He Wanted the Moon (17 page)

My purpose in going to Springfield was to see my old friend, Leonard “Andy” Anderson, to ask him to help me.
I knew that, if he were in town, Andy would do so without hesitation. We set out for Springfield without telephoning and without worrying. I reasoned that Springfield would be a good direction in which to travel and, even if Andy were on vacation, I would at least be far enough away from Boston to reduce greatly the possibility of arrest. We made good time, leaving the farmhouse at about 9 a.m. and arriving in Springfield in about two and a half hours.

We stopped in front of Andy’s house and Larry went to the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Anderson appeared at the door.

“Hello, Perry, come on in,” she called out.

“I’d love to but my appearance is terrible,” I replied. “Are you sure you won’t mind?”

“I’ve been working in the yard and I’m in old clothes,” she said. “Come on in. Andy has gone swimming with the children but he’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Larry was like an angel from heaven. He came back to the car and we made final business arrangements. We were good friends and he was willing to let me send him a check after reaching Dallas. He loaned me five dollars and let me borrow a pair of dark glasses. Just before driving away, Larry extended his hand and closed it upon mine in a warm, firm clasp of friendship. He looked straight at me and, from his facial expression, I could tell that he had some general idea of the problems that I’d had to face.

“Take good care of yourself, Doc,” were his parting words.

Andy and his wife were the next angels to come along.
As I walked in the front door, Mrs. Anderson greeted me most warmly. We talked for a few minutes and she then suggested that I might like to take a bath while waiting for Andy to return. She took me to the guest room and showed me how to find the bathroom. She departed for a few minutes and then presently reappeared with a fresh suit of clothes, a clean shirt and some socks. It took quite a long time to take a thorough shower and to cleanse the tub afterwards. I cannot remember ever having been so dirty in my life. It felt good to get into clean clothes and once again to make a decent appearance. A tie that I had folded up and placed in my coat pocket had remained in good condition. My attire was quite satisfactory except for the absence of underwear. Nevertheless, I felt quite comfortable.

Mrs. Anderson and I sat and talked for a little while and soon thereafter Andy returned with the children. He was equally as cordial as his wife. I gave him a rather vague explanation about my clothes and so on, but he made things very easy by not asking any questions whatsoever. He brought out some very good Bourbon whiskey and mixed one good strong drink for each of us. We conversed amiably about his practice in Springfield, various aspects of dermatology and many other subjects of mutual interest. I told him of my ambition to become a writer and of the book I was engaged in writing. He offered considerable encouragement regarding the book and urged me to go ahead and submit the manuscript for publication without waiting too long to bring it to completion. He felt that I should not expect my first book to measure up to my own best ideals.

AFTER a delicious Sunday dinner, Andy and I drove to a nearby drugstore to buy some ice cream for dessert. On the way back, Andy turned to me.

“May I loan you some money?” he asked.

“That was most thoughtful of you, Andy,” I replied. “I would appreciate it if you would either loan me some money or else cash a check for me.”

I was indeed grateful to Andy for volunteering to loan me money. It was absolutely necessary for me to borrow some money from him and I hated to approach the subject. By opening the subject as he did, he saved me extreme embarrassment.

Andy’s household was a happy, wholesome affair. The children frolicked around and one of them showed off some of her little tricks and did very well. I played a few simple tunes on the piano for them. They made me play one of them several times. Andy and I sat down in his study and talked about trains going west. He succeeded in getting me a Pullman reservation on a train leaving for Chicago at 4 p.m. I had arrived in Springfield toward the end of the morning, a veritable tramp, flat broke and covered with dirt. A few short hours later, I was immaculately dressed; I had ample cash in my pockets and a ticket to Chicago. Things were happening so fast, going so smoothly, that the whole experience seemed more like a dream than reality.

The train for Chicago was made up in Boston and I rather expected to encounter someone I recognized. There were a few familiar faces, but no one I felt sure that I knew.
At about 7 p.m. I went into the dining car and was seated at a table across from the first pretty girl I had seen since leaving Baldpate, and I ordered the second good meal I’d tasted since leaving Baldpate. I sat and ate slowly, letting my thoughts wander, not dwelling upon the many problems I knew lay ahead, thinking mostly of the pleasant sides of life. As I sat at the window watching the trees, hills and houses run by, I felt wave after wave of happiness, based upon a sense of freedom, a sense of escape, the knowledge that Westborough was left far behind and that the danger of being captured would be largely gone by the time I left New York State, in fact by the time of awakening on the following morning.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

UPON arriving in Chicago I realized that I had the problem of finding a hotel room and of being able to get accommodations without a draft card or other forms of identification. The best plan seemed to involve calling a personal friend and asking him to put me up in some clubhouse or else give me an introduction to a hotel. By chance I had a good friend practicing psychiatry in Chicago. About ten o’clock on Monday morning, July 10, I stepped into a telephone booth and called Dr. Tom Fentress. He was most cordial and offered to see me immediately. I launched directly into an explanation of my problems. I left out the whole story of my stay in Westborough, my escape and my general predicament in Boston. I merely explained to him in general terms that I need his help in obtaining hotel accommodations in Chicago because I had no draft card. I explained that I had had episodes of manic-depressive insanity and that I was involved in litigation connected with my divorce, that I needed a letter testifying that my health was normal and that I hoped he felt my health was normal and that he could give me such a letter.

“What kind of a letter do you want and how would you like to have it worded?” Tom inquired. Whereupon I recited for him the kind of a letter I needed. He called his secretary and dictated to her a letter exactly corresponding to the one that I had detailed to him.

Tom was most hospitable in every respect. He arranged for me to stay at the University Club and he gave me a personal introduction so that use of a draft card would not be necessary. He requested that I be extended the usual check-cashing service of the University Club but finding that this had been discontinued he was very gracious in cashing me a check for fifty dollars. We had a most pleasant luncheon together at the University Club and we sat talking until the middle of the afternoon about many subjects of mutual interest. We discussed certain problems in neuropsychiatry. We discussed several phases of the treatment of the manic psychosis and the depressive psychosis. I was deeply interested to hear his views and he seemed very attentive to mine. We talked about schizophrenia in special reference to a classmate who has suffered from this disease.

By good fortune I succeeded in getting a reservation on one of the evening planes to St. Louis and I arrived there about 4 a.m. I was beginning to suffer intensely from one of the worst attacks of poison ivy I have ever seen. The weather was hot and I felt sticky and grimy from head to foot. The airport limousine took me to The Coronado Hotel and I was most pleased to be able to obtain a very comfortable room. I took a bath, using much soap and water on all areas of poison ivy and feeling much refreshed, I went to bed, sleeping soundly until about 10 a.m.

From my room at The Coronado Hotel in St. Louis I called my old friend Betty Bruce by telephone. She has known of my illnesses and she has seemed to understand them and forgive them more fully than anyone I know. It was good to hear Betty Bruce’s voice and to have a personal conversation. I had written her from Westborough a long letter portraying the picture of my recent illness, relating the events leading up to the illness and depicting the sordid details of hospital conditions. She had not answered this letter and it had been some three months since I wrote to her. It was the kind of letter that a layman might not be able to digest and I feared that Betty must have been shocked, disillusioned or merely confused by the picture I painted.

“I didn’t answer your letter because I didn’t know whether I was supposed to write you or not,” she explained. “Had I written I wouldn’t have known what to say.”

“The best way would have been just to write in a perfectly natural way, saying whatever you wanted to say,” I replied. But I did not go on to make a long speech about letters to mentally ill people.

It was easy to discover that Betty Bruce had been deeply affected by my illness and our relations had been changed, perhaps passingly, perhaps forever. She did not invite me to Kansas City as she had done under similar conditions the year before.

After talking with Betty Bruce, a deep feeling of melancholia swept over me. I knew that something very dear to me had changed. The accumulated superstitions of our civilization in regard to insanity are very much still with us all and they can breed a devastating effect upon friendships,
love and all relationships influenced by mental illness. I have been lucky in having suffered less than many from these superstitions. My attacks have usually been short and I have returned normal, healthy and able to make a living. By returning quickly to the normal associations with my friends, I have usually regained their confidence and respect before deep and lasting changes could take place. With Betty Bruce opportunities to see her are so few, that I can never hope to have a chance to rebuild our friendship upon the stable formation it has previously enjoyed.

And so I put down the telephone receiver with a heavy feeling in regard to the consciousness of a great loss, just part of the price to pay for this type of illness. The mentally ill patient is often treated like a criminal. His imprisonment and his case have many parallels to the situation of a criminal. Also he pays a similar price when he returns to society. He finds many things changed. With patience and courage he can earn back what he has lost, if time and circumstance do not operate too forcefully against him.

Most of my skin was a sorry mixture of a hideous, oozing poison ivy, cuts, splinters, bruises and deep excoriations, a reflection of the violence of my flight and the intrepid manner in which a soul desperate for freedom had dragged a body over miles of rough country. Yet I had obtained not the freedom I wanted but a sort of exile from the country I’d chosen to live in, woven with a new kind of loneliness, a longing for my family, my children, my home in Chestnut Hill, my practice, and all the things which I had to leave behind me in order to gain freedom from Westborough State Hospital.

The road ahead for me was going to be steeper than ever. I prayed for strength and courage to face the return trip, to face Lang and the Department of Mental Health, my friends, the Board of Registration, my practice, the people who saw me going into my last attack, the people who merely heard about the attack.

Later in the day, I was able to get comfortable Pullman accommodations on a train to Dallas. I was at this stage greatly fatigued, as a consequence of the accumulated experience of the journey, the inflammation of my skin, the constant burning and itching from my poison ivy. I boarded the train just after luncheon and arrived in Dallas on the following morning.

I telephoned my father. He had been notified of my escape and seemed relieved to hear my voice. He seemed glad to see me when I appeared at his office and he spoke in understanding terms of my escape. He had a certain comprehension of the difficulties that I had been through and he even seemed to admire my spirit in doing what I had done. He called Mother and told her happily of my arrival. I talked with Mother and arrangements were made for me to stay at home. Father commented upon how well I looked and how calm and stable I seemed. He seemed to think that I was more calm and stable than he had seen me in years.