there any lessons for us in an old statue? There’s a memory that still makes my eyes wet. In late June of 1989, after my first breakdown and hospitalizations at St. Raphael’s, patients had a walking group twice a week led by this vibrant, pretty nurse named Diane. On my first outing, Diane toured Edgewood Park with us. The nurse and I were the same age, twenty-three, and I’d yet to pack on the 150 pounds from all the psychiatric meds that would soon be thrown my way. Later in the week, it was cold and gray and we vowed to make it to West River Memorial Park, despite the light rain. Diane and I said there was no way in hell we’d return to the hospital until we touched the damn statue, who Diane referred to as Napoleon, and when we made contact, she said: “See you next week, Sarge.” The brisk walk of a half-mile felt so important to me—essential. I was young and depressed and would spend the next decades trying to live a life without thrusting cigarettes, cigars, and razors into my flesh. But for those mornings, maybe three or four all together, I could flirt with a pretty nurse and feel the pulse of desire and pray desperately that the anguish and rage inside would somehow end so I could return to my life and get another shot. Substantial and true psychic health can be quirky, and hard to predict. I’ve observed many with emotional storms tumble, sink into the mire, and disintegrate completely, never to be heard from. And yet other times I see those with despair and anguish reach towards life, turn towards a pulse. They rise, partially redeemed, and get another turn. They step out and away from the emotional formaldehyde that’s been coating their skin for years, sprinting free and clear, shaking that muck off for good.