Текст книги "Uninvented Stories of Invented People"

Автор книги: Svetlana Isaenko

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 5 страниц)

Chapter two
• Dad •

Happensiness*

I am 9. A Russian literature class is on. Legs are trembling. My task is to eloquently recite a piece of poetry. It is a verse of my choice. “I’m sitting by bars in the damp blackened cell.... The juvenile eagle, who’s bred by the jail…²” . Words are pouring out of me and I, in fact, experience all the emotions of that prisoner with his eagle friend. I am taking my time, recite with passion and proper accents… finalize the declamation and hear my teachers approving

“Take you sit, Marie. It’s an 'A'!” I run jumping and sit to my place next to

Vovka, my closest and dearest friend.

Vovka is already trying cigarettes, often comes with a black eye, since “mom drinks”, and our friendship is inseparable. I do his module tests because “one needs to study well, otherwise will become a street cleaner”. I don’t want Vovka to become a street cleaner, but schooling doesn’t work out for him well. Yet he is good in carrying my schoolbag and protecting me. We giggle at out new teacher – her teeth stick up forward and Vovka mocks her quite well.

“Children bred up in impaired families are incapable of building up a worthy social unit, because they are impaired themselves,” declares Mrs. Bidmor, the teacher, through her stick-up teeth. “Therefore, Vladimir, I hold no grudge against you for mocking me out. This is just a defensive action you take, since, as usual, your home assignment is not done, therefore you get an 'F' ”.

My childish mind is overwhelmed by the rush of indignation that rises over the injustice I witness. What does “impaired” mean? In which meaning is Vovka impaired? He’s incredible. I stretch my hand out.

“Mrs. Bidmor, could you kindly tell me, what my impairment is? I understand that you don’t like Vovka and say that he is good for nothing, because he has no father and his mother drinks, but what am I inferior to? I have my mom, but no dad and I get “A’s” all the time!”

Mrs. Bidmor is bleating something, indistinct and incomprehensible. My question takes her by surprise, and I continue:

“I have two arms, two legs and a head, not a single “F” among the term grades – only “A’s”! I attend dance classes, study English and drawing, and neither me, nor Vova, or Alina, who has both dad and mom, are any different from each other. We are just out of special families, where dads love us very much. They just don’t dwell with us. Just so, why do You call us Impaired?

^{2 Prisoner by Alexander Pushkin, translated by Yevgeny Bonver https://ruverses.com/alexander-pushkin/ captive/5324/ (TN)}

The end-of-class life-saving bell interrupts this debate. The teacher announces: “The lesson is over.” I leer at her, take my school bag, and trudge home together with Vovka. His head down and he, says:

“Marie, you are wrong. Dad’s gone to jail and never ever sent a single letter. He doesn’t love me. Mom doesn’t need me either. She would always tell me that I’d better died or she had an abortion. The only one who loves me is my grandma. Sometimes I run to her at night when my mom’s too drunk and starts beating."

“Vova, I am telling you; they love you, and I love you. We just grow up, get married, buy ourselves a house and give birth to children. I’ll become a doctor, you’ll graduate and become the President and everything in this life …”

“You should be kidding, Marie. I’ll grow up to become a policeman. Have no desire or inclination to presidency. I am willing to hunt criminals, so that children were not offended …” we say our goodbyes in the middle of that dialogue.

I enter the house and I ask my grandma: “Granny, does dad love me?” Grandma says: “Very much, but he is just tied up with business and does not come over.” I’m cool, because it’s always so interesting to be special. Take me for example, I am very much special, my family is special. My mother is constantly at work and grandma makes me play the piano and doesn’t let me watch the cartoons. She says: “You are to be the best at everything. Be found of reading and make yourself a decent person”.

Whilst I am apt in dispelling clouds. If one concentrates greatly, one

may compel the clouds to disperse and the sun will appear. I made this happen a couple of times.

Now the study term already comes to the end. Summer is coming and you can read as many books as you want and swim in the pond. Then the winter comes and on my birthday he’ll be there. I will definitely tell him about Mrs. Bidmor, how bad a tale-teller she is. I’m confident, my daddy is the best of the best. While Mrs. Bidmor is impaired herself, since she speaks in that way.

I love autumn. It’s raining. The rain is soothing and refreshing, at the same time, tuning you up to a certain philosophical mood.

My Mom has taken an absence leave at work and is taking me to the hospital. I have a tumor in my breast. The breast is growing rapidly, ic, since I turned 13 and was one of the first to have a bra on, already a year ago. Transparent blouses can finally be gowned so that a bra could be seen. We arrive at the cancer detection center. An elderly lady doctor speaks to me in sweet words. I really like her. She is kind and addresses me with certain compassion. I undress, take off my pride, the bra, and she does the examination. She says I am to be urgently operated in a week. I say, I cannot because of my test in physics. My mother casts her an unrest smile and we lead on to undergo all the health screening procedures. She says, we’ll be there on Monday. To be honest, I wish no operations at all.

Mom and I go to the store and buy me boots. Though, they are not just the boots, but exactly those which I craved for – the knee-high boots! Can you imagine! The knee-high boots! To be honest I do not even know where to wear them. Probably my mother will even let me to a disco, since she bought me such ones that definitely can’t be a part of school uniform.

Monday, early in the morning, we leave to the hospital. Mom is very nervous. I’m nervous because she’s nervous. I know that there is nothing to be afraid of (as my mother says). They’re goanna give me a good ward where the girls are.

I am given an injection and taken to the surgery. I am thinking that it’s worth being a patient as soon as you are able to put the high-knee boots on. I lie down on to a cold surgery table. They tie me up, inject something into the vein. The nurses admire the string bracelets on my arms and I feel a pleasant wave spreading throughout the entire of my body. Darkness. I have my consciousness gradually returning to me. I feel like I am a snowdrop and I sprout through the snow. My head and chest ache severely. Mom is beside me and gives me some water. She says that everything is good and that I am a fighter. I am very much pleased, but it hurts immensely. I’m crying. An injection comes and I fall asleep.

I am brought home. There is a bandage over my chest with tubes sticking out from it. I’m scared. What if my breast is not there under the gauze and the bandages? What if it’s totally cut off from me? I’m weeping. Mom says, everything is on its place and I should stop crying, since I’m a fighter and will get over everything. The doctor said that according to lab results the tumor was benign and I should give birth to a child as soon as possible. To give birth? Horrors! What’s that supposed to mean – give birth. I haven’t even been kissed yet! Creepy.

Mom gives me injections and makes me lie over my chest “so that the liquid draws away.” I am hurt and offended. Why did that happen to me? In the evening mom comes into the room and says that DAD will come tomorrow. Tomorrow is Thursday. I jump out of the bed and run to the fridge. I ask if there are ingredients for the Olivier Salade. “Daddy will come, I want to treat him to my salad so that he could enjoy it.” Mom asks me to lie and calm down. I don’t surrender. I find everything I need, but take out a promise from mom that she will bring peas and mayonnaise in the morning. I barely sleep all the night in anticipation.

The meal is done and I am waiting for him in expectance of praise compliments. I have my best pajamas on. I am desperate to please him, waiting by the window not to miss the moment. By the evening I realize, that probably mom has got something wrong and he would arrive the next Thursday.

He did not come over neither that nor the next Thursday.

A year later, he once called to greet me a "happy birthday" and said that then he had hardships at work. But I no longer believed that we were a special family. The realization pulsed in my temples. “Dad, just thank you for my life, you’ve been there in the beginning.”

My childhood dream was to sit down at my daddy’s lap and talk of how I was getting on. Just so that he gave me a real dad’s hug and said that his girl was the best in the world. I’d ran it over in my head for millions of times. Yet, there by the window, I realized that, disappointedly, it would never come true.

The only time when I managed to talk to him and utter how much I loved and missed him and wanted to be proud of me, was the day of his funeral. I guess my soul motivation to obtain all those knowledges and grades was to proof worthy of his love. I was twenty-four. It was only by chance that I found out he had passed. Having arrived I saw the whole of his family standing next to the coffin. Three families to be more precise and the latest of his wives. Everyone considered me a “bastard”, since my mother bore from a married man. I didn’t care at all. I went up to him to say goodbye and tell of everything that was there in my soul. However, I had no anger, just the grief because of no change to be close. All his former families were up in arms as they thought I would claim the rights for the “facilities and mobilities”. They simply wouldn’t comprehend of my love and indifference to their financial issues. There was a man of my kin in front of me, my Daddy. The one who rejected me, but was, nevertheless, beloved.

I had been standing long while turning to him in my thoughts, when, of a sudden, I felt the hand of his latest wife over my shoulder. She bent down and said: “Move over, it’s his family over here.” I immediately replied: “I am at my father’s funeral and will stand where I find convenient. Have no worries I shall definitely not visit your exequy.” On that wonderful note I kissed my daddy goodbye and left. I went with inner sense of absolution and a realization that he was just like that. However, the most valuable things he gifted me were my life and my wonderful genes. Thus, no matter what, I love and forgive him. In my mind, he remained an ideal loving person. Though spuriously, but he remained my ideal father. The Gestalt was closed.

P. S. I am writing this chapter with a huge message. I believe that once it’s read, a telephone of some little boy or girl, or of a grown up one, would flash out “Daddy” and, on the other end of the line there will sound: “Hello, kiddo, it’s me, daddy… How are you? What do you say if we go and ride swings and eat your favorite ice-cream? I miss you so much…”

It could be that somewhere a long-awaited ringer of an old telephone would sound and a gray-haired old man will hear the cherished words: “Daddy, we haven’t heard each other for ages. You are so important to me, I love you… Forgive me for not calling you that long I’m on my way to your place.”

Bottom line: we are not free to choose our own parents. Many psycho traumas received in childhood indeed influence and predetermine our life. However, when adults, we are to choose our path ourselves and are capable of working through and letting go all the resentments inside. Forgiveness is the single and the most valuable luxury we can grant to ourselves! Yes, that’s right, exactly to ourselves. They, our parent, “knew not what they did”. Just the same, as sometimes we don’t. Everyone makes mistakes. That’s the way we are wired.

Chapter three
•Love •

Zelenin Drops*

A year after, I began to grow firm in my knowledge. No one was waiting at home, therefore, I had to stay late behind the hours at work. Gradually, I acquired my own patients and their number grew. Every morning at 7.45, when I arrived in my old Kalina Zhiguli auto, inherited from my mother, as a gift for my twenty-fifth birthday, the male department patients lined up next to the windows and shouted joyfully: “Good morning Ms. Clover! Have a nice day!” I always amiably waved them my hand. The observation premises windows overlooked our iatric parking lot. There were people with psychosis or suicidal intentions observed there, as well as some, who had committed a murder for delusional reasons.

A psychiatric in-patient facility was divided into two units: observation and care treatment. The care treatment unit supports those patients, who had already overcome psychosis and were somewhat in a better condition. The observation unit was for those, who needed enhanced supervision so that they did not cause any harm to themselves or to the others.

In general, all endogenous processes (those that progress from within), including schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, recurrent depressive disorders, are difficult to comprehend by ordinary humans. If put it straight, even us, doctors, do not know why these biochemistry abnormalities occur. The disease eats away emotion, destroys destinies and breaks the will. Should all human diseases be explained by psychosomatic nature, then we would be powerless.

Eleonora went into retirement. At some point she stepped into the office and said: “Fuck it all” and went to Asscobar with a notice of resignation. Soon, Ivan also quit his job and went into software engineering. As the matter of fact, a person of such brainpower shall be awaited in all countries of the world. Sometimes it seemed to me that, at times, he had panic attacks himself. However, he carefully concealed them and indeed in winter he left the hospital. I was quite disappointed. When you are all the time under constant tension, the loss of comrades-in-arms from your combat squad, the valuable minds with a word of advice and wisdom next to you, would always leave a scar on your soul. Though, we stewed in that pot together seven days a week, we found relief in even more suffering people and our ability to alleviate their pain.

Anna and I then stayed in the same office. It was a wonderful time. We indulged ourselves to chatting and philosophizing about life. It didn’t go on well with males for me. The one was ‘better than the other’.

“Marie, why on Earth are you telling them about your occupation? The right answer to the question is: I am a beauty blogger or just a pretty girl. Why cutting the root and stem right away?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ve already tried once. Resulted into an epic fail. I come on a date. The guy is handsome, the one of the first-glance-good-looking kind. What do you think his question was? ‘What do you do for your living?’ Not to frighted the blocke away I answer: ‘I’m a beauty blogger.’ So, with all due expertise, he makes his best to keep up to the conversation and asks: ‘That’s awesome, which magazines do you read?’ While I read nothing, but Neuronews, since I am in no time for anything else. Hardly would he be interested in foreign studies of the field. Doubt if would understand anything at all as well. The only one I recollected of was the Cool Girls that actually discontinued its existence about fifteen years ago. With disbelief and conviction of lies, he responds: ‘Ahhhhh… Haven’t it been taken away from release long ago?’ Question: how does it come for a male to be that aware of female magazines published? Where does this knowledge come from?!”

“Yes, a good question indeed,” she said, lifting up her head and starting to tie up her naughty curls with an elastic band.

“You see, men are in want of simplicity from women. We are the Muses. Just take a glance at our hysteric drama queens. They are manipulators and they are always with decent men next to them. While you and I work hard from morning till night medicating and saving people, the probability of a white horsed-prince coming to attend the nut house, applicable to us, stands pitifully next to zero. Probably, except of the cases, when in need of medical treatment or of an I.V. infusion. In fact, there’s no great community here. As for the doctors – not a chance for a single affair, not even one for a decent fuck.”

Ann had always felt like to chop up a biting word. She was 36 years old. Being from a well-to-do family she had always been impeccably dressed. She possessed excellent sense of humor and brilliant clinical knowledge. She always helped me. When every holiday and weekend, 24 hours round the clock, you spend in the ward, you become adopted rather than employed, with a job that appears to be your family. The most loyal of the commitments you have is your job. The most valuable asset you possess is your thought.

Oleg manifested himself in the door of the staff room.

“My dear ladies, we have a new admission from the Chief. I shall observe the patient, but you keep an eye on him – he doesn’t belong to our department.” “Yes, Boss,” we replied simultaneously. We loved Oleg as he was an extremely kind-hearted person. He smoked heavily and loved to drop a glass of brandy at the evening meal, but he had always been of sincere and pure character. He strove to help everyone and was one of those, who are called the salt of the earth.

We had already had our regular customers in the department. Rimma Zimmerman – a kind woman of 60, with a recurrent depressive disorder, despised by her husband all through her life. Oleg payed her a compliment every time he made a medical round. We supported him. She blushed and brightened up. Since very often it’s not the therapy, but a timely spoken kind word of understanding and support that really matters to people.

Mrs. Charnel was a 78-year-old girl with an organic anxiety disorder and a reckless son. She admitted herself to the department with great pleasure, always in a woolen kerchief and a hoop. She greeted us every time with joy.

These were my patients. I was putting my heart and soul into them. I broke the law prescribing extra pills for them, to have enough for a check out, since they did have a pair of pennies to rub together.

One summer, Mrs. Charnel went into the staff room and brought me strawberries. She tucked away some seven small fruit and sincerely handed them in to me, and pleaded in her granny voice:

“Ms. Clover, I was visited by a cousin and she brought some of these. Please, do try them out."

I realized that Mrs. Charnel had not tasted it for at least five years, since she couldn’t afford fruit. Little can be bought for her retirement pension. I refused out of hand and her eyes filled with tears:

“I am so much grateful to you. You are doing so much for us, I beseech you.”

“Only under condition that now we start eating them together,” it was extremely important for her to utter gratitude and share the most valuable she had.

“Maria, I love you so much. Please try them. Believe me, I pray for you every day. My soul does not heart that much after your therapy.”

At 8:15, daily, there was a medical round. We entered a VIP chamber and I saw the patient recommended by Señor Pablo – a well-dressed 35-year-old guy. At glance, one would never figure out he was sick, so full of talk and generous for compliments he was. Oleg inquired of his health and we were off to our office to discuss the dynamics and the adjustments of patients’ treatment.

“Oleg, he is blind sick and does not belong to our department. We are not a detached ward and he is in mania,” I began.

“I can see, but the diagnosis made had been cyclothymia. He was examined by the professor, who said he would hold on. Dollton indicated him to take his treatment here. The young gentleman is the regional prosecutor’s son. We cannot, but obey. Are you not aware of how much our bosses adore to gratify the superiors? What can I do?” sighed Khamsin sadly with a wan face.

“But what it’s gonna be? Should anything happen, it is us who shall bear the responsibility.

“Me, to be more precise. The only way out is to resign.” “Who will treat the patients, in that case?”

“Calm down lady, everything will be just fine.”

“What if the cycle changes and depressive semiology shall occur? What if he gets suicidal? What’s then? Our staff will not handle it!”

“Ms. Clover, calm down, everything will be fine.”

His words did not sound confident, nevertheless. Though, contained anxiety.

Our patient’s name was Georgy. He began to often visit the ward where Cahrmel and Zimmerman dwelt. He brought them tea, sweets and flowers in mornings, which was quite typical for patients in mania. He was aggressive towards the staff and quarrelsome at times. Everyone danced around and tried to please him. The chief nurse personally came to make his bed.

The three of them often went out for walks, my girls, Rimma, Charmel and Georgy. The girls blossomed and became laughers. At any age, when a woman is given mindful masculine attention, they flourish and grow young again.

At about seven p.m. I got home. No sooner had I put my feet up on the sofa and took up the book of my beloved Remarque, after the first meal for the day, an incoming call from Oleg lit up on the phone.

“Hello, chief, have you missed me already?”

“Marie, dear, come to the department ASAP, we have an emergency.”

In no time I jumped into the clothes I could reach right away and rushed to the dear nut house. When I got in and heard Pablo’s roust from the office: “Have you, old idiot, finally lost your mind? No clue at all? It is time you retire! You are a crazy idiot! Have ruined my evening! Lost you expertise, you are not a doctor, you are a street sweeper, an imbecile!”

“But you yourself said, Mr. Dollton, that he should have been with us. I did not want to take him!”

“What if I tell you to jump from a bridge, will you jump? Dotard.”

At that point Pablo rolled out of Oleg’s office and left the department in a heavy waddling gait.

I went into the office. The old man poured himself another shot of Zelenin Drops.

“What on Earth has happened, Oleg?” “Oh, Marie! Happened the expected.”

Our Georgy went out for a walk with his grannies. He left the hospital grounds, crossed the road and arrived himself at the local convenience store. There he stole two chewing gums, a deck of cards, a pair of socks and two roll-pens. Hiding the loot under his jacket and pants, he intended to leave the crime zone under the guise of unsuspecting elderly women. They were detained at the checkout, where the guards disclosed the theft. Socially responsible grannies began to defend Georgy, cry and wail: “we’re from the nut house, let him go.” Georgy got excited and grew infuriated. A fight broke out and the police was called for. Certainly, the police investigated the matter to the very essence of Georgy’s kin. His daddy visited the local station and sorted things out. As a result, Pablo got into and embarrassing position. The ladies were not determined as the crime accomplices and were sent back to the department.”

“Oleg, you are aware of how absurd the actions in mania may be. He barely sleeps two hours a night. Praise the God, it’s not less. Don’t get upset.” “Thank you, Marie. It seems indeed I am old and it is hard for me!”

“Come-oooon! What’s up!? We adore you! There is no specialist like you.

Who will treat the patients? Do not leave us. Anna is out on vacation and it is already so difficult. We’d be lost without you. Hold on, Oleg. Hold on!

So, now I check up on my girls and we drink tea.”

I went to the ward. Charnel’s blood pressure was 220 to 120, Zimmerman’s – 190 to 110.

“Well, jail birds, pulled the jobs today?” I smile pretending as if nothing happened and cheer them up.

“Oh, Miss Clover, thank you so much for coming over. Certainly, we are shocked! Such a gallant, such a positive young man …” Rima began to wail.

Meanwhile, Charnel sat with her head bowed, in her woolen shawl and looked out into the window. Then, she slowly turned around, sighed and uttered philosophically:

“Oh, Mary, I thought it was love that enchanted me in my old ages, but turned out to be just a disease … sheer disappointments.”