slower than it usually does, and I realized that he must be swimming through the Thorazine. I started to cry and he saw this. “Now I know you love me,” he said.
I brought
The Tempest
and I thought I could read him some of it. I should have realized that perhaps this was not the best choice. After a while he asked me to stop. “Are you afraid of me, Frances?” he said. “No,” I said. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you to get well.”
“You waited too long to come,” he said.
I said nothing. That seemed the gracious thing to do.
“Please pray for me,” he said. I told him I had been praying for him all this time.
I saw his parents on my way out—I heard his mother arguing with the nurses. I think they had gotten confused about his schedule and she wanted to be allowed to see him even though visiting hours were over. I see where Bernard gets the fire in the gut to demand better institutional dining. He has her face too. “Watch my purse,” she said in ill temper to a nurse bustling by. She’s the pier and Mr. Eliot is the dinghy tied to it, bobbing away in oblivion. I suppose I should have introduced myself but I didn’t think it would go well.
I’m going next weekend. I’ll give you another report then.
Yours,
Frances
April 15, 1959
Dear Claire—
How are you?
I just wrote a letter to John Percy about my visit to Bernard in which I seem to have left out some of my more cowardly feelings. I know that many people think that their editors exist solely to absorb those kinds of feelings, but I would be ashamed if John thought that I was less than stoic, as he seems so stoic himself.
It was very difficult to see Bernard. He is being given a drug called Thorazine, which is an extremely powerful sedative that is supposed to prevent psychosis. This means that when you talk to him, there is often a pause of several seconds before he answers—it is as if you are a customer in a dusty old general store, and he’s the mummified cashier who has to remember where he’s put whatever it is you’re looking for or whether he even has it. This drug also makes his hands tremble. This started at the end of the visit, when I was reading to him, and when it did, he looked at me helplessly, panicked, as if to say
I don’t know what’s happening but I know I don’t want you to watch it happen.
He finally sat on them. I didn’t know what else to do but kiss his head. “Perhaps I should be institutionalized more often,” he said.
I have never, in my twenty-six years, seen anyone laid out in a casket—I was kept away from my mother’s funeral—but looking upon Bernard in the hospital, I imagined it was not dissimilar. I have never seen anyone I was fond of that altered physically. He is gray and crumpled. His eyes are dull. It took all that I had to keep looking at him straight on. I was determined not to be a child in front of him.
On the way out I asked a nurse how often he was given the drug, and how. She looked at me warily, and then explained: He is stripped down, strapped to a table, and then injected four times, in four different places. I nodded, thanked her, and then ran into a ladies’ room stall to hide until I regained my composure. What humiliation. I’d have killed myself by now, if this were me. Do I mean that? Let’s hope we never find out. I can’t believe I’m writing this, but this has made me somewhat glad my mother passed away when she did, because if she’d lived any longer she might have ended up in a place like that.
When Ted picked me up, I asked him to pull over at the first church we saw. He said of course. I went in and asked that my fear not render me helpless. I asked forgiveness for the anger I had toward Bernard. Then Ted drove us home and poured us each a martini. I said I wasn’t sure I wanted one—it was three in the afternoon, and I thought I might try to get some revisions done—but he kept right on shaking and stirring. “You’ll be no good to anyone if
I brought
The Tempest
and I thought I could read him some of it. I should have realized that perhaps this was not the best choice. After a while he asked me to stop. “Are you afraid of me, Frances?” he said. “No,” I said. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you to get well.”
“You waited too long to come,” he said.
I said nothing. That seemed the gracious thing to do.
“Please pray for me,” he said. I told him I had been praying for him all this time.
I saw his parents on my way out—I heard his mother arguing with the nurses. I think they had gotten confused about his schedule and she wanted to be allowed to see him even though visiting hours were over. I see where Bernard gets the fire in the gut to demand better institutional dining. He has her face too. “Watch my purse,” she said in ill temper to a nurse bustling by. She’s the pier and Mr. Eliot is the dinghy tied to it, bobbing away in oblivion. I suppose I should have introduced myself but I didn’t think it would go well.
I’m going next weekend. I’ll give you another report then.
Yours,
Frances
April 15, 1959
Dear Claire—
How are you?
I just wrote a letter to John Percy about my visit to Bernard in which I seem to have left out some of my more cowardly feelings. I know that many people think that their editors exist solely to absorb those kinds of feelings, but I would be ashamed if John thought that I was less than stoic, as he seems so stoic himself.
It was very difficult to see Bernard. He is being given a drug called Thorazine, which is an extremely powerful sedative that is supposed to prevent psychosis. This means that when you talk to him, there is often a pause of several seconds before he answers—it is as if you are a customer in a dusty old general store, and he’s the mummified cashier who has to remember where he’s put whatever it is you’re looking for or whether he even has it. This drug also makes his hands tremble. This started at the end of the visit, when I was reading to him, and when it did, he looked at me helplessly, panicked, as if to say
I don’t know what’s happening but I know I don’t want you to watch it happen.
He finally sat on them. I didn’t know what else to do but kiss his head. “Perhaps I should be institutionalized more often,” he said.
I have never, in my twenty-six years, seen anyone laid out in a casket—I was kept away from my mother’s funeral—but looking upon Bernard in the hospital, I imagined it was not dissimilar. I have never seen anyone I was fond of that altered physically. He is gray and crumpled. His eyes are dull. It took all that I had to keep looking at him straight on. I was determined not to be a child in front of him.
On the way out I asked a nurse how often he was given the drug, and how. She looked at me warily, and then explained: He is stripped down, strapped to a table, and then injected four times, in four different places. I nodded, thanked her, and then ran into a ladies’ room stall to hide until I regained my composure. What humiliation. I’d have killed myself by now, if this were me. Do I mean that? Let’s hope we never find out. I can’t believe I’m writing this, but this has made me somewhat glad my mother passed away when she did, because if she’d lived any longer she might have ended up in a place like that.
When Ted picked me up, I asked him to pull over at the first church we saw. He said of course. I went in and asked that my fear not render me helpless. I asked forgiveness for the anger I had toward Bernard. Then Ted drove us home and poured us each a martini. I said I wasn’t sure I wanted one—it was three in the afternoon, and I thought I might try to get some revisions done—but he kept right on shaking and stirring. “You’ll be no good to anyone if
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