Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

She certainly walked into our room with newfound pleasantness.

'I've just heard your good news, Sally' she said. 'Breakfast and lunch. Most reassuring. And I gather you've even managed to articulate a word or two. Do you think you can speak a bit now?'

'I'll try' I said, the words taking some time to form.

'No rush', she said, clipboard and pen at the ready. 'But it would be most helpful to know...'

And she ran through the entire checklist again. My answers were largely brief - and I seemed to be using words of one syllable. But with her coaxing, I was able to answer all her questions - and, courtesy of my co-operativeness, I seemed to have brought her around to my side. Because when she was finished, she congratulated me on 'a job well done' and emphasized how her previous tough tone was a way of breaking through the barriers that had been constructed in my head, courtesy of my postnatal depression.

'Of course, the road ahead is by no means certain - and it must be negotiated with prudence. For example, do you feel ready to see Jack yet?'

I shook my head.

'Perfectly understandable', she said, 'and under the circumstances, probably sensible. You should see him when you feel ready to see him - which, we hope, will not be too far off'.

She then explained that what I was going through was undoubtedly horrible for me, but by no means unique. Now that I had started to place my feet back on terra firma, it was possible to treat my condition largely through the use of anti-depressants. With any luck, I should start to see some significant improvement within six weeks.

Six weeks? In here?

Dr Rodale saw the shocked look on my face.

'I know that sounds like a horrible length of time - but, believe me, I've seen depressions that, in their most virulent phase, have dragged on for months. And the good news is: if you start responding well to the anti-depressants, we will be able to send you home as soon as you're judged fit to go home'.

You mean, when I'm no longer a danger to myself and my baby?

But as soon as that thought crossed my head, another one cut in: Knock it off now.

'You look like you want to ask me something', she said. 'Any questions?'

'No', I said - and the sound of my voice brought another pleased look to her face.

'No questions at all?'

'I'm fine', I lied.

Eight

THE DOCTOR WAS right. Just as there is no such thing as a free lunch, so there is no instant cure for depression - no fizzy Alka-Seltzer evaporation of the black swamp into which you've plunged. Rather, it's a slow, piecemeal progression back to terra firma (whatever that is), with frequent manic diversions en route, just to make certain that you're not getting too damn cocky about the rapidity of your recovery.

Still, Dr Rodale often reminded me that I was free to leave of my own accord whenever I wished. Not that she actively encouraged me to flee the coop. Rather, I sensed that she was legally obliged to keep informing me of my freedom of movement. She also felt professionally obliged to tell me that, for my own sake, I really should stick it out in the unit until (as she so inclusively put it) 'we all feel comfortable about your return to the home front'.

The home front. As in: the place of quotidian tranquillity to which you return after bloody combat on the battlefield... though when did my London home front ever resemble a serene refuge?

Still, Tony decided to play the role of the dutiful, caring spouse - and even expressed contrition for his anger towards me when I was still in coma-land.

'You know, I was just articulating a desperate frustration... and worry', he said the evening after I started eating again. 'And it was also an attempt to help you... uh...'

Snap out of it?

'Anyway, it's good to have you back. The alternative would have been... frightful'.

But electrifying...

'Been to see Jack yet?' he asked.

I shook my head.

'No rush, none at all', he said. 'The doctor told me it's going to take a little... uh... time, and the two of you could be in here for some weeks...'

Tony did his best to mask his glee at such a respite from la vie conjugale, not to mention the broken nights of early babyhood (not that he'd had much experience of Jack's sleep terrorism, courtesy of his office eyrie).

'I've informed the editor about your... uh... condition, and he's been most sympathetic. Told me to take as much time off as we needed'.

To sit by my bed and hold my hand and keep me company? I don't think so.

But Tony proved me wrong on that one. Day in, day out he showed up at the hospital and spent at least an hour with me, always bringing me a collection of that day's newspapers - and, as I started to become more compos mentis, a steady supply of novels and back issues of the New Yorker. He even went out and splurged on a Discman with an FM radio and a very fancy pair of Bose headphones, which had a little power pack that helped block out all external noise. And he gradually brought in around twenty or so CDs from home. Much to my surprise, he showed an appreciation of my musical taste. Lots of baroque concerti grossi by Handel and Corelli. My prized 1955 recording of Glenn Gould playing Bach's Goldberg Variations. Ella Fitzgerald's sublime collaborations with Louis Armstrong. And Bill Evans's famous Sunday at the Village Vanguard disc - which, ever since I'd heard it in college, always struck me as the height of sophisticated cool... and did even more so now from my confined vantage point of a South London hospital.

The music became a touchstone for me - a way of measuring my gradual return to some sort of sentient state. But I was also aware of something that Dr Rodale told me: 'At first, you'll possibly wonder if the anti-depressants are doing anything. It takes a little time to bite - and it never works the same way with everybody'.

She warned me about possible side effects - and before there was any sense of the drug biting, there was no doubt that its chemical byproducts were playing games with my system. First came a desert-like dryness in my mouth, spreading rapidly to my throat and eventually (and most disturbingly) to my eyes.

'We'll get you some liquid tears to keep the eyes hydrated', Dr Rodale said. 'Meanwhile, keep drinking two litres of water per day'.

Then there was a kind of nausea - in which my stomach began to heave, but nothing followed.

'This should settle down - but you must keep eating'.

Food was Dr Rodale's big obsession - making me wonder if she'd spent a lot of time treating anorexics (or had herself been one). I suppose she had a point - because, according to Nurse Patterson, refusal to eat was a commonplace postnatal syndrome, and one that tended to exacerbate the depression, for a lot of obvious physiological reasons.

'When you don't eat', she said, 'you become even more susceptible to the downward curve'.

I was eating again - but my progress back to something approaching an appetite was slow, due, in part, to the horrendous slop they served at the hospital. So Tony began to do a Marks and Spencer's run for me every day, picking up sandwiches and salads, and even conferring with the nurses about what I should be eating.

Once again, his solicitousness surprised and pleased me. Of course, I knew he'd never articulate the reasons why he was suddenly being thoughtful and considerate.

'Does it matter what his motivations are?' Ellen Cartwright asked me. 'The important thing is: Tony is showing concern. And don't you think that's a good thing?'

Ellen Cartwright was the unit's resident therapist. Dr Rodale pushed pills, Ellen got you in touch with your inner idiot. But like everyone I'd met so far at the hospital, she was a serious pragmatist - and someone who also adopted a very English point-of-view about the messiness of life: there's a great deal to be said about muddling through.