Long Way Home(22)
My tears flowed but I didn’t have to hide them. “I would be happy to, Mr. Barnett.”
*
Dr. Morgan wasn’t one degree warmer or friendlier than he’d been the last time. Once again, he lit up a cigarette as soon as we were seated and delivered his news through clouds of smoke, looking at the file folder in front of him, not at us. “Corporal Barnett has finished the prescribed course of insulin treatments with little noticeable improvement,” he began. I felt like he’d punched me in the gut and knocked all the wind out of me. He could have at least paused for a moment to let us digest the bad news, but he plowed on. “The orderlies reported that he did react to the last few injections, becoming upset and trying to push the needle away—”
“For heaven’s sake, why didn’t they stop?” Mr. Barnett asked. “Especially if the comas weren’t doing any good?”
Dr. Morgan seemed irritated by the interruption. “As I was about to say, the corporal’s reaction was a positive sign. His emotional affect had been flat up to that point.” I remembered Joe Fiore’s description of the water treatment as torture and wanted to point out that anger is a natural response to inhumane treatment.
“When will our son be able to come home?” Mrs. Barnett asked.
“I don’t recommend that he leave the hospital until there is some improvement.”
“Not even for a day? For a visit?”
“No. The corporal suffers from severe depression and is still uncommunicative. He doesn’t interact with the other patients or participate in group therapy.”
“So what’s next?” Mr. B. asked.
“I’ve scheduled him to begin a course of electroshock therapy next week.”
I bit my tongue to remain silent, hoping this treatment wasn’t as bad as it sounded. But as the doctor went on to explain, it turned out to be even worse than it sounded. “Electrical currents are applied to the patient’s brain to disorder the mind and jolt the patient out of his emotional distress. It can be quite effective in cases of severe depression like the corporal’s. The shock treatments are applied three times a week for a period of two to six weeks.”
“Is it dangerous? Are there risks we should know about?” Mr. B. asked.
“No procedure is without risk. In this case, we will deliberately try to induce a seizure or a convulsion. This temporary disordering of the mind can halt the cycle of depressing thoughts and suicidal ideation. One side effect may be memory impairment. The patient may forget names or seem confused—”
“Don’t let them do it!” I begged Mr. Barnett. “There must be some other way!”
The doctor pinned me with a stern look. “If there were, I would have prescribed it.”
“But you don’t even know if it will work on Jimmy.”
“There are never any guarantees, young lady.” He stubbed out his cigarette, signaling that the meeting was over.
“Wait. What positive results might we expect?” Mr. Barnett asked.
“Electroshock therapy can have a calming effect on patients suffering from battle fatigue. They report fewer nightmares and angry outbursts afterwards. Many experience varying degrees of memory loss, as I said, but that can be a positive thing if any troubling, traumatic experiences are also erased. Our goal is for the patient to reach the point where he’ll interact in group sessions with other patients.”
Mr. Barnett closed his eyes and sighed. “We’ll have to trust your judgment, Doctor.”
We went downstairs, expecting to be able to visit with Jimmy as we had the last time, but we were turned away. “Visiting hours are on Sundays only,” we were told.
“I’m sorry I spoke up in Dr. Morgan’s office,” I told the Barnetts on the drive home. “I had no right to butt in and tell you not to do the electric shocks.”
“That’s okay, Peggy.” Mr. Barnett offered me a weak smile in the rearview mirror. “To be honest, it sounded horrifying to me, too. But we would do anything to help Jim, and there just doesn’t seem to be any other alternative.”
We would have to trust that the doctors knew what they were doing.
*
I sat with the Barnetts in church Sunday morning, and I knew the three of us were praying the same prayer we’d been praying for the past four years—that Jimmy would come home safe and sound. I was also praying that God would send me a sign to tell me where I should go now that Donna and Pop were kicking me out, and what I should do with the rest of my life. I would have to find a new job since I only worked at the clinic part time. And I would have to find an apartment that allowed dogs because Donna hated Buster.
I walked home from church by myself, brooding about my life, and when I looked up, there was Joe Fiore’s motorcycle parked in front of Pop’s garage. He had returned after all. I hurried around to the backyard and found him sitting in the wooden chair with Buster by his side. “Joe! You came back!”
He smiled and looked me up and down. It was the way any red-blooded man would look at a woman, and I felt my cheeks warm with embarrassment. I hadn’t been around very many young men because they’d all been off fighting the war, so I wasn’t used to being appraised that way. “I told you I’d come back,” Joe said, pulling himself to his feet. “Hey, you ready to go see Jim? I’ve been talking to Tripod about it and he’s all set to go.”