He Wanted the Moon (14 page)

THREE weeks after my readmission to Westborough, I was sitting on the grass next to the Proctor building when Dr. Boyd walked toward me.

“I have very bad news for you,” he said. He handed me a letter.

In technical language the letter directed me to appear before the Board of Registration and to provide reasons why my medical license should not be suspended, cancelled or revoked on grounds of insanity, according to section, etc. etc.

Immediately I wrote a letter to my lawyer, Mr. Dodge, asking him to arrange for me to be at the hearing. As I wrote, I stated two strong intuitions:

1.  Dr. Lang will not let me go to the hearing.

2.  My license will be revoked, no matter what happens.

Three or four days later, my lawyer wrote: “Impossible to arrange for you to be at hearing.”

ONE morning, two and a half weeks after readmission, I went with the occupational therapist nurse to the library. A patient came in holding a little robin that had just hatched out. She found it on the grass. It could not find its nest.

We went to a large room, equipped for occupational therapy, with every type of equipment. I played the piano. I sat at the window. I saw a patient running towards the lake. She was easily overtaken and returned to the dormitory.

I played bridge with three other patients in the afternoon. We ate candy and drank cold drinks. I overheard the girl say that she put the little robin back on the grass. She came along later and found it half-eaten by a cat.

Bridge was over. We returned the tables and chairs to the nurses’ house from which we had brought them.

Dr. Boyd arrived.

“You have been transferred to another ward,” he said. “Your things have already been sent over.”

I felt a little happy.

MY lawyer wrote that he appeared before the Board of Registration and they made it clear that revocation of my license was the most we could expect. My lawyer went on to say the license had been revoked. The news did not surprise me and I did not feel deeply shocked.

Routine notices began to appear. There were instructions to notify medical societies and hospitals that my license had been revoked; to withdraw my name from the telephone book, the directory listing in my building, and from the door of my office.

My secretary wrote that patients could no longer be accepted in my name. When answering the telephone the girls say, “Hello” instead of, “This is Dr. Baird’s office.”

Gretta wrote that she couldn’t see me for six months on account of Massachusetts divorce laws.

The agony of these activities did not upset me in any outward sense, but my heart was slowing breaking.

ON Sunday, Dr. Boyd came to make a visit, one week or so after my transfer. He seemed surprised and inquisitive that I was not visibly upset over the revocation of my license.

“The proper viewpoint is to make up your mind to get your license back again,” he advised.

I hadn’t asked for his advice. I could see no other possible viewpoint to take, except to give up all hope, to surrender to defeat and mediocrity.

Dr. Boyd couldn’t seem to comprehend why I didn’t get manic or deeply depressed over the question of my license. I bore up well. I did so on purpose, perhaps through pride, perhaps because I had expected it, perhaps because I had been through so much that I expected nothing but hard luck and continued reversals. I had all the courage, fight and stamina necessary to face my problem. I didn’t need for Dr. Boyd to advise me, to take a viewpoint that has long been natural for me: to struggle and fight.

Boyd did most of the talking. He proceeded to give me a vast amount of unsolicited advice, dishing it out as if it were something that would straighten out my affairs very nicely. He spoke in a confident manner, as if he thought I’d been
yearning for his help, as if I were greatly complimented to have him take the time to talk with me. I had not sought his advice; I did not want it. His advice was based upon little thought about my problem and very little knowledge of my case. He sat there confident, overbearing, fat, stupid, his mustache wriggling up and down. On and on he talked. He spoke with pride about the Westborough State Hospital.

“About all we have to offer here is a regular life for our patients,” he said, as if Westborough had some magic to offer.

Oh, dear God, I say to anyone who cares to listen: Westborough State Hospital and other places like it have nothing to offer; nothing but a jail-like incarceration, brutality and ugliness. The patients who come here recover not because of the treatment they receive, but in spite of it. Some are submerged by it, die of it.

Boyd continued. He referred to the acute stage of my recent illness. He commented with sarcasm upon some of the things I’d said, my references to cosmic rays, my illusion concerning the yellow wall paint that I referred to as “riboflavin.” He gave his interpretation of the manic psychosis and emphasized speed of thought and action as factors to reckon with. I complimented him on this and said I preferred his interpretation to the usual one.

“What is the usual one?” he asked.

“Oh, most authorities just think of the manic psychosis as a state characterized by loss of inhibition,” I explained.

“But that’s just a description of what happens, not interpretation,” he commented.

I had flattered him. He puffed up a little. I’d wanted to
keep peace with him. I disliked him heartily. Oh to get rid of him! But no, he was having a fine time. He dictated on how I was to manage my life in order to remain free of trouble. He proposed to solve this problem that no one has ever solved before:

“Lead a regular life, eat and sleep regularly,” Boyd said. “Have sexual intercourse about three times per week. Reduce your income to $15,000 per year. Don’t overwork. When you feel yourself getting manic, just don’t talk so much …”

In general, he proposed that I just remember the symptoms and overcome them.

This interview with Boyd was an endless affair.

“You have a better brain than mine,” he went on.

“I’m not so sure,” I replied, shuddering to think that my brain could deteriorate to a level with his.

“Oh yes,” said he. “You have a better command of the general field of medicine.”

He knew nothing of my talents and my shortcomings. He was not qualified to compare.

Boyd also seemed to think I was happy about my divorce.

“I’m not so sure that I
am
happy about it,” I said.

“Aren’t you relieved to have your freedom, to be able to live as you choose?”

“I’m not entirely sure!”

“Of course, you know, the manics run the world,” Boyd continued. He developed this thesis along the usual lines.

If he really thinks that manics are useful enough to run the world, I wondered to myself, then why do they keep me here at Westborough, on and on, when I am normal?

“Well, I might have done this sooner for you,” Boyd concluded, condescendingly. “I thought it would be better to wait until now, when you’d benefit more.”

Somehow the interview ended.

He spoke one last time about my revoked license.

“Of course, you know, it will take months to get it back.”

I had never listened to advice less welcome.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Westborough State Hospital, 1944

July 3

The patient carries on a good conversation that is relevant and coherent. He did show a little grandiose trend in his flow of thoughts, namely about his practice being $50,000 or $60,000 gross and carrying approximately that amount of life insurance, talked of his debts of $18,000, all of which figures he spoke of, not fully realizing their true value. However, at the present time, he has a much better sense of values in general, talking more of supporting his children, and paying his alimony. Also he listened when being spoken to, he is not as talkative as he was preceding going to Baldpate and for a short time after his return to Westborough. His conversation is good. He shows no gross abnormalities of mood. He does tend to joke a little more than he did. He seems to see things in a more humorous sense but he is not euphoric. He did show a little tenseness for the week or two after returning from Baldpate, but this too has subsided. He is showing no depression.

THE days at Westborough State Hospital were now growing more and more oppressive. The food was becoming increasingly distasteful to me. The full reality of what it meant to have my license revoked began to gnaw away great raw holes in my soul. The usual seven and a half hours of sleep that we were permitted did not seem enough. It felt good to lie down for a little while after breakfast and again after lunch. The first day I did this, Miss Hayward, the nurse, was off-duty and no one seemed to object to my taking this extra rest. The next morning, I ate breakfast, swept the upper floor, collected the dirt in dustpans and disposed of it, then washed up and went to lie down. I had scarcely closed the door to my room when in came Miss Hayward’s voice and footsteps.

“Where is Dr. Baird?” she asked. “I miss him!”

I went to the door and told her that I’d be out in just a moment.

During subsequent days, I tried to get a little extra rest. Every time I made the attempt, Miss Hayward came storming to my door (a three-bed room) and, without knocking, opened it loudly and commanded me to come downstairs. At every provocation she would behave as if I were some juvenile delinquent and she an officer empowered to treat me as
roughly as possible. These experiences with Miss Hayward were very upsetting, although I admit I shouldn’t have let her or anything she said bother me—no matter how she said it.

One hot day, I was lying there after lunch, trousers off.

“Get on your pants and come downstairs!” she barked at me.

This desire for extra sleep was probably based upon the severe strain I was under. The revocation of my license itself had not made me ill, but the actual procedure of notifying hospitals and medical societies—so that they could eliminate my name as a physician connected with them—and all the details of this humiliating procedure were an ordeal ranking as a horror with death itself.

It seemed so absurd to revoke my license. I was locked up securely at Westborough and couldn’t get a release to return to my practice until every proof of my recovery was at hand. All they accomplished by revoking my license was to:

1.  Make it difficult for my assistant to hold my practice together.

2.  Create publicity unfavorable to the continuation of my practice.

3.  Make it impossible for my assistant to carry on in my name.

4.  Jeopardize the future of my practice by causing undesirable publicity regarding my illness.

5.  Create difficulties carrying medical protection insurance and resuming it, after recovery.

6.  Hardships
and embarrassments, but not an iota accomplished in the direction of protecting the public from getting my services while sick.