Two years after our divorce the phone rang. It was Carol, the wife that came before me.
“Listen, I’m having lunch with Randy and he’s freaking out,” she said.
“What kind of freaking out?” I asked.
“He says he wants to die. He’s sobbing on the table. Should I take him to the hospital?”
“Yeah, if he’s that bad I think you should,” I told her.
She let out a heavy sigh. I was secretly grateful it was on her plate this time. I was tired of rushing to his aid. Whenever Randy became depressed he reached frantically for either Carol or me. We took turns keeping him company, feeding him dinner and even letting him stay the night. At my house that meant he slept in our son’s top bunk, his feet extending past the end of the mattress. In the morning he made it as far as the couch where he would collapse and stare catatonically at the windows all day. When the weight of his presence became unbearable and the throw pillows began to smell like his unwashed hair, my kids finally insisted it was time to send him home.
When we were married I used to panic every time he plummeted into depression. I believed that I was the only thing standing between him and death. In this way I was his marionette for years. One day when his suicide threats got particularly dire, his psychiatrist told me to take him to the emergency room.
“What brings you in today?” the receptionist asked.
“My husband might be suicidal,” I said in disbelief. My eyes met Randy’s and he looked ashamed. He reached for my hand. I was repulsed by his sweaty palm. We were taken down a hallway and into a small empty room at the center of the building. It had no windows and barely enough space for a narrow bed. A small television perched in a cubby behind thick plexiglass. The walls were marked with scrapes and stains, the visual echoes of someone’s tantrum.
Various nurses came and went. They needed a urine sample. We waited hours for a psych evaluation. I paced around and then sat uncomfortably on the edge of the narrow bed where Randy lay. I wished I could be loving and comforting towards him but every cell in my body wanted to jump up and run from that room. Eventually they admitted him to a psychiatric hospital for a 72 hour hold during which they would confiscate his phone and make sure he didn’t kill himself. I waited at home and told our kids lies about where Daddy had gone. At one point Randy was allowed to place a call.
“This is where they put crazy people,” he said. “Everyone screams all day long and we’re not even allowed to go outside.”
“Do they have any therapy sessions or anything helpful?” I asked.
“Not at all,” he replied. “If anything, this place will make me worse.”
After three days they released him and I held my breath until the fog of depression inexplicably lifted as it always did.
By the time Carol had called and brought him to the hospital I couldn’t afford to care anymore. His needs were bottomless and I had to conserve my energy for my children. I tried to go about my day. Guilt crouched heavily on my shoulders. Three hours passed and Carol called again.
“Well?” she demanded, “Are you coming?”
“No,” I told her simply.
I could envision Randy in that wretched hospital room again waiting for a doctor. Pangs of pity danced in my stomach. The compulsion to rescue him was still seductive and I could feel it tugging at me. It took all my strength to resist.
“Kendall, someone has to be here,” Carol replied angrily.
“No they don’t,” I said. “It sucks there, but at least he can’t kill himself.”
“I have to go to work now and I’m afraid he’ll just get up and walk out,” she insisted.
It took a concerted effort to remind myself of the harrowing journey that brought me here. Randy the victim. Randy the aggressor. Randy the center of the universe.
“He’s the father of your children. He’s more yours than mine,” she blurted out in desperation.
“He is not mine anymore. If I get pulled in again, I will sink with that ship,” I told her.
This time Randy stayed in the hospital for two months and they gave him ECT, electroconvulsive therapy. It came with the caveat that it could temporarily damage his memory, but that it had dramatically helped many people with severe depression. When he finally left the hospital he came over to see the kids. Chloe set up a board game they had played many times before.
“Do you want to be Professor Plum or Colonel Mustard?” she asked as she extended her hand full of colorful game pieces. He cocked his head to the side and looked at me as docile and confused as my grandfather with Alzheimer’s.
“Now how do you play this game?” he asked.
Somehow while hovering on rock bottom, he managed to meet a woman. He posted her photo on Facebook with a comment, Karyn is my guardian angel. Nobody has ever cared for me the way she does. She has literally saved me from the depths of despair.
“Did you see that post?” Carol yelled over the phone. “What the fuck is that? I just spent the last eight weeks feeding his cats and running his errands while he was in the hospital. You just carried him through the last fifteen years. Who the hell is Karyn?”
“Carol, I’m pretty sure she’s the best thing that ever happened to us,” I said.