Long Way Home(66)
“Thanks again, Dr. Greenberg.”
“You’re welcome. Jim is a good man.” I was almost through the door when the doctor called to me. “One more thing. Jim was a man of strong faith, able to see the larger, spiritual picture. Have you considered the idea that this might be a crisis of faith along with nervous exhaustion or battle fatigue?”
I realized that he might be right. “We haven’t. Thank you.” I was sure his psychiatrist hadn’t considered it, either. I needed to talk with Chaplain Bill again.
*
I had every intention of dragging myself down to Edmonds’ Drugstore the next day to apply for the job, but as I was doing my morning chores at the clinic, Mr. Barnett told me that he had arranged for an appointment with Dr. Morgan today, right after lunch. We were barely seated in the doctor’s smoky office when he lit a cigarette and proceeded to berate us for trying to leave a photograph album and a pile of letters with Jimmy. “Patients in the corporal’s condition are not allowed to have any personal items.”
His stern lecture made my heart speed up. I was about to apologize and take full blame when Mr. Barnett said, “What is Jim’s condition? That’s what we’ve come here to find out.” I could tell from his tone and the way he sat forward in his seat that he wanted answers and he wasn’t going to let the doctor talk down to us. Most people, including the Barnetts and me, held doctors in very high esteem and we would never dare to question their decisions or expertise. But we were all losing faith in Dr. Morgan’s treatments. They weren’t helping Jimmy.
“Corporal Barnett suffers from extreme depression, emotional withdrawal, and suicidal ideation. His weakened physical condition is exacerbated by a lack of appetite and recurring nightmares that disrupt his sleep. They’re apparently so bad that he forces himself to remain awake, causing sleep deprivation.”
“And the shock treatments? Have they helped?”
Dr. Morgan inhaled on his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke, making us wait. “We’re still assessing the treatment’s effectiveness, which is why I haven’t notified you yet.”
“It’s been a few weeks. It seems to me that we should know if they’re having an effect by now.” I could tell that Dr. Morgan didn’t like being put on the defensive. He tapped the ash from his cigarette. He was losing patience—but so were we.
“If you recall, I originally said that the electrotherapy treatments would last between two and six weeks. We don’t see many patients as severely depressed as Corporal Barnett. He remains on suicide watch at all times.”
“It’s just that we haven’t noticed much change in our son’s condition, either, and it seems cruel to keep shocking his brain if—”
“I’ll let you know when our team has completed our assessment and recommendations.” He snuffed out his half-finished cigarette. Apparently our time was up. “Now, if there’s nothing else—”
“There is,” Mr. Barnett said. “Jim and his college roommate enlisted in the Army together, trained together, and fought alongside each other in Europe. Jim was there when Mitch was killed in Belgium. Their Army chaplain and some friends from their unit are planning a memorial service to honor Mitch. We’d like to check Jim out of the hospital for the day so he can attend.”
The doctor started shaking his head before Mr. Barnett even finished his sentence. “I don’t recommend you do that. Patients suffering from depression often find it difficult to adjust to new situations and environments.”
“Well, the goal isn’t for him to adjust to living in this hospital, is it? We hope to be able to bring him home for good.”
“If that’s your goal, and you don’t want him to remain institutionalized or risk another suicide attempt, then I know of only one other treatment that would make it possible.” I feared he was going to suggest the water torture Joe had described, and I was getting ready to protest. Instead, Dr. Morgan said, “Psychosurgery. It’s a relatively simple surgical procedure, in which the patient’s frontal lobes are severed and—”
“Are you suggesting a lobotomy?” Mr. Barnett nearly leaped from his chair.
“It’s being done routinely and successfully in veterans’ hospitals all across the country. By severing the connections between the patient’s mind and his emotions, he is able to live the rest of his life calmly and at peace. You could bring him home with the expectation that he would be too docile to try to hurt himself again.”
“We don’t want him docile; we want him well!” Mr. Barnett shouted. Mrs. Barnett rested her hand on his arm as if trying to calm him.
“Then I suggest you be patient and give the electrotherapy treatments more time.”
Mr. Barnett was still struggling with his anger. He stood, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but still firm. “Let your staff know that we will be taking Jim away for a day to attend his friend’s memorial service. And we will never give our consent to any surgical procedures. Good day.” Mrs. Barnett and I rose with him. I wanted to applaud.
16
Gisela
MARCH 1943
I never felt fully settled in my new home or with my new nursing position after moving from Antwerp. My life had changed so many times since closing the door on our apartment in Berlin four years ago, with so many hopes and disappointments along the way, that this change didn’t seem permanent, either. Not only was I separated from everyone I loved, I lived with the constant fear of being betrayed and arrested. The roundup of Jews continued, and as much as I longed to see Sam and my parents, I didn’t want the generous people who were helping me to be discovered and arrested, too. I didn’t visit Ruthie in the orphanage for the same reason. I would never forgive myself if I caused her to be arrested. Instead, I focused on my work at Hospital Sint-Augustinus and avoided making friends with the other nurses at work and in the rooming house where I lived.