By Bob Beach
He eased his Honda Pilot off the narrow winding road and past the gravel shoulder, well up the grassy slope and as far from the roadway as he could get. He rolled to a stop under a small cluster of pines close to the rock face. The good ‘ole boys in their pickups went flying around these curves day and night, and he wanted to leave plenty of room, just in case. He punched the CD for James Taylor’s Carolina in my Mind one more time, and laid his head back against the headrest. The sky was clear and deep blue. Overhead, he could see a small flock of sparrows chasing a hawk around in circles, nipping at his tail. The hawk swooped and dove, and finally, unable to shake his attackers, started climbing in a large, slow spiral. Soon he was just a speck, far above his pursuers. Then he was out of sight. He knew how the hawk felt.
It was a perfect morning. It had been a two hour drive from Taylor City. He hadn’t driven in more than a year, and he had taken it slow. That had earned him a symphony of horns, fingers and dirty looks as the locals blasted their way around him on the winding mountain roads. He’d crossed into North Carolina at about nine o’clock and stopped at the McDonald’s in Denton for breakfast. There weren’t many fine dining options left in this part of the state. He hadn’t bothered to drive by the old homestead in Split Fork. Ten years ago it had been torn down to build a strip mall, and now even the strip mall was deserted.
…Can't you see the sunshine
Can't you just feel the moonshine
Ain't it just like a friend of mine
It hit me from behind…
From here he could see Howard’s Knob, the highest point on the mountain. He’d climbed that peak twice when he was in school here. The hike up to the crest just below the peak was pleasant and offered a spectacular panorama, but the last hundred yards straight up through the rough granite was a killer. He leaned back again, enjoying the sunlight. He had plenty of time. He didn’t need to be there until noon.
... I think I might have heard the highway calling
Geese in flight and dogs that bite
Signs that might be omens say I’m going, going…
The song ended. He turned off the CD, rolled up the windows, turned off the ignition. He lifted the small day pack from the front passenger seat, and got out. He tucked the key under the driver’s floor mat, then closed the door and started up the road, walking back against traffic on the gravel berm. He swung his daypack onto his back.
He hadn’t been here in twenty years. He hoped he could still find the trailhead. Fifty yards out, he spotted the big orange rock, now partially hidden behind a huge rhododendron bush. Turning in at the rock, he pushed his way through the shoulder-high rhododendrons until he felt the beginnings of the dirt path under his feet. Soon the rhododendrons turned to blueberry thickets, eventually opening onto a small alpine meadow. Tiny white ox-eyed daisies and the occasional bright red firepink peeked through the tall grass, twinkling in the sunlight. He crossed the meadow and threaded his way through a loose stand of old birch trees, their trunks white and peeling. As he walked, the song continued to play in his head.
…Karen she's a silver sun
You best walk her way and watch it shinin'
Watch her watch the mornin' come…
***
She let herself in with the key I had given her. She stood for a moment, looking wildly around the living room, then burst into tears.
“Dad, what’s wrong? My God, what‘s going on?” she sobbed.
I was confused. What was Carol doing here? Were we supposed to be doing something together? I followed her glance around the room. I could see what she was upset about. Stacks of dead pizza boxes and little white Chinese takeout cartons lined the walls and filled a couple of garbage bags in the center of the room. Small piles of dirty clothing covered most of the furniture. Beer and pop cans spilled over the sides of a large cardboard box in the corner. A mass of unopened envelopes, magazines, flyers and crumpled paper balls spread out on either side of the door. I got up out of the chair.
“You should’ve let me know… given me a little chance to clean up…”
“Clean up? Clean up?” She sputtered through her tears. “It would take a front loader to clean this up!”
“Well… I guess maybe I’ve gotten a little behind…”
“Dad, what’s happening? Why didn’t you answer my phone calls? Why are you dressed like that?”
I looked down at myself. I was wearing a striped dress shirt and a pair of old boxer shorts over a pair of sweat pants. I had a black sock on one foot and a sneaker on the other. Why was I dressed like this?
“…Um, I guess I must have fallen asleep watching TV…”
“The TV isn’t even on!” She threaded her way through the garbage bags to the television. She switched it on and off. “The TV’s not even working! Oh, My God!!” Now she was looking toward the kitchen. I couldn’t remember what the kitchen looked like the last time I was in there, but I guessed it wasn’t pretty.
“How long has it been since you changed your clothes? My God, or taken a shower? You smell terrible!”
“Well, gee, thanks... ”
“Don’t joke! Don’t joke!! This is not a joking matter! This is definitely not a joking matter! I’ve been worried sick. Mom’s been worried. You won’t answer the phone or email. Nobody knows what’s going on. I finally had to fly all the way here myself to see you.”
“I’m really sorry about that honey. You didn’t have to do that…”
“Yes, I did! I really had to do exactly that!” She marched down the hall toward the bathroom. “Where’s Linda? You can’t tell me she’d put up with this.”
“Well… I guess I haven’t seen her for a bit…”
She spun around and came marching back. ”What? Wait. How long is a bit?”
“Well, maybe a couple of months…”
“What? A couple of months? You mean you broke up with her? Why? I can’t believe it! What did she have to say about all this? Where’d she go?”
Without waiting for an answer, she marched back down the hallway and looked in the bathroom. “Oh, my God!!” She came marching back up the hallway. The tears had stopped and she was wearing her mother’s take charge face.
***
What followed was a whirlwind of cleaning. Carol cleaned the bathroom and sent me in to shower while she sent baskets of dirty clothes through the washer. When I was relatively clean and more or less appropriately dressed, she had me load the load the piles of boxes and cans in the front room into garbage bags and run them down to the dumpster. She scraped dishes and wiped down walls and ran the sweeper.
After the cleaning was done, she tackled the mountain of mail. “Dad, here’s the reason the TV doesn’t work – the cable company shut your service off because you haven’t paid the bill! You’re lucky you still have lights and water. You haven’t paid any bills in three months. But you’ve got checks here from your publisher – so you’ve got money.
“I can’t find any checks from the college. You’re still teaching, aren’t you?”
“…Um.”
“Oh, shit! What happened?”
“Honey, don’t get excited. I didn’t get canned or anything. I just took a sabbatical, that’s all. I’ll start teaching again in the fall.”
“But if you’re on sabbatical, you should still be getting checks!”
“It’s just a junior college, honey. They don’t exactly give paid sabbaticals.”
She sighed and put her head in her hands.
***
An hour later we were having dinner at the Olive Garden. She had insisted that we go out to eat. It was my first excursion in a long time; I was feeling nervous and not saying much. When the waiter showed up, she said “Two large salads,” before I could open my mouth. She eyed me across the table. “I haven’t seen anything all day in your apartment which might have at one time been a vegetable. You need a complete change of diet. Starting now.”
We sat there staring at each other.
“I know what this is.”
“What what is?”
“What what is? Dad, do you really not see anything wrong with this picture? You dressed in a week-old clown suit watching a dead television in the middle of Dogpatch USA?”
“You make it sound pretty bizarre…”
“Dad, it is bizarre! If you were yourself, you’d see how bizarre it is.”
“You don’t think I’m myself?”
“I know you’re not! And I know why.”
“All right, miss smartypants, clue me in.”
“You’re suffering from depression.”
I thought about this for a moment. “What makes you think that?”
“Last year I saw a PBS show with Dick Cavett. He was describing his bout of depression and it was exactly like this. He didn’t go out of his apartment for like, a year or two. He had takeout boxes piled up all around, he didn’t get dressed, answer the phone, do any work, he slept all the time – he became a total hermit.”
The waiter brought our dinners. I picked my way halfheartedly through the salad, thinking. That did sound a lot like me. I was bizarre.
“You could be right.”
“I know I’m right. Youknow I’m right. And tomorrow morning, like it or not, I’m making an appointment with your doctor.”
***
That night I lay awake for a while, trying to think. My head felt like a block of wood with no moving parts. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t squeeze any thoughts through it. How did I get to this point? I didn’t remember much of anything since Christmas. And this was, what, May, June? Christ. I didn’t know. Was it really two months since I’d seen Linda? Four? Were we together at Christmas? What had I been doing for that long? Was this depression? It didn’t feel like I thought depression would feel. I didn’t feel depressed. I didn’t feel sad or hopeless. I felt… nothing. Oddly enough, none of it seemed to matter. It took too much energy to think. I only wanted to sleep.
***
The trail rose gradually across the meadow toward the first small face of granite, then disappeared as the soil yielded to loose gravel and solid rock at the base. The wall was split and cracked, with weeds and tiny wildflowers growing in the crevasses. He had to search left, then back right for several minutes before he found the opening. A small cleft hid a narrow gap which wound upward through the granite, rock walls rising now on both sides of the trail. The walking was difficult here. The trail was steep and rocky, sometimes barely wide enough for a foot, although the rock walls allowed a handhold on either side. He had worn his hiking boots, but he was badly out of shape and already he could feel a twinge in his right knee. It had been a long time since he had done any serious exercise.
After about fifteen minutes, he emerged from the rock onto another wide, flat meadow covered with short gorse. Here he could see only the slightest track where the vegetation was just a little shorter, a little worn. He followed the faint trail across the meadow, the morning sun bright and heavy on his shoulders. A few small maples, birches and a handful of mountain ash were scattered along the trail, giving him occasional shade as he walked.
…With a holy host of others standing around me
Still I'm on the dark side of the moon
And it seems like it goes on like this forever…
Once this was a popular trail, but since the new highway bypassed Split Fork twenty years ago, hikers here were few and far between. Kids had begun leaving after graduation, looking for jobs and excitement in bigger communities, and eventually the Split Fork schools were consolidated with two other towns. The few kids left now took the daily bus to Millville. There were no more eager young explorers looking for adventure or lovestruck teenagers looking for seclusion to keep the trail in use. Nature was reclaiming its own.
Under a cluster of maples just off the trail he spotted two scarred and pitted beer cans, discarded years ago. He stopped to pick them up. He poured out a little dust which had accumulated and put them in his daypack. He hated litter and had no respect for the people who created it. People should clean up their own messes.
When he reached the next rock face, a towering cliff of more than 100 feet, he stopped to rest against the base where a boulder had fallen, offering a semi-comfortable seat. He took off his pack, unzipped it and pulled out a water bottle. It was late spring and the day was pleasantly cool at this elevation, but the sun was warm on the meadow and he was sweating. The water was still cold and tasted wonderful. He should have brought two bottles, he thought. Maybe three.
***
“There are two kinds of chemical messengers, or neurotransmitters, in the brain - norepinephrine and serotonin. It’s the levels of these two neurotransmitters which influence brain functions and potentially cause depression. There are several classes of antidepressants which are commonly used to raise or lower these levels, and it generally takes a bit of trail and error to find the right balance.
“Tricyclic antidepressants are effective, but they have more side effects, so they usually aren't the drugs of first choice any more. Drugs like Anafrani, Elavil and Zonalon are TCAs.
“Monoamine oxidase inhibitors are often effective in depression which doesn’t respond to other treatment. However, if we go in this direction, you’ll have some severe dietary restrictions.
“Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors are a newer form of antidepressant. These drugs work by altering the amount of serotonin in the brain. Lexapro, Paxil, Prozac and Zoloft are SSRIs.
“Finally, we have serotonin and norepinephrine reuptake inhibitors. These are newest form of antidepressant. They treat depression by increasing availability of the both serotonin and norepinephrine. Effexor and Remeron are two of the more common SNRIs.”
“One more time, in English, please.”
“OK. OK, I know it’s complicated. What you really need to know is that the solution is there – I guarantee it. It just may take a little experimenting.”
“You don’t think I need a shrink?”
“I’m not saying that therapy wouldn’t be a good idea some time in the future, but we have such a terrific success rate with antidepressants these days that it seems to me that’s the reasonable place to start. Your depression all boils down to a slight chemical imbalance. Even given some time for a little trial and error, we’ll get there much more quickly than with therapy. We can always fine tune later if it’s not perfect.”
“But, Dr. Weiss, what’s he depressed about? I don’t understand. He’s got just about everything a reasonable person could want. Except for this, he’s in good shape, he’s got a good job with summers off to travel, a nice condo and car, people buy his books. He’s only fifty.” Carol had insisted on being in the meeting with me. I didn’t like it much, but I didn’t have the energy to resist.
“Well, you have to understand that clinical depression is a specific medical condition – it’s different from what the layman would call everyday depression. It involves a chemical imbalance in the brain. Often it isn’t a result of obvious causes. Sometimes it’s triggered by lack of sleep, for example, like by sleep apnea. He probably can’t identify any one specific thing he’s depressed about.”
“OK, I realize I’m a mess. So what are we going to do about it?”
“Well, I’m going to start you off with Prozac, which, as I said, is an SSRI. That’s been remarkably effective for a lot of people, regardless of the stories you may have heard. That’s as good a place to start as any. And, as I said, it will probably take some tinkering to find the right balance. Just be patient.”
***
We were quiet on the ride home. Most of what we’d had to say on the subject had been beaten to death over the last two days. She had let me know I just needed a swift kick in the ass to get me started again. On the other hand, I had obviously failed to convince her that I didn’t have the energy to change my socks, and, furthermore, didn’t really see the point.
“Isn’t he a little young?”
“Maybe. But Tom retired a couple of years ago and this kid took over his practice. I guess I just haven’t had any motivation to look around.”
“He’s bright, though. He seems to know his drugs.”
“Yeah, that he does. He knows his drugs.”
“I’m flying in again for your next appointment.”
“Damn it, Carol, you really don’t have to do that. You’ve got a job and a husband to take care of.”
“Damn it, Dad, I really do. I’m not letting you go squirrelly on my watch. I’m going to hang around until you pull yourself up by your socks and get out of this funk!”
***
At the base of the wall the trail turned left and followed the granite face for a quarter of a mile or so, climbing gradually to a slight crest. He stood up, hoisting his daypack again, and began the climb. The trail cut north along the wall and he was now walking in the shade. The grade was mild, but his knee was giving him pain, and he slowed his pace. Looking down the valley to his left, he could see segments of Potter’s Road emerge and disappear again into the hillside as it wound its way through the hollow. Like unconnected pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Like his life.
As he reached the crest, the cliff on his right curved away, revealing a small wooded glen below him, tucked between the trail ahead and the mountainside. The trail veered to the left, following a ridge along the glen for a hundred yards before it disappeared again behind the rock face. He paused for a moment, lifting his gaze to the hills around him. He wasn’t high enough to get a real panorama, but through the gap in the hillocks to the east he could make out the familiar shape of Grandfather Mountain, where his own grandfather had helped to build the famous mile high swinging bridge under the WPA. For dozens of years, the tool belt he had worn on that project had hung proudly above the mantle of grandpa’s mobile home in Split Fork. A few of the tools were still usable. He wondered what had become of that belt. A little to the north the long line of bluish grey peaks which were the Roan Mountain dominated the horizon.
He was almost there. He looked at his watch. It was 11:35. The hike had taken longer than he had expected, but there was still plenty of time.
Standing at the crest, he was exposed to the colder wind of the higher elevation. His shirt, wet with perspiration and clinging to his back, now chilled him. He started up the trail. After fifteen yards he turned down a barely visible side path, plunging abruptly into the glen. He slowed his pace again, stepping carefully. The trail was steep and narrow, crossed with roots and fallen branches. The vegetation in the glen was surprisingly lush. A thick stand of Red Spruce, Mountain Ash, pines and firs spread a dense canopy, quickly cutting off the light and making it difficult to see in the shadowy undergrowth. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust. He was very close.
…In my mind I'm goin' to Carolina
Can't you see the sunshine
Can't you just feel the moonshine
Ain't it just like a friend of mine
It hit me from behind…
***
Prozac had immediately made me crazy. I threw things. Paxil, Lexapro, Nardil – nothing. I forgot to eat. Over six, eight months we tried all the drugs with all the initials. I lived in a constant fog. I didn’t sign up for classes again – I could hardly get out of bed, let alone teach. Carol would suddenly appear, pay some bills and disappear again. She must have bought groceries, too, since there always seemed to be various kinds of food in boxes in the cupboard. Don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t unhappy. That would have required too much effort.
I forgot more appointments than I remembered. Carol finally had the doctor’s office send her the appointment dates and she’d call me the morning of the appointment and let the phone ring until I finally answered. Finally, one drug seemed to show a bit of promise. Remeron cleared the fog just enough to let me buy groceries and open the mail. It was like the anesthetic wearing off after surgery, but before they gave you pain pills – you weren’t peacefully unconscious any more, but you weren’t well yet. All you could feel was the pain.
I was able to handle minimum daily activities, but now I was aware of how fruitless my life was and how much bother I was to Carol.
***
After a month of marginal but stable improvement, Carol flew in again for my appointment.
“Yeah, it’s a little better. But it seems like forever since we started, and we’ve gotten just about nowhere. Don’t you think it’s time for therapy, or maybe a behavioral approach? Something new? Anything? It feels like the jaws of the world are chewing and swallowing me a bite at a time.”
“No, no, remember, I said you needed to be patient. This will work. You’ve seen some improvement with 45mg of Remeron, so I think we need to play with the dosage. I know you want to see more improvement quickly – so do I. But this is really the cleanest way to treat this. In the field, we’re really getting exceptionally good response with Remeron, so I think we just need to stay the course. You’re on the way back.”
“Dr. Weiss, don’t you think he should be getting out more, being with people? That might help keep him awake, too. He still just stays in the apartment all the time.”
“Well, that certainly wouldn’t hurt any. But behavioral methods aren’t usually too effective in the absence of good drug therapy. Don’t worry – we’re getting there. When you get right down to it, it’s really a simple fix. Just give it a little more time. You can hold on a little longer, can’t you?”
“I promise you, I’m not going to waste away breath by breath, wrapped in a fetal ball in the closet of my apartment. I can’t think of any worse way to go than that.”
“That’s the stuff. Good man.”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking of taking a short trip back to North Carolina, maybe check out some of my old haunts.”
“Great! That sounds great, Dad. That’s exactly the kind of thing you need to be doing. You can’t let this get you down. The sooner you start living a regular life again, the sooner this will be behind you. Driving, getting some fresh air, seeing Split Fork again – that sounds great. Just what you need! When do you think you’ll go?”
“Well, you’ll be going back tomorrow. I was thinking maybe the day after.”
***
He made his way down the path slowly, searching for familiar landmarks – his name carved in the large maple, now scarred over and unreadable; the three ancient stumps, mature trees long ago sacrificed to create a small bench. Now the bench itself was split and rotting. As he neared the floor of the glen, the whistle of the wind subsided, vanished. The thick carpet of pine and fir needles beneath his boots yielded softly and silently. Now he could hear the trickle of the tiny waterfall, spring snowmelt seeping down the dark rock face and disappearing in a small stream into the undergrowth.
He had been here many times. At first with his buddies, skinny dipping and drinking beer which they had chilled in the stream; later with a succession of girls. At some point during his college days, he had discovered the “magic moment” – a spellbinding instant near noon when the sun cleared the rock face behind the glen and first spilled its rays directly into the cove. After that, he was more discerning in his visits. He had brought Annie here when they were first married to experience it.
The path opened to a broad expanse, the leafy canopy now twenty feet above. In the center of the cove lay a dark pond, ten yards across. Directly above the pond the canopy parted and he could see the brilliant blue sky. Here, below the ridge, the air was still. It was much warmer, and his chill receded.
He took off his daypack and lowered himself onto the plush carpet, his back against a solid mountain ash. He pulled out the water bottle and drank deeply. After a moment he took out a foil package, carefully unwrapping two sandwiches. He ate quietly and quickly. When he was finished, he folded the foil and put it back in his pack. He picked up the water bottle and finished it. He replaced the top and put the bottle in the pack.
“Hello, again,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
The silence of the cove was deafening. There was no reverberation, no echo to his speech. The moss covered walls and soft carpet seemed to suck the very sound from his words, leaving only their shadows hanging in the air.
It was almost time.
He leaned back. He could smell the moss and the earthy loam of the soil, the sharp edge of pine tickling his nose. He felt the rough bark of the tree against his back. He was warm again and he could feel the perspiration beginning to form on his forehead and upper lip. He could feel the cold water making its way through his body, spreading from his stomach outward to his arms and legs, to his fingers and toes. He could feel the rough weave of his jeans against his legs.
As the sun passed over the granite ledge above, nearing its zenith above the glen, the first rays began leaking through the canopy, turning the spring leaves a brilliant translucent green. The cove began to glow. Now, if he looked carefully, he could see small insects flying; stray seed pods, lighter than air, floating toward their reproductive destiny; a vast armada of dust motes plying the space above the pond.
Then it was here. Sunlight poured through the opening like molten metal, churning the water in the pond and exploding into the cove, filling it with a violent golden haze. Shadows fled into the corners and up the walls.
Time began to slow; the shapes before him resolving with preternatural clarity. The insects hovered in their flight, tiny crystal wings languidly parting the air, the dust motes frozen in formation. A small golden songbird carved an infinitely slow arc beneath the canopy, every feather razor sharp in his eye, each muscle clearly articulated in its piston-like rhythm as it fought to defy gravity. The tiny brook whispered in his ear the secrets of the universe in some exotic and unintelligible tongue. He could feel the worms turning the earth beneath him.
He felt he could see the very atoms of the air, vibrating in their quantum space, their spinning electrons absorbing the photons of energy, growing, glowing…
He had never felt so aware, so alive.
He sent a silent prayer of thanks to Carol and Dr. Weiss for giving him the strength to get this far. It was truly the perfect day. He reached for the daypack, unzipped the outside compartment and pulled out the pistol.
…Then I'm on to Carolina in my mind
Gone to Carolina in my mind
Gone - I'm gone - I'm gone
Say nice things about me
' Cause I'm gone south
Carry on without me
' Cause I'm gone.
Copyright Bob Beach 2012