by Mo McDonald
The Jekyll and Hyde in me wanted to both help her and to quieten her. To stimulate her and yet to be rid of her. To tease her and to draw her to me and to push her away and to ignore her. She had worked her way into my life with my blessing, but now she had to go. I could not allow myself to be dependent on her or her on me. I had to remember Jung’s crystal-clear warning.
My constant aim was to try my hardest to remember his advice. My character was such that it was made very difficult for me. If only Marian had been able to keep her distance, we would not have been in this confrontation. However, her next letter was a step in the right direction.
Dear Jack,
Your letter could have been suggesting that I am going mad, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt and tell you that I have enrolled in a creative writing course. After all, we are told that Art is the only redemption.
Bye,
Marian
In my feeble state, I felt that I wanted to answer this. Marcel Proust believed that Art was indeed the only redemption. We were both ping-pong champions; both of us push-me, pull-me addicts unable to resist.
Dear Marian,
Thanks for your letter. I am so pleased that you are going to classes. Enjoy the journey that you are on.
Best wishes, Jack
I allowed encouragement this time. It was weak of me, but my need of her was still real. My confused state of mind was a symptom of the depression that I was subject to. I had fought hard to control the highs and lows most of my adult life. There was nothing average about my psychological make-up and I could understand how Jung had found such a good word to describe personalities as ‘complex’.
Over time, I had endeavoured to achieve the process of individuation and I had reached success in the literary world. In order to succeed as a broadcaster, I had had to be ruthless; using Marian as a means of creative inspiration had been another step in the think tank. I keep stressing that Jung’s theory had well and truly been put to the test and had been proven by my experiment. If I had not been such a coward, I would have delighted in acclaiming my psychological experiment as a great victory. I tried to excuse my unwillingness to tell, as a protection for Marian and her family. However, knowing my own nature, I had to admit that were it to my advantage to expose our mind link, I would have done so.
No, it was no kindness on my part that kept my spiritual affair hidden from view; it was the sheer horror of having my secret code exposed that kept me quiet. Of course, I would have liked to prove my art to the elitists, but that would have to wait for posterity. One day, I knew that my work would be examined alongside my diaries, and the letters that I had collected over the years from Marian would bear witness to both my skill and my psychology. If she did develop as an artist in her own right it would pay homage to me above all else. It was an exciting experiment, so why did it worry and frighten me so?
I had enjoyed the game right under everyone’s noses; it was that which excited me the most. Conducting a romance under the gaze of the literary world and the critics and pulling the wool over my dear wife’s eyes. The public who imagined that we lived in married bliss and that my wife could own not only my body but my very soul. How little they knew! I played the game of being and seeming to be. I seemed to be a good husband and father to our children. They had no idea that I despised, loathed, the trap that I found myself in. But because I was allowed the freedom that Pauline afforded me, I felt forever tied to her in loyalty and obligation.
Had she bothered she could have found out exactly how I felt, had she taken the trouble to understand my work, but she was a good woman who took my work at face value. Her imagination asked no questions as to any hidden meaning behind my words. Knowing this lack of imagination, I took advantage and wrote cruelly in my novels of our relationship, exposing the lack of spiritual union between us. She was good in bed, I was used to her body, but there was no love in our sexual union. Not for me. Just the need to fulfil a strong sensual desire. But if I pleased her, what harm? I asked myself.
The spiritual union that I sought was fulfilled by Marian but it now threatened my everyday life. I was often referred to by the press as a nice guy, so I had to protect that image. I had worked hard to gain a place in the world of literature and was much respected as a man of letters. I had avoided scandal throughout my working life. In fact, all my life I had resisted temptation; as I mentioned earlier, the life within my head was more real to me than any actual day-to-day encounters.
The new autumn season showed with great deliberation just how artists collected ideas, thoughts and feelings, and turned them into a piece of work. The healing or tormented part that dwelt within most people, if only they could learn to recognise it. My purpose was to explain this. I wanted Marian to learn now how to develop the potential she had shown in her letters to me. The message behind my editing now was quite different – no words with hidden meanings, just the straightforward voice of other artists speaking, urging Marian to train the masculine side of her mind still more. The all-important masculine side of her mind, the animus, required more dominance if she was going to succeed as a writer.
Dear Jack,
Hallo and welcome back. I enjoyed the programmes so far. I have no problem in hearing the music, but it’s playing the tune that I find difficult. Try as I may, I cannot seem to master the skill of storytelling. I know what I want to say, but I have no idea how to compose around it. That does not mean I will give up, though. The gift to speak out loud is what I need.
Love, Marian
PS Pinch, punch, first day of the month
We had featured the song titled ‘Jung in Africa,’ which speaks of listening to the beat all around, then as the rhythm moves the soul, the singer screams out loud. Then the next programme I edited very carefully was about how a writer uses local records and libraries for research. Interviews captured the past, all following a close pattern to the way of life that Marian held so dear from her fond memories of Ireland. I tried to persuade her to embark upon a voyage around her father. She responded:
Dear Jack,
This time I am lost for words, with each season you manage to surprise me more, thank you!
I really am trying, but time is the deadly enemy. The house is seldom quiet enough; it is a noisy household with comings and goings all the time.
Love to you,
Marian
PS A few weeks ago, Margaret Thatcher did say something that I agreed with. It was her concern for the growing number of children living in a single-parent household. It is a very worrying situation now in the eighties. When I sit in my home with the love of the family unit, I truly cherish that for my children. We are very lucky as a family. I do think that my childhood was more colourful, though, with generations of Londoners on one side and Irish on the other. My children are used to a suburban life, which is quite different.
Bye,
Marian
The following week, I took a look at a crime writer and explored her famous characters by featuring extracts from her books, which teased the listener into wanting to know more. I finished the programme with the telephone ringing and the villain’s voice saying, ‘As I reached for the telephone, my heart sank as I realised that I might have been found out.’ I still wanted her to obey me; I wanted to see if I could still will her to pick up the phone. She had resisted before, would she allow herself to give in now? Just how strong was she growing? I had ignored her request to ‘grin asleep’, so I guessed that she would not give in. We were both trying to be in charge now. I played a dangerous hand, even with myself.
Dear Jack,
You teased me with the telephone and I would dearly love to say hallo, but at the moment I cannot bring myself to ask for you. I think that you are seldom in because of recording and writing. You could, however, ring me!
Marian
Damn her, she would not ring me; she wanted to bend my will so
as to make me reach her. I had to remind myself of the dangers of giving in to her. Once again, I felt the need to distance myself from her, let her remain my slave. I would never, ever contact her again. No more letters, no more playing around with programmes. My book was about to be published; she had filled my head for long enough. I would rid myself of her once and for all. I told myself that I really would.
Then came:
Many thanks for your Christmas greetings!
M R Davies
This note of sarcasm was written on a Christmas card and addressed to my home address. It angered me that she should send it to my house and made me determined that she had to leave me alone. I held my silence.
JACK
When planning the previous season, I had decided that I would put an end to our airwave romance, but I had hoped to keep Marian at a distance, constant, as a devotee of my novels. My diary notes from that December explain a change in my mood. I found that I had started a domestic journal and in it I write that my world as a privileged luvvie was also threatened by the woman I depended on at home, whose support was crucial.
It was nearly Christmas and my nervous tension was made worse because my wife was diagnosed with a disturbing condition and I felt that I ought to pay more attention to her as a person. I had neglected to recognise that she was suffering from fatigue because I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts and my obsession with Marian. Pauline had allowed me to concentrate on my career and to carve a successful place in the broadcasting world. She coped with our family without complaining of the terrible tiredness that had blighted her life for years. She only told me once she had been seen by her GP, who had referred her to a sleep study clinic.
She had spent a night away with her mother and they had shared a twin room. Her mother became aware that Pauline’s snoring was very loud and this kept her awake throughout the night. While she lay listening to her daughter’s irritating noise, she realised with alarm that Pauline seemed to hold her breath frequently between snores. The next morning she pointed this out and persuaded Pauline to make a doctor’s appointment on their return.
Apparently, for many years, she had simply been fobbed off and told that she had a post-viral condition and that nothing could be done to alleviate her exhaustion. Pauline said that she was relieved her GP had, at last, listened to what her mother had recognised, because the constant testing of her blood to check her thyroid gland was the only help ever offered and no doctor had ever questioned her sleep habits, despite her total lack of energy. It was with relief that she got a referral and the consultant chatted to her. Within minutes, he said that she was a classic case and he couldn’t understand why she had not been investigated years ago for OSA – obstructive sleep apnoea. He arranged for a machine that would be attached to her body overnight to monitor her sleep and to see how many times per hour she woke herself up in order to keep breathing.
She explained this to me one evening after ringing Hannah to ask her to ensure that I got home early, instead of my usual habit of returning home just before bed. I listened as she told me about the technician who had measured her for the machine and who had explained where to place the patches, attached to the wires that would monitor her breathing and heart rate. It had been placed in a bag with a zip to transport it home, as it was too cumbersome to wear under her coat.
That night, I felt very close to my wife, the first time in many years. I helped to strap the machine on and to place the electric gadgets to her skin. Before going to bed, she explained that she truly hoped that sleep apnoea was the answer because she was at the end of her tether from exhaustion and disappointment. She fought to hold back the tears as she explained how depression and weight gain had added to her distress and I felt so ashamed that I had not been there for her. I had taken it for granted that she was the woman at home, running everything smoothly. I hadn’t taken the time to even notice her weight going up over the years and I had been far too busy to recognise that she was depressed. I was shocked when she showed me the medication that she was on and I tried to hug her to me, despite the bulk of the machine strapped to her body.
The next morning, after she had switched off the electricity, I helped to remove the machine and to place it and the wires back in its black bag. We were careful not to touch the card that had taken a reading of her sleep pattern and after breakfast I drove Pauline back to the hospital for the card to be read. We handed the bag over at reception, then waited to be seen; it was alarming to notice that all of the patients waiting were overweight and some appeared very sleepy. We were seen by the consultant, who informed us that Pauline was indeed having very disturbed nights. The reading showed that she was waking up every few minutes, unbeknown to her, because her windpipe closed as the muscles relaxed in her neck; consequently, she was never falling into the deep sleep required in order to shut down the organs for the night and allow them to rest and to replenish themselves.
It was little wonder that she was feeling exhausted and the consultant went on to say that weight gain was a symptom of the condition and that it was a vicious circle, because the sleep deprivation meant that she would not have had the energy to exercise and her depression would have been caused by the lack of oxygen to the brain. He said that even if she were to lose weight she most probably would still have the OSA, because he could see from examination that the entrance to her windpipe was very small and that she was overcrowded in that area. However, he was optimistic that she would improve with the use of a CPAP (continuous positive airway pressure) machine. This she would attach herself to at night so that air could be blown into her nostrils and or her mouth, depending on which mask she felt most comfortable wearing. He stressed that she would start to feel more energised and would therefore become healthier, but he explained that she would need to notify the DVLA of her obstructive sleep apnoea, although she could still drive as she was not experiencing daytime sleepiness. A nurse came along to administer the equipment and to give Pauline a lesson on how to use it.
We went home somewhat alarmed but hopeful. We had lunch out in a local pub and, for the first time in a very long while, we talked to each other and I told her that I felt contrite for having neglected her. As usual, she made me feel at ease with myself, which made me humble at my selfishness. It was good to focus on her and to allow her to unburden herself. She expressed the terrible recurring dream that she had been having for years, about choking on a lump of chewing gum, from which she would wake up gasping for air. She was hopeful now that the sensation would stop.
I spent that evening at home, instead of working into the early hours. Pauline explained that she was worried about Christmas because she was nowhere near ready for the usual grand spread that she was accustomed to putting on. I assured her that we would check into a hotel with the children and tell the rest of the family that we were skipping Christmas that year. After she showered and made herself comfortable, I helped her to place the plastic mask over her nose, the straps to keep it in place around her head. I was overcome with sadness on seeing the undignified situation that she was in and my heart went out to her.
Once she had her head on the pillow, she reached out and pressed the ‘on’ button and we were both shocked by the noise of the machine as it pushed air through the hose towards her head. It was like standing next to a vacuum cleaner. I made light of it, but it was difficult not to look alarmed as it dawned on me that she would have to put up with the constant noise and the sensation of a forceful amount of air gushing into her airways. I knew it would irritate me beyond compare, but Pauline seemed glad to accept the help that was provided by the CPAP machine and she fell asleep quickly. The deep-sea divers were afforded better. I switched off the light and actually found it slightly easier to fall asleep next to the constant noise, rather than the high and low pitch of snoring. However, as she fell into a deeper sleep, the machine’s pressure rose, filling the bedroom with its sound. In the days that followed, it made it necessar
y for Pauline and I to wear earplugs! It was not the machine itself that was noisy, but the air that was exhaled through a vent in the hosepipe. I vowed to myself I would pay attention to my family and try not to use my art as an excuse to ignore them in the future.
Although Pauline seemed to benefit from each night that passed, I slept very fitfully and my dreams were very muddled and confused. I was aware of confusing Pauline’s need for air to be pumped into her airway with Marian’s hold over me on the airwaves. One night, I pictured them together both gasping for breath and calling out my name, in a plea for help. It was the first time I had dreamt about either of them to my knowledge and as I struggled to unravel the situation, I dreamt of a power cut that left them both stranded without the electricity that kept them energised in their different ways. I woke up dazed and disturbed that even my nights were to be haunted.
I asked my secretary to find out what she could about obstructive sleep apnoea. I wasn’t much good as a husband, but I did want to understand more about the disorder. I had never heard of it before Pauline’s diagnosis and I wondered how new the discovery of it was. I was surprised that her research showed that Charles Dickens was the first to make mention of a similar problem in a young overweight lad in The Pickwick Papers. Soon after, a famous Canadian physician, William Osler, coined the phrase Pickwickian Syndrome, as adapted from the novel. The most recognised symptom was, of course, snoring. It was not until 1965 that an extensive study, by a French doctor, Gestalt, gave a deeper understanding on sleep issues, but his findings didn’t bring about a subsequent cure.