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{On August 26th my daughters Jerri and April sent out a message
to my Words & One-liner mailing list. Something about me being on vacation for awhile, or words to that effect.) A VACATION IT WASN’T This is about a place to which I recently descended And am just now slowly making my way back from Even as I sit to begin this essay on “depression” I am fearful because to tell the tale totally and honestly I will need to go back over dangerous ground that I am not yet all that comfortably far away from. It seems that as the result of a slow three month chemical and emotional assault I fell into a psychotic suicidal six day period (Aug. 25 – 30) in which I humiliated myself and ultimately discredited my entire life's work. That is, in my mind at least. Because of this recent incident, and the socially ingrained stigma surrounding it, I have felt that I've made a mockery of all that I am and have tried to be. Philosophy, poetry, songs, artwork, sideswiped and over run by what the medical profession has described as a bout of “depression”. Know that the up coming ramblings are being composed over time and bit by bit. Mostly for me to keep track of and get a better perspective on this recent incomprehensible behavior — not so much as an apology written for friends, fans and others. I mean What does it really matter? If in the end the earth descends Into the hell's fire of the sun I mean William Shakespeare Where are you then? What does it really matter? Well, it really matters to me *** Not long ago I would have told you I knew exactly what the term “Depression” meant. Thinking it to be the “downer” that followed a severe set back or harsh rejection — A low moody dimple lasting but a day or two. Difficult but manageable doldrums, usually responding to someone’s: “Come on! Snap out of it!” At worst, “depression” would be a debilitating malady. A disorder of mood. Although, during the 73 years I have under my belt, I’ve never been there myself, I would have told you that the term must describe the hopeless feeling of being thrust into a shadowy empty space — stuck there — wilting. Unable to find my way back to sunshine and a sense of well being. Sapped of all enthusiasm. Trapped in a murky inert environment —A deep despondency — A place where black apathy rules. Not so in my case . Perhaps because I was riding on a sled of drug and steroid induced panic and anxiety. The classic concept of “depression” seemed to miss the mark completely. I’m fairly certain that during the six week decent that began with “chemo fatigue” I must have passed through these gloomy rooms but I was traveling fast and the above descriptions aren’t even warm. Nothing about them resembled the hell hole into which I fell. The devastating emotional climate that I experienced would better be described as a violent brain storm. But more about this later. First, let me set forth the coexisting chemical, emotional and “real world” catalysts that ended up August 26th in the Garden Pavilion. An elegant label for the local loony bin Chemical component — Fourteen months on a weekly chemotherapy regime. This with an accompanying hit of 10 mg steroids per week to handle side effects. Then running parallel to this a chronic sciatica problem, in my lower back and hip requiring heavy doses of addictive powerful pain killers (Oxycontin 30mg 2/day & Duragesic 25/mg Patches) and 3 epidurals of 80 mgs. of steroids each. I’ve since learned that massive steroid use can trigger psychotic episodes especially in concert with servings of cold turkey. Probably because of the steroids I was also sleep deprived for six weeks. To top it off toward the end of this six week free fall a blood clot in the urinary tract sent me to ER at three in the morning to be catheterized for five days. Emotional component — When, as a cancer patient, I was labeled “terminal” I made our 50tth wedding anniversary the goal to reach. And of course it was during the six week count down that I unraveled as the day approached. Crashing two days after the grand event. (200 celebrants coming in from all over the country) My body was present but I really wasn’t. Only my family and close friends knew what was going on behind the scenes. Certainly I gave them enough clues — constant pacing — in and out of bed —shoes on — shoes off — lining shoes up side by side on the floor — centering my coffee cups on the tile coasters. Exercising control. Real World component — Poets are usually not the kind of people that plot and plan for the future. We love the feeling of working close to the edge. Among artistic ranks the suicide and alcohol carnage is legendary. A romantic myth I thought until just before the fall my wife and I went to a lawyer and made a Living Trust. A prudent idea for prostate cancer patients and people our age. But in doing so I realized how financially close to being flat broke we actually were. Not a problem when your young, healthy and can travel and work. But there I was bent over and cancer ridden — a third of our monthly income derived from investments — oral medications not covered by AARP or Medicare. Need I say more than STOCK MARKET CRASHING! This, this and this — until my cranium becomes a mad theater of unrelenting action. Blackness violently charged with angst. Unbridled thoughts stampeding — Ill-health — poverty — a prolonged painful cancer death. Like a stream of psychedelic film clips the subject matter suddenly turned suicidal. Each vignette a meticulously planed accident involving skill saws, X-acto knifes, carbon monoxide. Second story swan dives. The lethal images hounding me like a pack of yelping dogs until, and to my credit, rather than complete what these diabolic images suggested I cried for help. *** . THE GARDEN PAVILION I awoke to walls and ceilings painted very very white. Stark white! Nary a dark corner anywhere in sight. Halls crawling with therapists and shrinks. The posted daily schedule clogged with activities enough to give disturbed and crazy minds no time to think. Three days of intense therapy and medication. Three days to break the fall. To turn myself around and begin the long haul out. To silence and oust the lethal intruder that had taken over mind and spirit. My mediating intellect struggling with shame and the feeling of having let family, friends and fans down. Upon leaving the Garden Pavilion (Aug. 29th) I began the difficult task of reclaiming my own life’s work. Retrieving the punch lines one at a time. Trying to find the “yes” again in my own philosophy and poetry — in what for me had become the rancid BS and gibberish of a deluded con man. “Dance in the now!” Was a favorite of his. But how, when you have lost all sense direction and focus and haven’t a clue as to where “now” is? “Simply put,” Doctor Donaldson said, “Your brain is experiencing a chemical imbalance.“ “Nothing chemical about "terminal" prostate cancer and being broke because of a failing economy.” At the time I scoffed at the good doctor’s remark, having not entirely given up the thought of offing myself. But time, counseling and medication are magically shifting these twisted mind patterns to the place where I begin to find the “Now” line ringing true again. Last night I was even able to watch TV and not just look at it. The fleet of psychotic episodes are beginning to disappear over the horizon of yesterday. Like pain — I can remember I suffered it but I really can’t recall the actual feelings. Obviously, I am slowly responding to the slogan, “Better living through chemistry. *** Six weeks out now. The exhaustion lifting like a thick heavy fog. The tide of psychotic memories receding — becoming more and more like bad dreams — like nightmare fantasies that didn’t really happen. Depression? Who really knows where it comes from and where it goes? The panic, dread and alienation are far enough behind me now that I am even becoming able to forgive myself for being so awfully human. It is strange that I’m not a bit ashamed of having an illness called Prostate Cancer so why be ashamed of mental illness? I still have trouble picking the phone up when it rings — looking at what the postman brings — opening incoming e-mail. And for some reason I fear and have lost dexterity when it comes to my computer. Most of all, I need privacy and seclusion. However, one of the pluses in this difficult odyssey has been the closeness my wife Billie Barbara and I developed during the frantic fall and the long recuperation. Often just lying on the bed together quietly holding hands. I have always needed to surround myself with groups of people — pomp and circumstance of one kind or an other. But during this period and even now I am content to be with her and in fact don’t really want or need to see even my closest friends. Every day I am aware of some small readjustment. The listed “depression” symptoms really are fading slowly. To the point, in fact, where the desperate need to write and finish this essay is beginning to wane. It has been a time-consuming tedious business however. This trying to unravel the unfathomable enigma of “depression.” To reclaim the who I used to be — the who that is truly me. And at the same time learn to live with the consequence and social stigma that comes along with recent “out of control” behavior. “Doctor’s orders!” I say, but it is difficult for a me, a lifelong work-a-holic, to rest in order to heal. To do absolutely nothing and feel okay about it — allowing myself to simply tread water for however long it takes. My guess being the rest of my life, because during the time it took to mop up the chemical mess in my mind the prostate cancer has gone almost totally un-addressed. Just 3 mil. DES 1/day. The irony is, that because of this unexpected and uncalled for detour I may have inadvertently committed (“completed” is a better word) suicide by Prostate Cancer. If so — so be it! Never the less, I return to the fray next Wednesday, Oct 16. Meeting with my oncologist – taking blood tests and deciding on the best treatment to employ. Most of my life I have championed Joseph Campbell’s good advice when he told us to “follow our bliss.” So please forgive me, if for a while there, I fell in behind J.D. Salenger and Greta Garbo. Unlike them however, know that I have found the energy and taken the time to sit down and write you this. To "talk back" to - or "touch base"
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