my clothes—”
“The hospital gown is appropriate when—”
“I want my goddamn clothes,” Hanley said.
And Dr. Goddard did a strange thing. He took out a can of Mace from his white cotton jacket and sprayed Hanley in the eyes.
Hanley was in his fifties. It had been forty years since he had been assaulted physically. He understood the uses of assault, he understood terror. But in that moment, he was hurtled back more than forty years to when he was a child. Suddenly he was falling, his eyes stung by the liquid, the burning creeping over his face. He cried out in pain. And no one came to him.
The pain and burning lasted a long time and he thought he made a fool of himself, writhing helplessly on the floor, his senses distorted by the pain and the suffocatingpowerlessness. His hospital gown was opened; he realized his backside was naked to anyone who might see him. He didn’t care in that moment. He wanted the pain in his eyes to end.
Dr. Goddard gave him a damp towelette. He wiped at his face.
“You’re not harmed,” Dr. Goddard said. His voice was Bach playing variations on the fugue.
“Why did you do that? How dare you—”
“Mr. Hanley. I am the doctor,” Dr. Goddard said.
“You’re a goddamn sadist. Is this a prison? Who sent you?”
“You were referred by your superior officer,” said Dr. Goddard.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know all about you. I have access to your 201 file, profile chart, skills index rating, your entire dossier. I know all about you. I don’t want you to see me as the enemy.”
Hanley had staggered to his feet.
“Sit down,” Dr. Goddard said in that voice lurching into the third Brandenburg Concerto. The notes progressed relentlessly. It was enough to drive a person crazy.
Hanley sat. His bare behind was cold on the cold vinyl seat. He shivered. He felt humiliated, as though he might be a child again, forced into some ridiculous position because of something he knew was not his fault. It had not happened to him this way since he was in the sixth grade, nearly a lifetime ago.
“We are here to help you,” began the voice, sounding the theme. “You have altered your behavior severely in the last six months and your superior is concerned for your mental balance. You have become moody and distant—”
“I was tired,” Hanley began.
Dr. Goddard stared at him. When the room was silent again, he resumed:
“Tiredness is a symptom of a greater problem. Your problem, in all likelihood, is not physical. It is deeper than that.”
“Why?” said Hanley.
“Why what?”
“Why is it deeper than that?”
“Aberrant behavior can be a symptom of many things. It can be a cry for help,” Dr. Goddard said.
Hanley shrank with chill.
Dr. Goddard continued. “Fortunately, our knowledge of the mind has made wonderful advances in the past thirty years. We now understand and can categorize behavior that would have defied categorization only a generation ago. We have a powerful range of psychological drugs—a chemotherapy—that we feel, and I think you will find we are as good as our word, can help restore you to normality and to a vigorous life again. Perhaps not as before; but to return you eventually to a useful participation…”
Eventually
was such a terrible word, Hanley thought. The words went on and on. He realized he was shivering. He wanted to say he was cold, sitting in this ridiculous and humiliating hospital gown, listening to this nonsense. It was coming clear to him.
He began to cry as the doctor droned. He had found tears easy these past weeks and months. The tears released many feelings in him. The tears made him feel weak and relieved to be helpless.
Dr. Goddard stopped speaking.
He saw the tears stream down Hanley’s pale, drawn cheeks.
He understood tears. They were useful as part of the “grieving” process in which the patient understands his status as a patient, understands there is something wrong with him, understands Doctor
“The hospital gown is appropriate when—”
“I want my goddamn clothes,” Hanley said.
And Dr. Goddard did a strange thing. He took out a can of Mace from his white cotton jacket and sprayed Hanley in the eyes.
Hanley was in his fifties. It had been forty years since he had been assaulted physically. He understood the uses of assault, he understood terror. But in that moment, he was hurtled back more than forty years to when he was a child. Suddenly he was falling, his eyes stung by the liquid, the burning creeping over his face. He cried out in pain. And no one came to him.
The pain and burning lasted a long time and he thought he made a fool of himself, writhing helplessly on the floor, his senses distorted by the pain and the suffocatingpowerlessness. His hospital gown was opened; he realized his backside was naked to anyone who might see him. He didn’t care in that moment. He wanted the pain in his eyes to end.
Dr. Goddard gave him a damp towelette. He wiped at his face.
“You’re not harmed,” Dr. Goddard said. His voice was Bach playing variations on the fugue.
“Why did you do that? How dare you—”
“Mr. Hanley. I am the doctor,” Dr. Goddard said.
“You’re a goddamn sadist. Is this a prison? Who sent you?”
“You were referred by your superior officer,” said Dr. Goddard.
“What are you talking about?”
“I know all about you. I have access to your 201 file, profile chart, skills index rating, your entire dossier. I know all about you. I don’t want you to see me as the enemy.”
Hanley had staggered to his feet.
“Sit down,” Dr. Goddard said in that voice lurching into the third Brandenburg Concerto. The notes progressed relentlessly. It was enough to drive a person crazy.
Hanley sat. His bare behind was cold on the cold vinyl seat. He shivered. He felt humiliated, as though he might be a child again, forced into some ridiculous position because of something he knew was not his fault. It had not happened to him this way since he was in the sixth grade, nearly a lifetime ago.
“We are here to help you,” began the voice, sounding the theme. “You have altered your behavior severely in the last six months and your superior is concerned for your mental balance. You have become moody and distant—”
“I was tired,” Hanley began.
Dr. Goddard stared at him. When the room was silent again, he resumed:
“Tiredness is a symptom of a greater problem. Your problem, in all likelihood, is not physical. It is deeper than that.”
“Why?” said Hanley.
“Why what?”
“Why is it deeper than that?”
“Aberrant behavior can be a symptom of many things. It can be a cry for help,” Dr. Goddard said.
Hanley shrank with chill.
Dr. Goddard continued. “Fortunately, our knowledge of the mind has made wonderful advances in the past thirty years. We now understand and can categorize behavior that would have defied categorization only a generation ago. We have a powerful range of psychological drugs—a chemotherapy—that we feel, and I think you will find we are as good as our word, can help restore you to normality and to a vigorous life again. Perhaps not as before; but to return you eventually to a useful participation…”
Eventually
was such a terrible word, Hanley thought. The words went on and on. He realized he was shivering. He wanted to say he was cold, sitting in this ridiculous and humiliating hospital gown, listening to this nonsense. It was coming clear to him.
He began to cry as the doctor droned. He had found tears easy these past weeks and months. The tears released many feelings in him. The tears made him feel weak and relieved to be helpless.
Dr. Goddard stopped speaking.
He saw the tears stream down Hanley’s pale, drawn cheeks.
He understood tears. They were useful as part of the “grieving” process in which the patient understands his status as a patient, understands there is something wrong with him, understands Doctor
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