While I was being treated for pneumonia and Covid-19 at Atrium Union, I felt secure, but when the doctor said I was I was physically well enough to return home, I had to go. At home I spent most of my time on the couch, staying awake at night, then napping throughout the day.
“Lord,” I said, “I can understand getting pneumonia, and I can understand getting COVID, but I can’t understand why I got both of them at the same time.”
I considered myself to be really healthy, for I follow a Mediterranean diet with no meat, I walk at least four miles each day, and sometimes as many as seven. I meditate on His love morning and night, and talk with Him as my best friend, and that I try to encourage others who are hurting.
Still I contracted COVID and pneumonia, a combination which took over my lungs—the very organs which hold the breath of life—and took away all my energy.
During daylight I could cope, but nights were sleepless. Before dawn, December 22, 2020 I felt completely enveloped in darkness. Then the idea “You’re not going to get well, so you might as well kill yourself” came to me but I refused to receive it.
I had no desire to kill myself, but under COVID-ic mind control, I was in danger of losing all my will to live. When I understood I could not go another day without hope, I called my doctor’s office as soon as the practice opened.
“You’re not thinking about suicide, are you?” my nurse practitioner asked.
“No, I replied, “I have no intention to take my life. I just need to get back the desire to live. I need to check in with Mental Health.
“We’ll call ahead for you,” she replied. “Drive to the ER, and be prepared to stay overnight.”
So I got together ball point pens and a full pack of notebook paper—to take notes on my experience—then my phone, underwear, socks, shirts, pants, jacket and cap.
As before, when I reached the emergency room, there was no one ahead of me, so soon I found myself in a room, where was given a white plastic bag, and asked fill it with everything I brought—except the underwear I had on.
“Even my pen and paper and my phone?” I pleaded.
“I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed to take anything to Mental Health,” the nurse smiled, then handed me a dark green top and pair of pants to wear.
Then we walked or I was wheeled to a bed the Mental Health hall, where two women sat, peering into my room from across the hall.
“Those sitters are watching to make sure I don’t kill myself,” I said.
I got situated in my bed, then promptly took a nap. When I woke up, I began a conversation with the Lord, someone my “sitters” could not see. One of them watched me with rapt attention.
“I need to explain this self-talk to her,” I said to myself, but then waited at least fifteen minutes to press the “call” button attached to my bed.
“Could you come to talk to me for a minute?” I asked.
“Hi,” I said when she entered my room, “I have something important to tell you.”
She remained near sliding glass door.
“I’m here because of emotional trauma brought on by COVID,” I smiled.
“I see,” she replied.
“You saw me talking to myself?”
She nodded.
“Sometimes I need to speak to my subconscious mind,” I continued. “That’s where the Spirit of God lives,” I explained. “But I have to speak out loud so my own subconscious mind can hear too.” I paused.
“I’ve been asking God what to say, when I have the video conference with my Psychiatrist.”
I paused.
“When I was a boy,” I continued, “I thought doctors could read my mind. Now I know I have to tell them what’s wrong.”
“So, if you every want someone good to talk to, and there’s no one else around….”
She thought about my words, then perhaps chuckled.
“I’ll have think about that,” she said. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” I said.
The nurse brought the TV in, and pretty soon Dr. Goodman came on. He looked perhaps 45 years old, with a medium build, and gentle smile.
After he assured himself that I was not suicidal, he outlined treatment choices.
“We can treat your anxiety with medication,” he said. “We can use counseling, or we can use a combination of both.”
“Just counseling,” I said. I paused. “Can I tell you why?”
“Of course,” he smiled.
“I used Paxil for perhaps a year,” I said, “twenty years ago. That stuff chopped away all my sadness—but it also stole all my joy.” I paused. “With Paxil, I felt listless in body and dead in spirit.”
“So you don’t want medication?”
“Definitely not.”
Dr. Goodman smiled.
“Counseling then? “he smiled, and wrote something on his pad.
“Counseling,” I affirmed. “I’m willing to work… to get better.”
Dr. Goodman leaned back on the couch, and smiled. “I’m a fan of Stevie Nicks, from ‘Fleetwood Mac,’” he said. “She’s a wonderful singer and songwriter.” He paused.
“I’ve heard of her, but don’t know much about her.”
“Stevie described a nine-year spell when no songs—no songs at all—would come to her.” He paused again.
“She said those were the years when she was taking cocaine and klonopin.”
“A stimulant along with a depressant,” he continued.
“I can identify with her dry spell,” I smiled, even though all I took was Paxil.
He smiled again. “We’ll find a provider near you, who deals with anxiety, then we’ll make an appointment for you. You two will take over from there.”
“Thank you so much,” I replied.
“My office will keep in touch.”
He did what he said.
Seeing that mental health provider was the best decision I ever made.
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