Husband's first book was a collection of stories he typed on his manual typewriter for perfect strangers, starting on the streets of Chicago. He had [and still has] an amazing gift--people looked at his freckled face, his round glasses and his antique Remington and told him all about their personal lives. He then typed up each person's story and gave it to him or her, in a mock novel jacket.
One story always moved me deeply. He wrote it in NYC for two pretty young women who told him they were on day leave from the psychiatric floor of a hospital. One of them wrote back to him later. I don't know where that postcard is now, but before we got married--and while the book was being written--I read it again and again. It was so real. I kept trying to picture the women through the penned words on the card.
I didn't think at the time that I too would face depression--separate waves of it, in fact, at different times--and have to learn how to dig myself out of it [with some help]. I have not been in a hospital for it, but I have been in my own private room in my mind, where sleep so sweetly closes the blinds and provides an escape. Where deciding to get up and clean the stains on the living room carpet feels like a giant step--and then I realize sadly that I don't have any Resolve to do it [the red bottle is empty, not a drop]. Which in turn means I can't even accomplish that one simple task, leaving me feeling crumpled and small all over again.
Today when I took a shower at 3 PM, I remembered this story H. wrote, remembered the part about forgetting how it feels to push the bar of soap over your skin. Inch by inch, I got myself dressed. I meant to brush and floss my teeth, but didn't. I would have loved to put my makeup on--it only takes minutes and then my eyes look less tired and my lashes look longer--but the thought of it was too much. Same with accessorizing. Contemplating it tired me out. I found the 44-cent stamps. It was dark already, but I backed the Honda CR-V out of the long, icy driveway and headed to the big town post office to mail some valentines, and to share "have a good evening" greetings with the male clerk behind the barred window before they locked the doors at 7. I completed some tasks--shower, valentines, dishes, blog. And I will add brush and floss to the list again tonight.
Here is that story from 1984; I asked the author if I could put it on my blog while he was making pizza for dinner tonight. He said yes.
The Forgetting Sickness and The Remembering Recovery
Amy and Susan had this thing where they kept forgetting.
They would wake up in the morning and forget about the smell of a lake in the woods at dawn in the autumn. They would forget about being held by another human being. They would forget the feeling of getting really excited about something coming up, something big like Christmas, or something small like waiting for dinner to be served.
Or they would forget the sound of geese going north in the spring. They would forget the taste of coffee in the morning when you wake up, and how the shower feels when you get in and it starts waking you up, and you push the bar of soap over you and your skin starts to tingle.
They forgot all sorts of things, like love and friends and hope. They forgot hearing all the traffic, joking with other people on the street.
Then they went to a place where doctors helped them to remember. And slowly now are starting to remember.
But as they remember all these beautiful things, they also begin to remember the pain and the trauma and the difficulties, which is why they forgot the beautiful things in the first place.
But that is life. The pain AND the beauty, the good AND the bad.
And so we hang onto the beauty and the love and the happiness, we hang on strong, and remember it.
Remember these good things.
Remember to remember.
Two days before Christmas that year, H. got a postcard from Susan. This is what she neatly printed:
Dear Mr. H--,
I, and my friend Amy, were clients of yours one day in July/August--we were hospital patients @ the time. We're both out now--we're both trying to be "good." I'm writing you because I think you should know that all of Unit 5 loved and was inspired by "The Forgetting Sickness and the Remembering Recovery," and I wanted to thank you on everyone's behalf, and also just for me, because you gave me a very "bright" memory of that day, and some pleasure, and a lot of other subtle possessions of a beautiful memory. I hope your writing is a source of joy to you, and I hope whatever project you are working on is going along well.
Thank you. Susan
Susan and Amy, wherever you are, I hope you are remembering to remember. Your story has helped me, and also helped me to remember the goodness in the man I share my life with. Thank you.
One story always moved me deeply. He wrote it in NYC for two pretty young women who told him they were on day leave from the psychiatric floor of a hospital. One of them wrote back to him later. I don't know where that postcard is now, but before we got married--and while the book was being written--I read it again and again. It was so real. I kept trying to picture the women through the penned words on the card.
I didn't think at the time that I too would face depression--separate waves of it, in fact, at different times--and have to learn how to dig myself out of it [with some help]. I have not been in a hospital for it, but I have been in my own private room in my mind, where sleep so sweetly closes the blinds and provides an escape. Where deciding to get up and clean the stains on the living room carpet feels like a giant step--and then I realize sadly that I don't have any Resolve to do it [the red bottle is empty, not a drop]. Which in turn means I can't even accomplish that one simple task, leaving me feeling crumpled and small all over again.
Today when I took a shower at 3 PM, I remembered this story H. wrote, remembered the part about forgetting how it feels to push the bar of soap over your skin. Inch by inch, I got myself dressed. I meant to brush and floss my teeth, but didn't. I would have loved to put my makeup on--it only takes minutes and then my eyes look less tired and my lashes look longer--but the thought of it was too much. Same with accessorizing. Contemplating it tired me out. I found the 44-cent stamps. It was dark already, but I backed the Honda CR-V out of the long, icy driveway and headed to the big town post office to mail some valentines, and to share "have a good evening" greetings with the male clerk behind the barred window before they locked the doors at 7. I completed some tasks--shower, valentines, dishes, blog. And I will add brush and floss to the list again tonight.
Here is that story from 1984; I asked the author if I could put it on my blog while he was making pizza for dinner tonight. He said yes.
The Forgetting Sickness and The Remembering Recovery
Amy and Susan had this thing where they kept forgetting.
They would wake up in the morning and forget about the smell of a lake in the woods at dawn in the autumn. They would forget about being held by another human being. They would forget the feeling of getting really excited about something coming up, something big like Christmas, or something small like waiting for dinner to be served.
Or they would forget the sound of geese going north in the spring. They would forget the taste of coffee in the morning when you wake up, and how the shower feels when you get in and it starts waking you up, and you push the bar of soap over you and your skin starts to tingle.
They forgot all sorts of things, like love and friends and hope. They forgot hearing all the traffic, joking with other people on the street.
Then they went to a place where doctors helped them to remember. And slowly now are starting to remember.
But as they remember all these beautiful things, they also begin to remember the pain and the trauma and the difficulties, which is why they forgot the beautiful things in the first place.
But that is life. The pain AND the beauty, the good AND the bad.
And so we hang onto the beauty and the love and the happiness, we hang on strong, and remember it.
Remember these good things.
Remember to remember.
Two days before Christmas that year, H. got a postcard from Susan. This is what she neatly printed:
Dear Mr. H--,
I, and my friend Amy, were clients of yours one day in July/August--we were hospital patients @ the time. We're both out now--we're both trying to be "good." I'm writing you because I think you should know that all of Unit 5 loved and was inspired by "The Forgetting Sickness and the Remembering Recovery," and I wanted to thank you on everyone's behalf, and also just for me, because you gave me a very "bright" memory of that day, and some pleasure, and a lot of other subtle possessions of a beautiful memory. I hope your writing is a source of joy to you, and I hope whatever project you are working on is going along well.
Thank you. Susan
Susan and Amy, wherever you are, I hope you are remembering to remember. Your story has helped me, and also helped me to remember the goodness in the man I share my life with. Thank you.
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Just breathtaking, Alice. Totally brought tears to my eyes. I, too, remember, H.'s special gift and treasure the story he wrote for me so very long ago.
ReplyDeletethank you, Kim. i can't ever forget that story either...that was a great one. alice
ReplyDelete