MOM’S VISITING hours are from twelve to two o’clock.
I’ve spent the whole morning reading about bipolar disorder: the manic stage with grandiose thoughts, paranoia, crazy behaviors, insomnia, and rapid speech; the depressive stage with its dead flatness.
All of the things that I think of as Mom—the carelessness with money, the religiousness, the inappropriate flirtations—are part of the disorder.
Then there were testimonials:
“I went from one extreme to another, so that my kids would wonder ‘which dad’ they were getting. I chased after every woman I saw and spent all the money in our savings account.”
“I was sure God spoke to me and me only.”
“I talked 24-7. I talked so fast, people couldn’t understand my words.”
“I loved the highs, but the lows were terrible. I became an invalid.”
It’s treatable with medication, just like Mrs. G. said. People can lead “normal” lives.
Driving to the hospital, I remember the time Mom and I went to Six Flags. It was a period where she was trying to be a good mom; like she had a how-to guide on building a bicycle or constructing an outhouse.
We sang on the drive there, songs like “She’ll Be Coming ’round the Mountain” and “Oh Susannah.” She bought cotton candy and popcorn.
The first ride was called the “haunted house.” When we got to the front of the line, we realized the ride was actually a roller coaster.
“Maybe she’s too short.” Mom pointed to me.
The attendant took his ruler and measured me. “Just makes it. Leave your purse here so it doesn’t fly away.”
He strapped us into a car. “Do you think he’ll steal the money from my purse?” Mom asked me.
“Maybe.” As the car chugged up a slope, I worried about what we would do if the boy stole Mom’s money.
Then the car plunged and I forgot everything. My neck snapped and my stomach dropped. We swerved right and left, then hung upside down. I was sure we’d be flung to the ground at any moment.
When the ride finally ended, Mom had to help me get off. My legs were noodles. I felt like I was going to hurl.
But Mom was elated. “What fun!” She clapped her hands. “Let’s go again!”
That’s what it’s been. Not an original metaphor, but one that fits the bill.
A roller-coaster life.
And me, scared to death.
The hospital looks pretty normal. I expected locked doors and patients in straightjackets, but it looks like most hospitals: long corridors, white walls, overhead lights. There’re just twice as many nurses as normal. “The visiting area is being retiled,” a nurse tells me, “so you can sit with your mom in her room.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Fine!” The nurse smiles. “Your mom’s really popular.”
As I approach the door, I feel shy. Years of mistakes and misunderstandings pool up in my eyes and I stand like a statue, blinking.
“Have a nice visit.” The nurse pats my arm. A line from a Tennessee Williams play goes through my mind. “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
Mom is perched on the end of the bed, watching TV. Across the room, a woman sits in a chair facing the wall. Oprah is on, a show about women who lost weight and transformed their lives, women who wanted to be Mona.
I sit on the bed. Mom doesn’t speak until the commercial. “She gave them all cars.” Her voice is flat.
“What?”
“Oprah. One time she gave the audience cars.”
“I brought you some raspberry bars.” I open the container. The scent of raspberry, oats, and brown sugar drifts up. My mouth waters. I pick one up, then remember Roger saying my jeans looked too tight. I put it back. “Who’s that?” I whisper.
Mom glances over at her roommate. “Bernice. She’s giving herself time-out. She’s almost always in timeout.” Mom takes a bite. “These are wonderful. The oats are so crispy.”
“Thanks.” It’s been so long since she noticed anything I baked.
“Bernice! Want a raspberry bar? My daughter is an excellent baker. She’s going to be a chef.”
The woman in the chair rushes over, grabs one, then returns to her chair.
“Good girl, Bernice.” Mom whispers, “She needs a lot of coaxing to come out of her shell.” Oprah comes back on. Mom’s eyes go to the TV.
“Mom. Can we turn off the TV?”
“I’m enjoying it.”
“I’m only here for an hour.”
She turns off the TV. “I’ll miss you when you go.”
I try to think of a reply, but my eyes blink and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed a sock, so I get up and offer another treat to Bernice, who takes two. Mom looks back at the TV as if there’s a picture there. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come,” I say. “The doctor said to wait.”
“The doctor’s very nice. He comes to see me each day.”
She always has loved attention. “So, Mom, what do you do here, aside from watch TV?”
“I get lots of shots and blood tests. They’re very interested in my blood. I take pills. We sit in groups and answer questions. We’re supposed to face our feelings, and talk about them, which is... painful. There’s a meditation class. They gave me a mantra that I’m supposed to use: ‘OM.’ But I know my real mantra.”
“What?”
“‘Why couldn’t I have made him stay?’”
“Dad?”
“Things were better when he was here. He held everything together. Why couldn’t I have made him stay?”
“That’s my mantra, Mom. You stole my mantra.”
“It wasn’t your job to make him stay. You were only four.”
“I guess we have to move on from that.”
“I guess. So how about you?” She finally looks at me. “Are you okay? Do you have enough money to get by?”
“I’m fine.”
“What about the bills? I should give you my checkbook and show you how to sign my name, so you can pay them.”
“Is there money in the account?”
“I don’t know.” She looks at the floor. “A check should be coming in.”
“A check?”
“I need to get home to take care of these things.” She stands up and looks around the room, like she’s going to pack up. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“I can take care of everything. Just tell me what needs to be done.”
“I’m ready to go home.”
“They want to wait until the medication stabilizes.”
“It’s me that they want to stabilize, not the medication.” She begins to cry. “The day your dad left, the roof leaked. Do you remember?”
“You’ve told me, but I don’t remember.”
“I had put on the TV and crawled onto the couch. You wanted to watch Sesame Street and I wanted to watch Regis, so we took turns. It was the day after Christmas. It rained and rained. We didn’t leave the couch the whole day. We pretended we were on a boat. Then drip, drip, drip.”
“How did it get fixed?”
“I don’t remember. No, I do. Miriam called someone. She took us to the mall and fed us lunch, while it was being fixed. You know what she told me the other day? She said the only reason they haven’t moved is that they wanted to look out for us.”
“Embarrassing.”
“My life is embarrassing,” she says.
“But I read a book about it. Bipolar is a disease. And if you take the medication, you’ll be okay. You already seem better. You’ll be like... normal.”
“Normal is boring.” She reaches for a tissue and dabs at her eyes.
“Maybe, but what good is it feeling all revved up if no one can share in your reality? If it’s not reality to begin with?”
Mom smiles. “I should have named you Star. Because that’s what you are to me, the bright light in my life.”
“Do you know what today is?”
“I don’t even know what month it is.”
“It’s my birthday!”
“Is it? Oh my God!”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Oh, I don’t have a present here for you. I’m sorry. Eighteen!” She looks panicked. “Now you can leave me and go on with your life and be happy.”
“I won’t leave you,” I promise.
Then we’re both crying and on the boat again, hanging on to the sides so we don’t capsize.