Reading in bed that night, I find this section in Walter Merig’s The Progression of Major Depressive Disorders.
It is perhaps ironic, therefore, that the greatest rates of morbidity occur when the patient appears to be getting better. This seemingly paradoxical phenomenon can be traced to two developments: first, that the patient may have wished to self-terminate much earlier and did not have the physical strength, powers of resolution, and planning resources to do so, resources which are now, with some improvement, more easily at his command; and second, that the recovering patient, now viewing the illness from “the other side of the hurdle” as it were (Femmigant, 1998), regards the recently concluded illness with his improved perceptive powers as a torturous ordeal, the recurrence of which must be avoided at all costs.
I sit up and reread this a few more times, allowing its meaning to unwind in my tired brain. We were happy to see Dad getting better. We high-fived each other over him finishing a ham sandwich. But now he’s in more danger than he’s been in the past four months? Still…
I get out of bed and pace across my room. What do we do now? Do we try to keep him at this level? Do we try to prevent him from getting any better? Do we hope that he stays just sick enough that he never sees the big picture? That he concentrates on surviving day to day and never looks back to realize how terrible it was?
It’s a philosophical problem, isn’t it? If the risk of suicide is greater as you recover, would it be better to stay at least a little sick—let’s say an easily controlled low-grade melancholy—and live longer but not as well? Or would it be worth it to end it all on the up cycle, savoring the taste of hot French toast with maple syrup? The brightness of a tube of aquamarine? The feel of salt spray? I imagine Dad as a ski jumper. He sees the mountain slide away beneath his feet, then fade into the distance. He decides never to come back down.
When did I pick up Dad’s habit of pacing? I have to calm down and get back in bed. I have to stop being theoretical. I have to remember that I’m not a philosopher or a psychologist, I’m a son. This is Dad I’m talking about, not some experiment, not some patient in a book. Of course he has to keep getting better.
And even though I’ll say, “Whoa! What’s your hurry?” when in the next few days he talks about getting out his paints or stopping by the office to say hello, I can’t get in the way of his recovery.