Long Way Home(9)

“What’s that?” Mrs. Barnett asked.

The doctor ignored her question, tapping ash into his ashtray as he consulted the papers in his file folder. “It says here that he served as a combat medic.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Barnett replied. He reached to take his wife’s hand.

“Because of the nature of their work, medics often suffer from compassion fatigue as well as combat stress. Their condition can sometimes be relieved by therapeutic rest. With insulin therapy, patients are administered large doses of insulin each day over a period of weeks in order to induce a coma. The goal is to shock the system out of psychoneurosis.”

I nearly cried out in protest. I hated the way he talked about Jimmy as if he were a case to be solved instead of the living, breathing man we loved. But Mr. Barnett interrupted first. “An insulin coma? Is that even safe?”

“Of course.” Dr. Morgan drew on his cigarette again, then waved his hand dismissively as he exhaled. “Why else would I prescribe it?” I had seen Mr. Barnett approach his four-legged patients with more concern and compassion than Dr. Morgan showed us. “Insulin therapy has been in use for some time. The deep, induced coma gives patients’ brains relief from anxiety and the nightmares which often plague them.”

“And you believe this will cure our son’s depression?” Mr. Barnett asked.

“We prefer the word relieve rather than cure. Psychoneurosis isn’t some ordinary disease with an instant cure. It will require time and expertise to ameliorate the patient’s symptoms so we can dig down to the root cause.”

“I would think it’s fairly obvious what the root cause is,” Mr. Barnett said. “Our son, Jim, just witnessed the horrors of modern warfare. He went away healthy and whole and came home a broken man.”

“Yet millions of other soldiers have been able to resume their former lives, haven’t they? Unfortunately, for the handful like Corporal Barnett, the war has acted as a catalyst, exacerbating the patient’s underlying childhood neuroses.”

I wanted to punch the smug doctor right in his cigarette-smoking mouth. How dare he accuse Jimmy of being ill as a child, before the war! He’d grown up in a happy, loving home with two devoted parents. The Barnetts seemed to have been shocked speechless.

Dr. Morgan held up his hand as if to stop our protests before we spoke them. “The purpose of this appointment is to explain the treatment—which I have just done—and to inform you that the treatments will begin tomorrow morning.”

I wanted to beg the Barnetts to refuse and to bring Jimmy home with us right now. But I had no right to interfere.

“How is Jimmy?” Mrs. Barnett asked. “He’s been here for a week now. Is there any improvement at all?”

“We’ve been observing him all week before deciding which course of therapy he might benefit from. Once the insulin therapy begins, it may take several weeks or even months to see an improvement.”

There was little more for anyone to say. The Barnetts were desperate to help their son and would do anything the experts said. And I was eager to get out of the stifling office. The doctor’s cold, impersonal words along with his arrogance and his clouds of cigarette smoke made me feel as though I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to see Jimmy for myself.

Dr. Morgan crushed out his cigarette. “Any questions?”

“How often may we visit?” Mrs. Barnett asked.

“Not at all for the first two weeks of therapy. Reminders of family and home may only confuse and upset him. After that, visiting hours are on Sunday afternoons.” He pushed a little button on his desk. The door opened behind us and the soldier reappeared. “Show them the way out, Private.” The meeting was over. It had lasted as long as it took the doctor to smoke one cigarette.

We followed the soldier down a different flight of stairs to a nurses’ station. “Patient’s name?” one of the nurses asked.

“James Barnett,” his mother replied. She took her husband’s hand again.

“He’s in the common area. This way.” We followed her to a large, sunny room at the rear of the building, facing the river. Patients in hospital pajamas sat around the room, some reading books, some sitting at tables playing cards, some talking to the orderlies, and some simply staring outside at a group of patients playing baseball on a distant field. “You’ll have to keep this visit short,” the nurse said. “Twenty minutes at the most, please.” She gestured to a pale, thin man seated by the door.

I didn’t recognize Jimmy. He had always been robust and vigorous, a country boy who’d grown up in the outdoors, but now he resembled the concentration camp survivors I’d seen in newsreels. He rose like an old man as we approached and let his parents embrace him. “Hey, it’s me—Peggety,” I said when it was my turn. His face showed no emotion.

The Barnetts each took one of his arms and led him outside through the open door. He seemed to like being outside, where the grounds resembled a park with trees and benches and winding walkways. Mrs. Barnett talked about the spring garden she was planting, and I told him about the new racehorses that had been born on Blue Fence Farms. Mr. Barnett described the pickup truck he was still thinking of buying. Jimmy didn’t respond to any of us. He walked like a weary soldier carrying an overloaded pack. I wished he would talk to us and let us carry some of his burden. He suddenly halted in the middle of the path.