Hope came into the Bunker and handed me a newspaper folded four times.
“I found this under our couch when I was sweeping up.”
It was a copy of the Saint-Laurent , the local weekly, opened to the classified ads. In the “Cars for Sale” section, a frenzied hand had circled all the clunkers going for under $400.
I didn’t know what to make of it, so Hope helped me out: Her mother’s obsession had just entered an insidious phase. She would soon start packing provisions and collecting road maps of Western Canada.
“You think she’s going to pull up stakes again?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Haven’t you been giving her the clozapine every morning?”
“The dosage may not be effective any more. It’s happened before.”
Hope was at a loss. There was no chance of persuading her mother to consult a specialist, still less of forcing her to do so, and no doctor would sign a prescription without seeing the patient. Hope clearly would have liked for me to come up with a bright idea, but nothing came to mind and she seemed frustrated by my silence. She frowned and stuffed the newspaper into her backpack. She would have to manage on her own—again.
My mother came downstairs holding a basket of dirty laundry against her hip. “For tomorrow’s lunch, I put the leftover shepherd’s pie in some Tupperware,” she announced on her way to the laundry room.
Hope gave me a strange look.
“Your mother makes your lunch?”
“Uh … Sometimes. Yeah.”
She made a show of disbelief and looked away. On the television, a preacher was praising the mercy of God Almighty. Do not suffer alone in your little corner. Come and meet Him. Open your heart, open your eyes. Every answer can be found in the Bible .
22. THE ILLUSTRATED ENCYCLOPEDIA OF PSYCHIATRY
The winter’s first snowfall came on a Saturday morning. Objective for the day: produce a diagnosis of Mrs. Randall’s mental condition.
As she stepped into the municipal library, Hope cast a sceptical glance at the loans counter, where two aging librarians were filing catalogue cards. In her view, a civilization overly preoccupied with archives was surely a civilization on the decline.
She stationed herself in front of the catalogue and went through the cards in the “Neurology and Psychiatry” section. She jotted down a few interesting call numbers and then, after looking left and right, grabbed a bundle of cards, opened another drawer and planted them haphazardly, like the bulbs of some rare and dangerous plant—the seeds of a new virgin forest.
Her spirits lifted by this small act of terrorism, she scurried away to the stacks.
After leafing through a few works by amateurs, Hope went on to more serious stuff: The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Psychiatry , a tome weighing some eight kilos and claiming to cover all the psychological disorders that have afflicted the human race from the Sumerian religious wars to Ronald Reagan’s first term in office.
Sitting cross-legged on a chair, Hope spent the whole afternoon combing through the encyclopedia with the aim of identifying the subcategory of fruitcake that her mother belonged to. I had taken refuge in an old Yoko Tsuno comic book, but from time to time I would unobtrusively peek over her arm, and what I glimpsed was far from reassuring: an assortment of syndromes, episodes, relapses, phases, differential diagnoses, tricyclic antidepressants, neuroleptics, paranoias, hallucinations and hereditary factors, illustrated here and there with cross-sections of cortex, nebulous graphs and bipolar mice.
For three hours straight, Hope scrutinized this selection from every possible angle, from the Ahenobarbus complex (“variety of pyromania aggravated by an unwholesome attraction to stringed instruments”) through to Romero-Ruuk syndrome (“dementia characterized by general muscular rigidity and sudden cannibalistic urges”). She lingered for a while over the highly exotic Type III Jerusalem syndrome
“I found this under our couch when I was sweeping up.”
It was a copy of the Saint-Laurent , the local weekly, opened to the classified ads. In the “Cars for Sale” section, a frenzied hand had circled all the clunkers going for under $400.
I didn’t know what to make of it, so Hope helped me out: Her mother’s obsession had just entered an insidious phase. She would soon start packing provisions and collecting road maps of Western Canada.
“You think she’s going to pull up stakes again?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Haven’t you been giving her the clozapine every morning?”
“The dosage may not be effective any more. It’s happened before.”
Hope was at a loss. There was no chance of persuading her mother to consult a specialist, still less of forcing her to do so, and no doctor would sign a prescription without seeing the patient. Hope clearly would have liked for me to come up with a bright idea, but nothing came to mind and she seemed frustrated by my silence. She frowned and stuffed the newspaper into her backpack. She would have to manage on her own—again.
My mother came downstairs holding a basket of dirty laundry against her hip. “For tomorrow’s lunch, I put the leftover shepherd’s pie in some Tupperware,” she announced on her way to the laundry room.
Hope gave me a strange look.
“Your mother makes your lunch?”
“Uh … Sometimes. Yeah.”
She made a show of disbelief and looked away. On the television, a preacher was praising the mercy of God Almighty. Do not suffer alone in your little corner. Come and meet Him. Open your heart, open your eyes. Every answer can be found in the Bible .
22. THE ILLUSTRATED ENCYCLOPEDIA OF PSYCHIATRY
The winter’s first snowfall came on a Saturday morning. Objective for the day: produce a diagnosis of Mrs. Randall’s mental condition.
As she stepped into the municipal library, Hope cast a sceptical glance at the loans counter, where two aging librarians were filing catalogue cards. In her view, a civilization overly preoccupied with archives was surely a civilization on the decline.
She stationed herself in front of the catalogue and went through the cards in the “Neurology and Psychiatry” section. She jotted down a few interesting call numbers and then, after looking left and right, grabbed a bundle of cards, opened another drawer and planted them haphazardly, like the bulbs of some rare and dangerous plant—the seeds of a new virgin forest.
Her spirits lifted by this small act of terrorism, she scurried away to the stacks.
After leafing through a few works by amateurs, Hope went on to more serious stuff: The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Psychiatry , a tome weighing some eight kilos and claiming to cover all the psychological disorders that have afflicted the human race from the Sumerian religious wars to Ronald Reagan’s first term in office.
Sitting cross-legged on a chair, Hope spent the whole afternoon combing through the encyclopedia with the aim of identifying the subcategory of fruitcake that her mother belonged to. I had taken refuge in an old Yoko Tsuno comic book, but from time to time I would unobtrusively peek over her arm, and what I glimpsed was far from reassuring: an assortment of syndromes, episodes, relapses, phases, differential diagnoses, tricyclic antidepressants, neuroleptics, paranoias, hallucinations and hereditary factors, illustrated here and there with cross-sections of cortex, nebulous graphs and bipolar mice.
For three hours straight, Hope scrutinized this selection from every possible angle, from the Ahenobarbus complex (“variety of pyromania aggravated by an unwholesome attraction to stringed instruments”) through to Romero-Ruuk syndrome (“dementia characterized by general muscular rigidity and sudden cannibalistic urges”). She lingered for a while over the highly exotic Type III Jerusalem syndrome
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