"So what da ya think about Abe?" Dorothy asked.
"I don't know, he seems pretty normal to me. One hell of a nice guy," I replied.
"Sure as hell is ... when I was admitted 4 days ago, I had the D.T.'s sumfin terrible. I started having seizures real bad like, and the nurse's were short-staffed. Abe stayed in my room all night with me and made sure I didn't hurt myself. Kept singing songs to me to keep my mind off of what I was going through."
Dorothy took another long, exaggerated drag from her cigarette.
"Just keep your eye on him ... he's gonna crash soon and it's gonna be bad. He's a rapid cycler."
I recalled seeing Abe for the first time yesterday, yelling on the phone and stomping down the hall. In a matter of an hour, he was in our room making conversation and acting as right as rain. I understood how quickly a black mood can settle in and take over without warning, but Abe was on a level 4 restriction and was under constant supervision. I sensed that Dorothy had a tinge of paranoia along with her other problems. At lunch she made the nurse bring her a different tray. She was convinced that there was poison in her gravy.
The nurse's aide called the after-lunch smoke break to an end, and we all walked solemnly up the back stairwell. It would be another six hours before our next fresh air break. The remainder of the day went without anything remarkable happening. We had two more group sessions, where we did basically the same damn thing we did at the first group of the day. From 5pm to 6pm we had free time. The community phone was hooked up, and I waited anxiously to call my wife and check work voicemail. Abe was next in line to use the phone. I overheard his frantic conversation once again.
"Please, just stop by and feed him for me ... it's been a week! Dammit, it's only a thirty-minute drive. Are you drunk? Well, you sure sound drunk. Just please go take care of him for me ... no, I don't know when they'll let me out, but it won't be soon. No, don't hang up!!! DAMMIT!!!" he yelled loud enough for everyone on the unit to hear. The evening nurse, Shirley, pulled his chart and began making notes.
Abe started pacing up and down the hall again but this time I noticed a sort of anxious despair about his gate. He was a man who was giving up. Concerned, I stopped him in the middle of his jaunt.
"Abe, are you all right?" I asked.
"I don't know yet, it depends by what you mean all right."
I sensed aggravation in his voice, so I backed off and called my wife on her cell phone. She was in Washington, D.C. for an emergency business trip and wouldn't be able to make it to visiting time. She would be in D.C. for two weeks. I knew I only would have had one hour with her and I had been looking forward to it all day. I couldn't see how I could go on without her, or how I ever got by before meeting her, but just knowing that she was on the other end of the phone was enough for me to get by. This made me think of Abe and how the only thing in this world he had left was dying a slow death in a wire cage. I was determined that I would sit down and talk with Abe on our next fresh air break at 9pm.
It was 8:30 pm and Shirley began handing out the night meds. I stood in line and patiently waited my turn. Shirley handed me my nightly dose of Lithium and a quick dissolving Zyprexa that melted in my mouth. In about thirty minutes I would be almost completely out of commission. Abe was sitting in the day room staring at the floor. He had transformed into a completely different person, like a reverse metamorphosis into a stone wall, cold and immovable. I knew it was going to be hard to talk with him tonight, but I'd never forgive myself if I didn't try, and I still wonder if there was anything I could have said to shed a little light on his overpowering darkness. Not saying the right thing would surely be one of the biggest regrets of my life.
The nurse's station was bustling with traffic as we waited for our nightly cigarettes. I was surprised to see that Abe was standing near the desk, waiting to receive his pipe and tobacco. Tonight he looked ten years older, beaten down and ruined. His eyes were focused on the floor, and he spoke to no one as we waited to be escorted down to the courtyard.
I waited my turn for the lighter and walked over to the tree stump where Abe was already sitting, puffing away at his wooden pipe. A full moon was beaming down on the courtyard, and a cool breeze was blowing Abe's smoke across the courtyard and through the fence to freedom. I sat down next to Abe and began talking lightheartedly, as if nothing were wrong.
