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Eleanor G Leaves Psychiatry by Michael Ellman

-1961-

I take the tunnel. The autumn precipitation shuffles between a drizzle and a downpour and rain turns my hair fluffy.

The tunnel to Psychiatry is new and solid. When the Russkies nuke the Gary-Chicago industrial complex, I’ll hunker down there. Most importantly, the graffiti lining the whitewashed walls is borderline grammatical and occasionally pleasing.

I don’t mind trekking to Psychiatry, the hospital is big, everywhere you go you’re still around, but Psychiatry is close, it’s orderly, the chain of command precise, and the medical resident king. But today, I’m more like Merlin, summoning up graciousness for the Sunday afternoon pre-electroshock therapy clearance.

Convulsive therapy is the treatment of choice for too many conditions: rowdy, noncompliant, anorexic, and tearful. Bam, the brain explodes into chaos, primary colors, drum and bugle corps, flag waving and fireworks in anticipation of the sadness or bizarreness disappearing in quick, hopeful steps. But a lot of other things disappear. Gone are memories of flaxen-haired girls and kisses on late spring days.

Sometimes with electroshock therapy you forget your entire adolescence, never mind the flaxen-haired girls.

They know me here. The potassium a little low or the electrocardiogram with flattened T waves, and I cancel the entire shebang. Even the crazies have gentle memories. I wouldn’t have ordered the thing in the first place, but then Psychiatry isn’t a democracy.

The Psychiatry Chief would corner me and I would nod favorably, as if believing his verisimilitudes. “Doctor,” he’d say, “our imperfect Universe seeks equilibrium and not necessarily cures. Psychiatry shoulders a Newtonian world. Relativity will come later.”

“Mr. Winterfeld, Harold?” I ask. No last names in this place, the door unlocked and Harold paces the floor, which is a lot better in my estimation than lying face down in bed and sobbing.

“I’m Dr. Ted, and I’m here to clear you for the procedure tomorrow.” Room needing painting, the sole window fused closed, shatter-proof glass distorting the daylight into specks of rainbow, light from overhead fluorescents emitting that annoying buzz, just loud enough to further drive you batty.

Procedure is the euphemism for electrodes belted around the skull, a three pronged plug placed into an AC outlet, the cord winding its way into a battery housed in a bland and not unfriendly appearing brass-colored metal box rolled in and out of rooms on four wooden coasters, an on-off switch with a dial for magnitude, low to high, the apparatus missing only Disney characters. Goofy perhaps. Underwriters Laboratory approved, I always search for the UL label.

An attached tray protrudes from the console, stocked with jelly that conducts electrons and sticks to the scalp, an invention rivaling airline reclining seats, a plastic mouthpiece (please, no fractured teeth) and emergency instructions for, I guess, emergencies. Press “on,” and zap! There it is: an excellent, four-star, tonic-clonic seizure, and voila, a docile and contented Harold.

I scan Harold’s wrist ID band. The antithesis of depressed, Harold’s pleased for the company: dancing feet, humming the Grand March from Aida, now and then stopping to blow the trumpet riffs with a tight fist placed like a horn over his mouth. He’s not the typical shock therapy recipient and, yes, it’s the correct Harold.

Where’s down-in-the-mouth Auntie Maude, children not telephoning, cat run away, tires flat, wine bottles empty, and on and on? The usual ComEd recipient?

“Examine away doctor. What do you think of my tango?” he asks, accompanied by a little foot shuffling. “Arthur Murray Dance Studio on Broadway near Lawrence. Ask for Dolores; tell her Harold, the Sheik of Araby, sent you,” now gamely singing the tune of the same name that was more likely written for Rudolph Valentino than Harold. “Dolores will be at my all-better, welcome home party and you’re also invited. Guess who else is coming?”

It’s best not to enter into their fantasies and hopes. You don’t want to reinforce craziness. My job is to be sure Harold survives the electricity. The neurologic examination is normal: reflexes symmetric, sensation intact, optic nerves healthy, no tremors, oriented to time, place and person. The consent form for the convulsive therapy is signed with what looks like his handwriting.

“Harold,” I tell him, “your physical examination and laboratory values are disgustingly normal and I have no reason to not OK the medical clearance for the procedure tomorrow, unless you have a change of heart. And I’ll be honored to attend any rocking party you would throw.”

By Tuesday, Harold will likely have forgotten me and any celebration he concocted.

“Eleanor G., she’s coming and you won’t guess who she is,” Harold continues, shifting from one foot to another. “Refreshments, Cole Porter songs, dancing, Eleanor G. and, doctor, I can tell just by looking at you that you need a Harold Party.”

My head bobbing and hand waving goodbye didn’t stop the mania, and I don’t want to be impolite. I remain standing at the door. I have good instincts about people and I like this guy.

“Eleanor G., the G stands for Geisman, of course. The girl next door, my dance partner; you’ll have to find your own date,” Harold tells me. “If Dolores doesn’t suit you, maybe call that cute little, Yes! We Have No Bananas, girl, from Brazil. You know the one with the piled-up fruit hat, platform shoes and the Chico-Chico song and dance.”

I know exactly who Harold means, having had a crush on her myself, but I wasn’t going to be the bearer of bad tidings. I hate bad news. Carmen Miranda never sang Yes! We Have No Bananas, and worse still, she had slipped into the great beyond a few years ago.

Tuesday, I walk over to see Harold. I skipped viewing the actual procedure. Observing one of them earlier in my career provided enough disturbances in spite of the blankets and straitjacket and pillows thoughtfully provided to prevent broken bones.

Harold is walking the halls—not appreciably worse for the wear, as best as I can see. “I’m here to check-up on you,” I tell him. No aide or nurse shadows him.

“He’s taking his medicine real good now,” Tiny, the weight-lifting orderly, assures me.

“Never better,” Harold says. “And doctor let me save you time. Today’s Tuesday, 7 from 100 is 93, 7 from 93 is 86, etc., etc., the President is Kennedy, our Senators are Douglas and Dirksen. How am I doing? Want more?” he boasts.

He’s smart and quick, Mensa material, and I’m pleased, very pleased, and I tell him that, and we hug. Confident, feet still, and he’s quiet in-between the showing-off.

I show him the picture I cut out from the Daily News, the movie section, a showing of Little Women starring Eleanor Geisman, aka June Allyson, in the role of Jo, the spirited one, the sister who finds romance.

Of course, I had to perform a little research before finding Eleanor G.

“Your favorite,” I tell him, “for the coming home party,” my index finger circling her face, “Eleanor Geisman,” I say.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

–

Michael Ellman is a retired physician and writer. His stories have been published in Front Porch Review and the Hektoen International Journal. His great Great American Novel about a murder in a hospital just needs an editor, agent and publisher before fame arrives. He is a grandfather, supporter of first grade art (please see photograph) and an expert in 6th grade math and current events. He thinks Black Heart Magazine is tops and can be reached at ellman112@comcast.net.

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