July 30: Ultimate Question, Emergency Room, Blueberries

Deep Thought is receiving some criticism for his answer to the Big Question of life, the universe, and everything . . .

"Forty-two!" yelled Loonquawl.  "Is that all you've got to show for seven and a half million years' work?"

"I checked it very thoroughly," said the computer, "and that quite definitely is the answer.  I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you've never actually known what the question is."

"But it was the Great Question!  The Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything," howled Loonquawl.

"Yes," said Deep Thought with the air of one who suffers fools gladly, "but what actually is it?"

A slow stupefied silence crept over the men as they stared at the computer and then at each other.

That is the crux of the whole problem.  They have an answer, but they don't know what the actual question is.  For example, I could type "blueberries" right now, with no context.  You, my dear disciples, have no idea what the significance of "blueberries" is, although you can probably guess they are going to be important considering the photo at the beginning of this blog post.  So, knowing a question is important to understand the answer.

If I typed "Emergency Room" right now, you would not know that it is the answer to the question "Why didn't Saint Marty write a post last night?"  Yes, my wife and I were at our local ER for almost seven hours last night.  We arrived at around 3 p.m., and we didn't leave until about 9:30 p.m.  It was a long, exhausting night.

As I said in earlier posts, my wife has been teetering on hypomania/mania for a good portion of this summer, if not longer.  After some events this part week, it was suggested to me by the nurse of my wife's psychiatrist that I try to convince my wife to go to the Emergency Room for an evaluation.

I broached the suggestion with my wife yesterday afternoon, and, to my surprise, she agreed.  Her one worry was that they were going to try to keep her in the psychiatric ward at the hospital.  She has been there before, and she isn't particularly fond of the idea of returning.  I had to keep reassuring her several times, "Honey, they can't keep you if you don't consent."

At the end of that long, long afternoon and evening, a really nice ER doc, who seemed to know his stuff about psychiatric medications, suggested some changes in dosages and added Vistaril, a drug that will help her sleep at night.  Frankly, walking through the doors of the ER yesterday afternoon, I help little hope that anything constructive was going to come of the visit.  I was wrong, I think.

Ten o'clock last night, we were home, and my wife was taking her first dose of the new medication.

Now, as much I would love to say that Vistaril was the answer to all the problems that have plagued us this summer, it wasn't.  There isn't a drug that exists that will have that kind of effect.  No, the medication changes are part of a very complex solution to a very complex problem.  There is simply no magic pill for bipolar disorder and its attendant problems.

However, my wife did get a really good night's sleep last night.  That's makes me happy.  We are not out of the woods by far yet.  Sleep is just one of the first steps for my wife's recovery and stability.  I will not go into the other issues that revolve around this particular episode.  They are personal and difficult and not for me to share.  That is up to my spouse.

This afternoon, my family and I went blueberry picking at a friends' property.  There were six of us, including my wife.  As I sat, squatting on my haunches, I began to find a little peace of mind.  (My mind has been on overdrive for about two or three weeks.)  It was just me, the blueberries in front of me, and my bucket.  After about an hour or so, I mentioned to my wife how peaceful it was collecting blueberries.

"It's meditation," she said.

And she was write.  I was breathing more easily.  The worries that have been plaguing me weren't present in my thoughts.  I just moved from one spot to another, hunting for patches of blue on the ground.  As I picked berries, I prayed a little, had a conversation with the Almighty.  Asked Him to take away all the doubts and fears that have stressing me.

When I left my friends' house, I was more relaxed that I have been in a long time.  It was a perfect kind of evening.  I love being with my family, sans television and cell phones.  Just a man and his bucket and his kids and his wife.  It's a memory I will hold onto for harder times.

This evening is going to help me with the stresses coming my way tomorrow and the rest of this week.  Because I have this one perfect moment to hold on to.  A couple hours of happiness.

Saint Marty will take that.

June 24: Using My Mind, Literature of Madness, a Rabbit

A revelation about Zaphod and his brain . . .

Zaphod paused for a while.  For a while there was silence.  Then he frowned and said, "Last night I was worrying about this again.  About this fact that part of my mind just didn't seem to work properly.  Then it occurred to me that the way it seemed was that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it.  I put the two ideas together and decided that maybe that somebody had locked off part of my mind for that purpose, which was why I couldn't use it.  I wondered if there was a way I could check.

"I went to the ship's medical bay and plugged myself into the encephalographic screen.  I went through every major screening test on both my heads--all the tests I had to go through under Government medical officers before my nomination for presidency could be properly ratified.  They showed up nothing.  Nothing unexpected at least.  They showed that I was clever, imaginative, irresponsible, untrustworthy, extrovert, nothing you couldn't have guessed.  And no other anomalies.  So I started inventing further tests, completely at random.  Nothing.  Then I tried superimposing the results from one head on top of the results from the other head.  Still nothing.  Finally I got silly, because I'd given it all up as nothing more than an attack of paranoia.  Last thing I did before I packed it in was take the superimposed picture and look at it through a green filter.  You remember I was always superstitious about the color green when I was a kid?  I always wanted to be a pilot on one of the trading scouts?"

Ford nodded.  

"And there it was," said Zaphod, "clear as day.  A whole section in the middle of both brains that related only to each other and not to anything else around them.  Some bastard had cauterized all the synapses and electronically traumatized these two lumps of cerebellum."

Ford stared at him, aghast.  Trillian had turned white.

"Somebody did that to you?" whispered Ford.

"Yeah."

"But have you any idea who?  Or why?"

"Why?  I can only guess.  But I do know who the bastard was."

"You know?  How do you know?"

"Because they left their initials burned into the cauterized synapses.  They left them there for me to see."

Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl.

"Initials?  Burned into your brain?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what were they, for God's sake?"

Zaphod looked at him in silence again for a moment.  They he looked away.

"Z. B.," he said quietly.

At that moment a steel shutter slammed down behind them and gas started to pour into the chamber.

"I'll tell you about it later," choked Zaphod as all three passed out.

What Zaphod describes here is something that sounds very familiar.  I sometimes teach a class on the literature of madness (my term) at the university.  For the semester, we read novels, graphic novels, and memoirs by people who suffer from some mental illness.  Bipolar disorder,  Schizophrenia.  Major depression.  It's a heavy semester, and I often joke as I hand out the syllabus that I have a supplement of Prozac to go along with it.

Anyway, how Zaphod describes his condition--"that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it"--sounds a whole lot like schizophrenia.  The fact that he has two heads sort of enforces the metaphor.  Two brains.  Two heads.  Someone else controlling his thoughts.  I'm not a psychiatrist, but it sounds pretty textbook to me.

In the last couple months, I have felt a little driven by outside forces myself.  Things that I simply couldn't control.  (If you think I'm writing about my daughter's graduation again, you are mistaken.  My life has been in a state of upheaval for various other reasons, and I have been struggling to find my equilibrium.)  Some days, it literally feels as if somebody completely outside of myself is piloting the ship.  On those days, I have to wrestle my thoughts to the ground and pin them down.

Today has been a good day.  While not without stress, I have pretty much remained at an even keel.  I haven't chased the white rabbit down any holes.  In fact, when I got home from work today, there was a rabbit sitting in my backyard.  I got out of my car and slowly began walking toward it.  Step by step.  Not rushing,  For me, it was an exercise in meditation.  Deep breathing.  Slow movements.  Patience.  I got within a few feet of the rabbit before it moved.  It didn't bolt away from me.  Instead, it nonchalantly hopped just a few steps and then stopped again.  It wasn't panicked.  Just curious.

The rabbit and I simply occupied the same space together for a few minutes.  The same oxygen.  And then, as if by mutual agreement, with both turned away from each other and moved on with our lives.

Perhaps I sound a little insane here.  I might be.  But I think of my encounter with this rabbit as a victory.  A sign that, maybe, my life is regaining some balance and peace.  Either that, or I am one step away from the bell jar.

Now, if Saint Marty shows up for work tomorrow dressed as the Queen of Hearts, screaming "Off with his head!"--that's going to be a real problem.

February 26: Qeequeg's Ramadan, Meditation, Unbalanced

As Queequeg's Ramadan, or Fasting and Humiliation, was to continue all day, I did not choose to disturb him till towards night-fall; for I cherish the greatest respect towards everybody's religious obligations, never mind how comical, and could not find it in my heart to undervalue even a congregation of ants worshipping a toad-stool; or those other creatures in certain parts of our earth, who with a degree of footmanism quite unprecedented in other planets, bow down before the torso of a deceased landed proprietor merely on account of the inordinate possessions yet owned and rented in his name.

I say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these things, and not fancy ourselves so vastly superior to other mortals, pagans and what not, because of their half-crazy conceits on these subjects. There was Queequeg, now, certainly entertaining the most absurd notions about Yojo and his Ramadan;- but what of that? Queequeg thought he knew what he was about, I suppose; he seemed to be content; and there let him rest. All our arguing with him would not avail; let him be, I say: and Heaven have mercy on us all- Presbyterians and Pagans alike- for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.

Towards evening, when I felt assured that all his performances and rituals must be over, I went to his room and knocked at the door; but no answer. I tried to open it, but it was fastened inside. "Queequeg," said I softly through the key-hole:- all silent. "I say, Queequeg! why don't you speak? It's I- Ishmael." But all remained still as before. I began to grow alarmed. I had allowed him such abundant time; I thought he might have had an apoplectic fit. I looked through the key-hole; but the door opening into an odd corner of the room, the key-hole prospect was but a crooked and sinister one. I could only see part of the foot-board of the bed and a line of the wall, but nothing more. I was surprised to behold resting against the wall the wooden shaft of Queequeg's harpoon, which the landlady the evening previous had taken from him, before our mounting to the chamber. That's strange, thought I; but at any rate, since the harpoon stands yonder, and he seldom or never goes abroad without it, therefore he must be inside here, and no possible mistake.

"Queequeg!- Queequeg!"- all still. Something must have happened. Apoplexy! I tried to burst open the door; but it stubbornly resisted. Running down stairs, I quickly stated my suspicions to the first person I met- the chamber-maid. "La! la!" she cried, "I thought something must the matter. I went to make the bed after breakfast, and the door was locked; and not a mouse to be heard; and it's been just so silent ever since. But I thought, may be, you had both gone off and locked your baggage in for safe keeping. La! la, ma'am!- Mistress! murder! Mrs. Hussey! apoplexy!"- and with these cries she ran towards the kitchen, I following.

Mrs. Hussey soon appeared, with a mustard-pot in one hand and a vinegar-cruet in the other, having just broken away from the occupation of attending to the castors, and scolding her little black boy meantime.

"Wood-house!" cried I, "which way to it? Run for God's sake, and fetch something to pry open the door- the axe!- the axe! he's had a stroke; depend upon it!"- and so saying I was unmethodically rushing up stairs again empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and vinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance.

"What's the matter with you, young man?"

"Get the axe! For God's sake, run for the doctor, some one, while I pry it open!"

"Look here," said the landlady, quickly putting down the vinegar-cruet, so as to have one hand free; "look here; are you talking about prying open any of my doors?"- and with that she seized my arm. "What's the matter with you? What's the matter with you, shipmate?"

In as calm, but rapid a manner as possible, I gave her to understand the whole case. Unconsciously clapping the vinegar-cruet to one side of her nose, she ruminated for an instant; then exclaimed- "No! I haven't seen it since I put it there." Running to a little closet under the landing of the stairs, she glanced in, and returning, told me that Queequeg's harpoon was missing. "He's killed himself," she cried. "It's unfort'nate Stiggs done over again there goes another counterpane- God pity his poor mother!- it will be the ruin of my house. Has the poor lad a sister? Where's that girl?- there, Betty, go to Snarles the Painter, and tell him to paint me a sign, with- "no suicides permitted here, and no smoking in the parlor;"- might as well kill both birds at once. Kill? The Lord be merciful to his ghost! What's that noise there? You, young man, avast there!"

And running after me, she caught me as I was again trying to force open the door.

"I won't allow it; I won't have my premises spoiled. Go for the locksmith, there's one about a mile from here. But avast!" putting her hand in her side pocket, "here's a key that'll fit, I guess; let's see." And with that, she turned it in the lock; but alas! Queequeg's supplemental bolt remained unwithdrawn within.

"Have to burst it open," said I, and was running down the entry a little, for a good start, when the landlady caught at me, again vowing I should not break down her premises; but I tore from her, and with a sudden bodily rush dashed myself full against the mark.

With a prodigious noise the door flew open, and the knob slamming against the wall, sent the plaster to the ceiling; and there, good heavens! there sat Queequeg, altogether cool on his hams, and holding Yojo on top of his head. He looked neither one way nor the other way but sat like a carved image with scarce a sign of active life.

"Queequeg," said I, going up to him, "Queequeg, what's the matter with you?"

"He hain't been a sittin' so all day, has he?" said the landlady.

But all we said, not a word could we drag out of him; I almost felt like pushing him over, so as to change his position, for it was almost intolerable, it seemed so painfully and unnaturally constrained; especially, as in all probability he had been sitting so for upwards of eight or ten hours, going too without his regular meals.

"Mrs. Hussey," said I, "he's alive at all events; so leave us, if you please, and I will see to this strange affair myself."

Closing the door upon the landlady, I endeavored to prevail upon Queequeg to take a chair; but in vain. There he sat; and all he could do- for all my polite arts and blandishments- he would not move a peg, nor say a single word, nor even look at me, nor notice my presence in the slightest way.

I find myself today in a prodigiously unfriendly state of mind.  If I could, I would drive home right now, lock myself in my bedroom, pull the covers over my head, and--just like Queequeg--remove myself from the daily anchors of the world.  I'm tired, and it has nothing to do with any kind of religious fast.  In fact, I'm not sure what is the cause of my exhaustion.

I din't blog last night because my day was simply too full.  I had church in the morning. Book Club at my house in the afternoon, my daughter's dance show in the evening, and then school work until about 11 p.m. or so.  I simply had no room to sit back and reflect and write.  I barely have time now--teaching starts in about 40 minutes and lasts until about 9:30 tonight.

I don't believe in complaining about things in my life.  Generally, I am always on the cusp of being exhausted.  Perhaps the events of the last weeks (my father's death, funeral home, funeral Mass) are catching up with me.  I simply want not to be around people for a while.  Tired of dealing with my daily grind, I guess.

I wish that I practiced some kind of meditation or yoga.  I have many friends who do it.  The two times that I have attempted these things, I fell asleep.  Yes, I am the proverbial stereotype--snoring in the middle of a session of zazen.  My prayer life has also dwindled to non-existent over the last few months.  Again, I fell out of practice.  Now, I think that I'm paying for it.

I feel a little at sea.  Unfocused and unbalanced.  In this last couple weeks, the two or three times I've meditated and prayed in the morning have helped.  However, I did not continue.  Again, life has broken down my locked door (like Ishmael) when I've tried to take a few minutes for myself.  Last night, I spent a few hours helping my daughter put together a resume for the National Honor Society.

I have about five-and-a-half hours of teaching ahead of me.  I've been trying to conserve my energy all day, but this terrible lethargy has set in.  Right now, I will be happy if I don't fall asleep mid-sentence in class.

Saint Marty will be thankful for his bed tonight.

October 10: Halloween Decorations, Christmas Carols, Desert Monk

I'm sitting at my computer, before all of the craziness of the day begins.  I'm the only person here right now.  In about fifteen minutes, people will start arriving.  I really enjoy these quiet moments before humanity invades.  I sit and, basically, meditate.  It's the only quiet time I have during the day.  I pray, read some devotions, prepare myself for the upcoming hours.  It's really the closest I get to doing anything sacred or holy during my work week.  If I'd been born a few hundred years ago, I think I could easily have been one of those desert monks who lived alone and prayed and meditated all day long.  My only problem would have been eating locusts with honey and wearing sackcloth.  Not a big fan of eating creatures with antenna; honey makes me sick; and I chafe very easily.  Other than that, I'd have made a great monk.

While I work at my desk during the morning, I listen to Christmas carols on my iPod, mainly to drown out or discourage any person who may want to communicate with me.  Christmas carols lift my spirits, no matter the time of year, and the iPod is a polite way of ignoring people.  For some reason, nobody gets offended if you have buds stuck in your ears and act as if you're oblivious to the world.  This may sound slightly misanthropic, but I just don't care.  I can be more productive by simply turning my back on the world.

Last night, my daughter and I decorated our front porch for Halloween.  I spent a good twenty minutes going through the light bulbs on a burned-out string, trying to find the defective culprit.  I was finally successful, but, by that time, my daughter had lost interest and gone back inside the house to watch Extreme Home Makeover.  However, the skulls and pumpkins are blazing, and our porch is suitably spookafied.  We'll see how long it takes my three-year-old son to tear down the jack-o-lanterns or rip the hat off the scarecrow.  I give him about ten minutes.

Well, the first of the human invaders just appeared.  My time of peace on earth is over.  It was great while it lasted.

Saint Marty has to start ignoring what's going on around him now.  Bring on Bing Crosby and Perry Como.

Desert monk home--Wonder if I could get cable?