A Day in the Life
Here is the state of depression in the Upper Midwest: I play Beatles’ songs on the piano and go ice skating and some nights my wife Leah is in bed 12, 14 hours. Hell, if I took the meds she’s on I would sleep until August. Yesterday she woke up and ate cereal and then mid-morning went back to our bedroom and a couple hours later took a shower. She might have gone back to bed after that. I don’t keep track.
At one point I asked her if she’d been sleeping.
No, she said. I was resting.
In the afternoon she had her semimonthly call with her psychiatrist. I was there with her. That’s the deal, for both our sakes. Her med changes are convoluted this winter, like watching Julia Child cook a stew. Add a little of this. Try a little of that. Maybe some of this. Maybe less of that. That’s what my wife’s meds changes are like.
Then her psychiatrist said this to Leah: Do you enjoy anything?
My wife thought for a moment and said no.
When she hung up the phone my wife said to me, I should have said I like having dinner with you. I mean, I don’t enjoy it. But I like being with you.
Well, I just had to laugh.
I made us falafels for dinner and told her how profoundly sad I am for her.
Our son turned 30 yesterday, and he and his wife are teachers and got vaccinated, and I found out this weekend the memoir I wrote about all this is a finalist for a big award. I took the granddaughter to play in the snow and today I got out of bed and made some money and I went ice skating and tomorrow I’ll wake up and play Beatles songs on the piano and then tennis at an indoor club because at age 66 there is still a light that shines on me.
If your memories of your friends and lovers with a mental illness have lost their meaning, let it be. My love for my wife compares with no one, and when my affection is adrift in the midwestern snow, I am thankful I have never endured depression for one measly day.
In my life, not one day.
