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I was terrified. I was going to my first chemistry class. I had missed one third of the summer school semester; the professor advised me that I probably couldn't do it, and I still intended to do it. It wasn't a great beginning, but I had decided to become a doctor.
The real beginning of my story, though, is about my youngest brother, Jack. As a boy, Jack was physically beautiful, a very good athlete, a good student and a pleasant person to spend time with. As a man, Jack loved to write. He was successful as a journalist (I wish he could help me with this essay). His best quality was his calm, logical mind. His most entertaining quality was his ironic wit. As a child, I didn't know him very well because of the seven year difference in our ages. As adults, Jack and I became best friends. It's hard to write about a person you love and admire. Everything I write seems trivial and not very descriptive. And I need you to understand how important Jack is to me. My therapist has said that Jack is the one great love of my life; I suspect she is right.
Sometime during 1988, Jack began to hear voices. He didn't tell me about the voices at first. He began doing odd things. He quit his job (he was assistant city editor for a medium sized newspaper). He made long car trips for strange reasons. He couldn't sit still or be in one place for any length of time. He drove to Connecticut to enlist in the Army. He applied to the CIA. Perhaps he was trying to outrun the voices.
Jack didn't get away from the voices. His speech was strange. He became paranoid and thought other people could hear his thoughts. The voices must have seemed very loud. Jack became so uncomfortable, he committed himself to a psychiatric hospital. He seemed to improve. His sense of humor returned. He wrote of the hospital, "There are plainclothes nurses, doctors of many nationalities (one of whom, I believe, is Gandhi's daughter, another the angel, Clarence in the movie, 'It's a Wonderful Life'), Rorschach experts, art therapists and attendants to light your cigarettes."
He stayed in the hospital a month. When he was discharged, he started working again at a much smaller newspaper. The voices seemed to disappear. Maybe with less pressure he'd be fine. I was glad to have my brother, my best friend back. The crisis seemed over.
My parents called early one morning in April. They'd been up all night driving to the Cape and back. The police found Jack on the Bourne Bridge. He didn't know how long, how many hours he'd been there, standing on the bridge in the rain. My brother intended to jump but the police intervened before he could.
Jack was back in the hospital. It was more serious this time. He was nearly catatonic. For two weeks, I saw no improvement. Medication didn't seem to help. Therapy seemed useless. Jack wrote, "First they had me on stelazine, when I came in hearing voices which I still hear. I'd stand drooling at the nurses' station with the others, waiting for meds to be given out. It's like doing shots at a bar; they give you little cups of liquid and water for a chaser. Now they have me on perphenazine, and I feel anxious."
After two weeks, Jack began to improve. He still seemed subdued but he could write, "I like the mornings best, when a lot of my fellow patients are still sleeping. The lounge area resembles a deserted airport terminal. I just happen to be flying in my mind."
His improvement was slow this time. After a month, though, he was discharged. He came to live with me. His personality had changed. It was faded, the way old clothing loses color. And Jack was scared. I've often heard it said that if you're mentally ill, you don't know it; everyone knows but you. This isn't true. My brother knew something awful was happening to him. His suicide attempt had badly frightened him.
Psychiatrists didn't know what to do. He was given thorazine, stelazine, haldol, imipramine, doxepin, lithium and other drugs. He was diagnosed with depression, schizophrenia, schizophreniform disorder, life crisis, brief reactive psychosis and manic depression. My brother wasn't getting well.
Jack died on March 28, 1990. He committed suicide. His funeral was on April first, a date he would have found amusing. For six months after he died, I don't remember feeling anything. I don't remember thinking anything. Then, suddenly, I began again to think. I became curious about my brother's illness. I spent hours in the library reading psychology and psychiatry books. What had happened to Jack? Does therapy work? Do psychiatric drugs work? I was intrigued; I still am. I was excited; I still am.
In the fall of 1991, I took an introductory psychology course. In February of 1992, I resigned from my job (and a career of many years). I slowly reached a decision I couldn't admit to myself. Then I was honest with myself. I began to tell close friends of my aspiration. By June of 1992 I knew what I had to do. I had to try to become a doctor, a psychiatrist. I am not foolish enough to believe I'll ever know what happened to Jack, but I have to try to help people like him. I have no choice.
That's why that summer I was terrified and still driving toward the campus. I finally knew what I had to do with my life; I was in a hurry to do it, and summer school had already started.
I arrived early the day the final chemistry grades were to be posted. I wanted to be alone when I saw the grade. It was an A. It was a beautiful summer day and I had begun my journey. Jack would be proud.
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[ T o n y | M a r c u
s | J a m e s | J a s o
n | R a v i | D a n i e l |
M o | M a r y ] |
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