Call Lights
Nancy Deyo, 2/3/2021
I am desperate to get on board Delta Flight #2798, which departs Detroit at 8:50am. My watch reads 8:52am. This is ridiculous. Delta is never on time.
Hyperventilating from the sprint to the gate, I find I have no voice. I have to get home. I pound hard on the door and lurch onto the plane.
The Flight Attendant steers me toward 16D, where I fall into my seat, panting.
The young woman sitting next to me in 16F leans over and whispers, “Are you okay? I’m a doctor.”
It’s a five-hour flight to San Francisco. Trying to reset my digital sports watch for Pacific Time, I press every button. The month advances. The hour blinks. Crap. My watch is broken. The Doctor is watching me intently. I lean in and we start to talk.
The Doctor tells me that she is an internal medicine resident at the University of Michigan, where my dad has been teaching first-year medical students for fifty years.
“Surely,” I begin, anticipating the affirmative, “you know Jerry Abrams?”
The Doctor lights up. “Dr. Abrams! I had him for Intro to Disease. Medical students love him.”
Unreal. I am one degree of separation from everyone I meet. Better than Kevin Bacon, or John Guare.
I tell her Dr. Abrams is my father. Then, I tell the Doctor why I’ve come to Ann Arbor. I’m helping my dad complete the sale of our family home. It is a bittersweet, emotional homecoming. At age 85, both parents are critically ill. My dad has Parkinson’s and a bad heart. My mother has Alzheimer’s. After the house sold in the first weekend, a massive windstorm hit Ann Arbor. Two twenty-foot pine trees crashed through the roof and demolished one-third of the house. My dad, I explained, was crumbling under the strain, trying to guide the reconstruction and keep the buyer from walking. It was ten days from closing, and my job was to manage all of the moving parts.
I am on fire!
The Flight Attendant appears out of nowhere.
“Can you please keep your voice down? The passengers in the row behind you are complaining.”
I wasn’t even talking loudly. Irritated, I stop talking for the moment.
***
A week earlier, I had met the Estate Manager, the Art Dealer and the Buyer, who had all dropped by to check on the reconstruction at my family home. Give me five minutes with each person, and they’ll be eating out of my hand. The voice had returned, making more and more asides, for the past two weeks. I can talk to anyone about anything, it assured me. I am connected to everyone.
The Buyer and I took a seat on the crushed velvet couch that ran the length of the living room. I need to get her to talk about herself before we discuss the house. People love that.
The Buyer told me that she was from Lebanon.
I exclaimed, “I love the Middle East!”
She replied, “My husband is from Iran.”
I blurted, “Two of my best friends are Persian!”
International people, the voice declared, are so much more interesting than Americans.
The Buyer and I exchanged contact information. Mission accomplished. We’re friends. I was excited. I felt energized by the spark I was certain existed between us.
The Buyer said that her husband was an anesthesiologist. He studied at the University of Michigan and idolized my father. The Buyer and her husband fell in love with our house because it was spectacular, but mostly because it belonged to my dad. My fingers twitched over my cell phone. I have to call Dad. This thing is a shoe-in.
Next on my list was the Estate Manager. Same playbook. Get her talking about herself. Find the connection. She shared a lengthy story of her life and her business. Geez. I can’t get a word in edgewise. Then, she told me about her soon-to-be-published memoir, which chronicled her life’s work with the elderly.
Boom! I’ve hit the motherload.
I interrupted her mid-sentence, “I’m writing a memoir, too!”
Sure, I hadn’t actually started writing it yet, but I could see the book in my head. Simpatico, I segued to the business at hand, then sent the Estate Manager a confirmation text filled with Emojis. I was feeling the love. In the passion of the moment, the fact that I hated Emojis didn’t register to me as odd.
Finally, I turned to the Art Dealer. Collecting art was my parents’ passion, only equaled by their wanderlust. They had traveled the world, bringing back art, sculpture and high-end crafts from over 125 countries. Our home was a virtual museum and the collective memory of their life adventures. My sister and I had each chosen a few pieces to keep in the family. The rest was slated to go to art auction. Selling the art was a source of heartache for my parents, and for me.
The Art Dealer and I walked the house.
“This sculpture is an original Henry Moore,” he explained. “The painting in the upstairs bedroom is a Chagall.”
A wave of emotion consumed me. How had I not noticed all of these beautiful things growing up? My parents have the most incredible aesthetic. I am exactly like my parents.
As my art tour ended, my parents arrived to check on my progress. Dad just couldn’t let go. He shuffled behind his walker. Mom held his arm and stared blankly ahead. Both were quickly exhausted: too much energy, too many people talking at once. I grabbed two chairs and they sunk into them. I was vibrating, energized by the beauty around me. I love this house. I love everyone.
***
Two hours into the flight, the Doctor tries to study for her medical boards, but I’m just warming up. Leaning over the Doctor’s textbook, I say, “My dad has cardiovascular disease and Parkinson’s and my mom has late-stage Alzheimer’s. If I don’t save them, they will both be dead within a year.”
I pause, offering my brightest smile yet.
“Teach me about genetics.”
She puts down her highlighter and closes her textbook.
For the next hour, we talk about my parents’ health, genetics and the impact of environmental factors. We cover the nature-nurture debate. I ask a lot of questions and answer more than a few them before she has the chance to respond. I’m squiggling in my seat. This is phenomenal. I totally get it.
I have figured out the secret to longevity!
I rifle off a litany of facts about being born with an intelligence gene and a health gene, both falling somewhere on a spectrum. I assert that these genes, in combination, create outcomes ranging from genius and longevity to sociopathy and early death. Since I can accurately place my parents on this spectrum and know the poor choices they’ve made, I reason, I can move the behavioral needle to improve their health outcomes. I am brilliant. I am going to save my parents’ lives. I stop and grin at the Doctor.
Several call lights ring behind us.
Yet again, the Flight Attendant leans over me.
“Ma’am,” she says, “I need to ask you, again, to keep your voice down. A number of passengers are complaining.”
We’re having a private conversation. Anyway, there is nothing loud about this! I start to giggle. The Doctor apologizes for me. The Flight Attendant retreats.
The Doctor takes a deep breath and corrects my foolproof theory of the genetic universe, “It’s actually quite a bit more complicated than that.”
She begins with my dad’s cardiovascular problems. My grandfather died from cardiac failure, so this part is hereditary. To make matters worse, my dad suffers from Parkinson’s, chronic nausea and severe anxiety. The L-Dopa he’s taking for Parkinson’s is wreaking havoc with his gut, fueling his inability to eat. His cardiologist won’t give him Zofran for the nausea since it is contraindicated for his heart condition. To top it all off, my dad needs meds to control his anxiety.
I start talking over the Doctor.
“My dad’s anxiety is causing him to panic, which is making him more nauseous. Soon, he will starve to death.”
I know I’m right. I don’t need the Doctor’s validation.
***
The next day, I was shipping some of the nicer pieces from Ann Arbor to my home in San Francisco. My husband Chris had arranged for a large truck through his employer. My parents were thrilled to see a part of their cherished collection stay in the family, rather than go to strangers.
It was peaceful and quiet in the house that afternoon. Before the truck arrived, I organized the art and tagged each piece according to whether it was going to me or to my sister.
Another task completed!
My parents had spent their lives in love with art, collecting beautiful things. A sudden wave of well-being washed over me, my arms and legs covered with goosebumps. Everything my parents own is a piece of art! This lamp is beautiful! These placemats are beautiful! My dad's slide projector is beautiful! My home, bathed in radiant light, pulsed with the lifeforce of its treasures.
I, alone, have discovered the hidden beauty in everything.
My parents’ collection simply cannot go to strangers. Not if I can help it.
Everything was already itemized and priced for the estate sale. Unfazed, I tagged dozens of additional pieces to take home, first art and sculpture, then high-end crafts and housewares. I was inspired, on a mission, excited to share my big idea with Chris. Our San Francisco house will become a shrine to my parents!
I sped from room to room, photographing art, sculpture, crafts and housewares, first individually, and then organized into collections. Soon, I decided, I was making a visual biography of my parents’ lives. I’m a photo documentarian. Everywhere I looked, I was blinded by vibrant color and spectacular shapes that swam before my eyes. I texted the photos to Chris, put down my cell phone and started to cry. The beauty was too much to handle.
The truck pulled into the driveway. Where did I leave my phone? Why do I keep losing everything? The doorbell rang and I opened the door.
***
Why is this watch blinking at me? It can’t still be 9:03am.
I press all of the buttons.
Crap. It’s still broken.
I look out the window, trying to calculate how much time is left. I see the Rocky Mountains below. One and a half hours to go. I’m so lucky I got seated next to the Doctor. Doctors have a moral responsibility to help sick people. My parents are both sick.
Also, I need advice on my own complicated health situation.
“I sustained a severe back injury climbing Mount Kilimanjaro and had to be carried down the mountain. By the time I was operated on, I was dependent on painkillers. I spent the next 10 years bedridden, in searing pain, addicted to a cocktail of Fentanyl, nerve drugs, sleeping pills, anxiety drugs, and anti-psychotics.”
Pause for effect. I have the best story ever.
The Doctor looks me in the eye and says, “That is a lot of medication. Have you been able to peel back any of the drugs?”
In fact, I tell her, I have titrated off the meds over the past year. I had just stopped taking the final anti-psychotic drug two weeks ago.
“What is your pain management doctor’s point-of-view?” The Doctor asks.
“He says it might have been a mistake to rip off the last anti-psychotic. Even though I’ve been feeling fabulous, I haven’t slept in a week, and some weird stuff has been happening since I’ve been in Ann Arbor.”
“Tell me what you’ve noticed.”
The words pour out of me.
***
Two hours after the truck left, I found my phone in my back pocket. I have to get some sleep before my early morning flight. I still couldn’t find my car keys, but I noticed my backpack in the powder room waste basket. Weird! How did it get there? I reached for it and heard the jingle of my keys as I lifted the backpack out of the trash.
As I was unlocking the car, I saw that all the lights were on in the house. What is going on? I’m sure I turned them all off. I went back into the house and walked around turning off the lights. I was finally ready to go, and now I had lost my keys again. I found them at the base of the sculpture in the vestibule, where my dad used to keep his keys when I was a kid. Creepy. Get me out of here.
The GPS was guiding me to US23 North. As I approached the light on Green Road, I realized I was a couple of blocks past the hotel. I pulled a U-turn in the middle of the road.
I blinked a few times and tried to breathe. Where am I and why are my ribs sore? I looked at the deflated airbag and grasped that I was in the car. I turned the ignition key. Nothing. I stepped outside and saw a smashed nose and trashed underbelly. Oh my God. I’m in so much trouble. My first reaction was to run. Instead, I called Chris.
Chris told me to call the Police, AAA, and Hertz: in that order. I called the Police who instructed me to stay with the vehicle. Except I wasn’t with the vehicle. I was back in the hotel. I phoned AAA and asked for a tow truck. Before I could call Hertz, there was a brisk knock at the door of my room.
“Miss Deyo? This is the Ann Arbor Police.”
How did they find me? I felt the blood rush from my head.
Much to my surprise, the Officer was gentle and kind. We drove to the scene in his car, no flashing lights. My rental car was straddled across a construction zone of pavement and excavated dirt. How am I going to get out of this one?
An hour later, I was still with the Officer, but I had moved to the front seat. No arrest for this girl. The AAA tow truck arrived, pulled the car out of the construction zone, and towed it to the parking lot of my hotel. The rest was up to Hertz. It’s over. I’m OK. Now I can go home.
I stepped out of the police car and turned around to thank him.
He looked me in the eye, and said, “The next time someone asks your opinion of the Police, tell them we’re OK.”
I said I would.
***
The Doctor tells me in no uncertain terms that I should not have stopped taking the anti-psychotic drug. Hearing this now for the second time, I start to panic.
I have to get back on the Abilify.
“I need the Abilify,” I say, parroting back what she had said to me, “and I need it now. What should I do?”
The Doctor takes a deep breath.
“Go to the ER and get a booster shot of your drug.”
Eureka! That’s it! Bright white lights flash in front of my eyes.
“Wait,” I say. “Doesn’t this mean I’ll be in lockdown?”
The Doctor nods.
Two passengers across the aisle give me the ‘death stare.’ One of them rolls his eyes. What is your problem? I’m not talking to you. Then, the Flight Attendant is back.
“Ma’am,” she says, more impatient than the last time, “I’m going to ask you one more time to quiet down. If this happens again, I’m going to have to move you.”
I am silent. The Flight Attendant retreats.
The Doctor tells me to say I don’t feel safe at home, that I might hurt myself.
“Yes!” I jump in, “I don’t feel safe at all!”
I draft an email to Chris and show it to the Doctor. She concurs. It reads: Honey, I’m in trouble. I need you to pick me up at the airport and take me to the ER. I mark it urgent and press send. Chris’s quick reply hits my inbox: I got you girl. Relieved, I fall into an exhausted sleep. When the wheels touch down in San Francisco, I look over at the Doctor. She is studying for her exam.
***
At the Brisbane exit, just down the highway from the airport, Chris pulls into a parking lot. He stops the car. I snap out of my breathing meditation, unclear why we are here.
He turns to me, "Tell me why you want to go to the ER."
I make my case.
Chris listens patiently, and then responds, "Are you sure you wouldn't feel safer at home?”
He promises to be with me every minute. He says we’ll go see my pain management doctor on Monday. I push urgently for my ER lockdown, but I can't compete with the strength of his conviction.
***
I did not go to the ER that afternoon. Chris was right; I did feel safer at home. When I spoke with my pain management doctor the next week, he confirmed that while I no longer needed the Fentanyl, Valium and Neurontin, I shouldn’t have titrated the Abilify. A referral to a psychiatrist diagnosed a second condition which was masked during my long physical recovery. I was bipolar and needed the drug to help regulate my manic state. Now it all made sense: losing my keys, leaving lights on, getting lost in my hometown, crashing the car. I restarted the Abilify and began the process of stabilizing my brain chemistry, which the Doctor had more or less correctly diagnosed on the plane, though an involuntary hold would have been a crude solution to a fairly straightforward problem.
Shortly after my trip to Ann Arbor, my parents passed. My father first, and then, my mother. I am grateful my parents never knew about my bipolar diagnosis. It would have been too heavy an emotional burden to carry on top of their failing health. But despite the mania, or maybe, because of it, I sure did get a lot done that week. Medicated, I struggle to come anywhere close to that level of output.
I often think back on my plane conversation with the Doctor. Clearly, she knew I was in trouble. She was invested in my care to a point, but then, I suspect, she just wanted to pass me off. While I don’t question the Doctor’s motives, I do question her advice. I’m not sure what would have happened if Chris hadn’t been there to mediate the moment and help me make the right choice. He stood by me in the decade after my Kilimanjaro accident, and he’s been with me on this second journey, too. One of the unintended consequences of receiving this diagnosis later in life than most is that I have come to understand how much I value loyalty. Many people can recognize a manic state when they see it. Few, if any, can endure the commitment required to see someone through it, much less someone who is not, in the end, their patient.
***
Three years later, I will sit quietly on my living room couch and wonder, of my week in Ann Arbor, Was that person really me? It felt fabulous to live in my body. I loved being in my head.
My medicated self is mortified at my manic behavior – the self-absorption, the oversharing, the grandiosity. Maybe also that it went on a while before I finally recognized that I needed help. Since there are no “do overs,” I apologize to everyone I can. I make amends with those I love the most. I go on with my life and wait for the shoe to drop again.
I know now that my bipolarity has two faces. My manic self feels sharp, generative, magnetic, and creative. I am bold, brave and confident. Life’s challenges seem simple and the future is ripe with possibility. Euphoria comes as naturally as my breath and is impossible to replicate. My energy is boundless, my enthusiasm infectious. I am connected to the universe.
Between my manic self and my medicated self, I wait. I miss the mania. I miss the highs. I hate my duller, metered self. Life is heavy and sluggish. It is hard to articulate my thoughts, so I engage in doing so less frequently. Everything that comes so easily to ‘manic me’ is gone. Some weeks, I fantasize that I will flush my drugs down the toilet and tell my psychiatrist I’m moving out of state. But I take no action, because of Chris. The world sparkles less. The colors are less vivid. I laugh less often. I lose what once so clearly connected me to the universe, and I can live with that, for now. I choose Chris, as I did that afternoon in the empty parking lot. He takes my hand and starts the car.