Retrospective, Part 12: The End of the Beginning

By late 1998--four years after I was diagnosed as manic-depressive--I was still under the care of a psychiatrist who monitored my lithium levels and my mental state regularly. Because the meds had stabilized my condition so effectively, our visits had leveled off to once every six months. I had also been seeing a psychologist for nearly three years, which provided a healthy outlet for my general life concerns. My illness had understandably raised many questions about my past and the course my life had taken as an adult. For instance, I discovered that what I had always proudly called my “cavalier nature” (being easily caught up in dubious adventures; making impulsive decisions with little thought of the consequences; burning bridges that I should have crossed; crossing bridges that I should have avoided) was more than likely cyclothymia. My full-blown attack had not suddenly sprung up out of nowhere; I had been reacting to my chemical imbalance throughout my life--sometimes imperceptibly, occasionally dramatically, and often in ways that impacted the lives of others.

I learned that my drinking, which began in my late teens and grew into full-blown alcoholism by my mid-twenties, was in all likelihood attributable to my mental illness: manic-depressives often drink to cope with their symptoms. I reexamined the string of failed marriages that I’d left in my wake: my first marriage was damaged beyond repair by my chemical excesses and erratic behavior, eventually eroding X1’s patience and causing her to fall out of love with me; my second marriage--the Christian era--came unhinged when I was swept away by intellectual and artistic pursuits and saw X2 and the church as roadblocks to my self-fulfillment; my third marriage, one long chaotic drug- and alcohol-fueled adventure with a woman more fucked up than I was, eventually became so bizarre up that even I couldn’t stand it. J opened my eyes to the possibility of spiritual redemption and bliss beyond my wildest dreams; ironically, the beauty and wonder of her love for me--flawed as I was--probably helped trigger my most intense dementia.

I naturally reconsidered the gene pool that I had been dipped from: my father was an alcoholic who was never there when I needed male guidance; my mother was a passive-aggressive busybody fixated on the morbid who, late in life, also drank to excess. I have yet to figure out which was bipolar, since I can’t remember any conduct by Mom or Dad that was blatantly manic. Either could have spawned my defective biology. The sister who also turned out to be bipolar? She has never drank alcohol of any kind, but she had a long history of extravagant spending habits prior to her diagnosis. She’s equally uncertain which of our parents passed along the disorder, but--like me--she suspects that it was Mom because we both favor her in many ways. My other sister? Ditsy and lost in the past, but apparently sane. My brother? A social buffoon whose self-importance is largely a delusion, but he’s never been diagnosed with a clinical disorder--that I know of. I eventually had to accept that it didn’t matter how I came to be bipolar; taking care of myself so that I never again had to go through such an ordeal was--and is--my chief concern.

As the fourth year of our marriage melted warmly into the fifth, J and I were prospering. We had each racked up seniority and pay raises at our respective jobs, which had allowed us to begin saving for a house. We intended to maintain the status quo until 2000, when we would relocate to the city where we now live, the mecca of the state, the heart of our hearts. My alcoholism, which had flared up at the beginning of our marriage, had been under control for four years. I had become addicted to Diet Coke, however. J and I still smoked marijuana, together and in moderation, whenever we were lucky enough to find some.

With my psychologist’s support, I finally began writing my dissertation with just over a year remaining on the 5-year deadline. I had lost interest in getting my PhD shortly after taking an industry job. Why should I bother, after all? I had no intention of returning to academia now that I had a successful career an editor. But J--along with the chairman of my dissertation committee, my professors, my supervisor at work, and my friends--had been encouraging me for a couple of years to just do it, to finish my degree for my own sake. So, every night after dinner, I marched into the office I had set up in the spare bedroom, closed the door, and pecked away for a couple of hours. J occupied herself by doing yoga, reading, and watching television while she made jewelry.

It was a very productive, personally fulfilling time in our lives. We were still working out regularly and watching our diet. We had a circle of friends we enjoyed, and we each had made close friends at our offices. Whenever we had a long weekend, we packed up the Explorer and went camping. We called it "hitting the honeymoon trail." We also made frequent day trips to the city that would soon be our home. I had resurrected my interest in photography and sketching, and J was selling her jewelry at a local shop. Our intimacy remained a priority, and we celebrated it by making love three or four times a week. Yeah, life was good--so good that we completely forgot about logging trucks.

One morning we noticed that Benjamin had become uncharacteristically lethargic. You could always count on the boy to lurk in the shadows and, just as you stepped out of the hallway, suddenly shoot across the room and lump right where your next step would land. Naturally, you would be thrown off balance in your frantic attempt to avoid stepping on him. He would then zip off in a flash of watermelon fur, laughing all the way. But he was no longer lumping, and we were concerned. Curled into a ball near the stove, he seemed disinterested in the world around him and wouldn’t--or couldn’t--eat. That afternoon we took him to the vet. It wasn’t good news. They told us he had an untreatable congenital liver condition, and that his health was deteriorating rapidly. Had we all the money in the world, we could not save our baby. We were devastated. We’d had Benjamin less than a year, and his joyous spirit has inspired us all. Even Two Socks, who at first ignored him, was eventually won over by his tireless playfulness. To watch Benjamin diminish was like watching the sun set for the last time. How could there be life without him?

We hovered close to him in the evenings and came home from work a couple of times a day to be with him. As J fed him with a dropper, holding him close and whispering tender assurances, I held the I.V. bag to hydrate his limp body. After two or three days, we realized that he wasn't improving in spite of our love and ministrations. Eventually, his obvious pain and withering spirit made it clear that we had to let him go. We both cried and stroked his fur as the veterinarian administered the shot that relieved Benjamin’s suffering. As he slipped into the shadows forever, a part of each of us followed. His death would lead J and I into dark places within ourselves, places neither of us anticipated. As individuals and as a couple, we would never be the same again.