Perhaps I paint too harsh a picture of Dr Springsteen. Why I should be concerned about her looks at all poses a question. I think perhaps it was because we’d been focused on her for several hours so that, unseen, she had become an object of unconscious speculation, someone on whom a great deal depended. In truth she was not altogether plain but looked harassed and was obviously dog-tired from a long and frustrating day. I was momentarily able to stem my own preoccupation to feel sorry for her. “I guess it’s been a long day for you, too,” I said, trying to be pleasant.
“Dad!” Damon said, “Let’s get on with it!” He looked directly at Dr Springsteen, “What’s your name? Are you an intern?” He glared at the young doctor, “Are you a proper doctor, a psychiatrist?”
I laughed nervously. “It’s been a long one for us, too,” I said.
“Sit down, Damon. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait. No, I’m not an intern. Yes, I’m a proper doctor. What can I do for you?” She hadn’t raised her voice but there was no doubt that she got through to Damon, who immediately sat down. “Well?” she asked again, looking directly at him.
“You can’t help me, you’re not the one I have to see.”
The young doctor smiled. She had a nice smile. “Well, I’m afraid I’m all there is at the moment, Damon.” I was beginning to admire this young woman. She’d obviously had a very difficult day but she was still coping admirably.
“What do you know about AIDS?” Damon asked.
“Not very much, it’s not my area,” Dr Springsteen answered truthfully.
“Well then I’m wasting my time. You’re not the person I have to give my cure for AIDS to!”
“That’s good, but while you’re here I’d like to examine you. Will you help me?”
“No, I don’t think so!” Damon said.
Doctor Springsteen was writing as she talked. “Take your shoes off. You’ll be more comfortable, Damon.”
Damon was clearly surprised: “Only if I can hold them. You can’t take them away.”
Dr Springsteen examined Damon and asked him a number of questions; some he answered with his normal quick intelligence and with others he was evasive, plainly suspicious of her motives. At one stage he folded his arms across his chest, his shoes hugged to his breast. “I don’t want to be interrogated any more!” he said and clammed up completely.
We waited in silence until finally the young doctor rose and asked Damon to follow her into a small examination room, asking me to wait. To my surprise, Damon rose and padded into the tiny room in his stockinged feet, though still clutching his shoes to his chest. Brett had remained outside in the lounge area when we’d been called in and I went out to explain to him that we’d be some time. I returned to the little office and, after a few minutes, I could hear Damon talking and in about half an hour Dr Springsteen came out and closed the door to the examination room, leaving Damon within. She sat down and wrote for some time, ignoring my presence. Finally she said, “I’m pretty certain Damon is manic. I think we ought to try and keep him here, though we can’t really care for him. A few days probably won’t matter as long as we keep him sedated. I don’t think he’s likely to become violent.”
“Can he be placed in the AIDS section? He knows the nurses, he has friends there.”
My voice must have betrayed my anxiety for she gave me a reassuring smile. “Well, I can suggest it, but it’s really up to them. If they object to having a psychiatric patient, we may have to transfer him to another hospital. What about a private hospital?”
“Well, yes, but I’d rather he stayed here. I’m sure they won’t object.”
She looked at me and I noticed for the first time that she had very nice blue eyes. “You must realise that I have to admit him, I mean, not as an AIDS patient, but as a psychiatric one and that, if he tries to escape, I mean leaves the hospital without medical authority, that we will have to schedule him?”
“Schedule? You mean declare him insane?”
“Well, yes, that’s not a word we like to use and it’s not as easy as that. We will be forced to call the police and they will arrest him and take him to Rozelle Psychiatric Hospital.”
I must have remained silent for longer than it seemed to me, for she added, “It’s the law.”
“I’ll explain that to him,” I said softly.
“Yes, you can try.”
“He’s not been violent and I think he’d be afraid to leave a protected environment,” I said.
“We can’t tell. His condition is subject to violent mood swings. These, I anticipate, will get worse and he may become completely irrational, not responsible for what he does. If he thinks something is wrong, he may become very angry, very agitated.”
“Well, he’s been more or less all right up to now, even though somewhat irrational at times, hearing voices, a bit paranoid, but underneath it all he’s still Damon, my son. I don’t think he’ll ever change that doctor.”
But with Dr Springsteen’s warning I was becoming increasingly anxious. After all these hours in the chaos of Casualty I became suddenly worried about having brought him in. In my anxiety for my son I’d entirely forgotten about my earlier plea to her to hospitalise him. “Perhaps we should take him home and see if we can get through the holidays?” I said.
I was prepared to try very hard once more to get Damon to agree to stay up the hill with us, to persuade him that staying with us was the only alternative to the hospital.
Celeste simply had to have a few days’ break away from him; but now I felt guilty that this was the real reason we wanted Damon in hospital and that we, Benita and I, hadn’t tried hard enough. I decided I could call work and tell them I was not coming back until after the first week in January and we’d send Celeste away somewhere and force Damon to stay with us at home.
“That would be nice, but I don’t think so,” Dr Springsteen said. “I think you were right to bring him in.” She reached for the phone and called the Marks Pavilion to alert them that we were coming down and asked at the same time for a single room. “One away from the entrance and where the patient can be easily observed,” she instructed.
The voice at the other end must have objected to her request, for the red-headed doctor sighed, “Well, then whatever you’ve got.” She put down the phone and looked up wearily. “I’ve given him a sedative.” She rose, “But they don’t always help,” then she took a step backwards, turned and opened the door to the small examination room.
Damon was sitting on the edge of the examination bed, his bony shoulders hunched and showing through his sweat shirt; he looked very small and thin and lost but he still clutched his shoes. “You have to stay for a few days, Damon,” I said.
“Yes, I know,” he said quietly. “Dad can you help me with my shoes?” I took the shoes from him and squatting down worked them on to his misshapen feet, “Can you have Celeste bring some stuff – my pyjamas and toothbrush and my Walkman?” he asked, as I was trying a shoelace.
“I brought a pair of my summer ones, and a toothbrush and toothpaste.” I tried to smile, “You know, I thought, just in case.” I stood up, ready to help him from the examination couch.
Damon looked up at me; it was a terribly sad look and I felt as though I’d betrayed him utterly. “I thought you might change your mind and want to stay,” I said feebly, trying to cover my shame. “I’ll bring your Walkman tomorrow morning.”
A tear ran down his cheek and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand and sniffed – he seemed about five years old – then he shrugged his shoulders and stood up and followed me. “I’m sorry, Damon, I’m truly sorry,” I said, suddenly wanting to have a good howl myself.
“It’s okay, Dad.” He took my hand and clung on tightly; then, in a voice hardly a whisper, he said, “I know there’s something wrong with me, but I don’t know what it is.”
We joined Brett in the waiting room and walked together toward the car for the short drive within the grounds to the Marks Pavilion. It was the beginning of
the worst eight days of our collective lives.
Twenty-eight
You’re not Allowed to Smoke in Bedlam.
We were met at Marks Pavilion, the AIDS building at Prince Henry, without the usual friendly welcome. The nurses on duty were not staff we knew and it seemed they’d been informed of Damon’s mania and were not at all pleased at having a “manic” on their hands. Not that they could be blamed; hypomania manifests itself in violent mood swings and none of the AIDS staff were trained to look after psychiatric patients. They were also aware and, no doubt resentful, that the psychiatric ward at Prince Henry would refuse to take Damon because he had AIDS.
Brett and I had arrived home and he’d showered and changed and gone out with friends for the evening. It had been a horrible and very sad day. We were all exhausted and grateful that Damon would be in more practical hands for a few days, with people who would look after him and start the process of getting him better. What we meant, of course, was that we were all off the hook for the rest of the holidays and that, as soon as the new year commenced, we could have Damon treated by the right people. We had all learned a bitter lesson, that to be ill over a period of extended holidays is a disaster in itself.
But most of all Damon’s stay in hospital meant Celeste could have a rest. Normally pale, she seemed even more so, with dark rings around her eyes and, while she was holding herself together admirably, not surprisingly she’d been close to hysteria on more than one occasion and we were becoming increasingly worried for both her physical and mental wellbeing.
It is an enormous tribute to Celeste’s character and the strength of her love for Damon that she didn’t break down or simply collapse from total exhaustion. Most people her age would have lacked the personality and guts to stick it out and would long since have walked away. Celeste, by an increment of at least a hundred over Benita and me, desperately needed a break from Damon, who for some weeks now had wanted her constantly at his side.
When I called Celeste to tell her that Damon had been admitted she gave a great sigh, then she started to giggle. Somehow she managed to restrain her hysteria and instead became tremulous, then she broke down completely and wept. It wasn’t a cry, in the sense that people “have a good cry” to get something out of their system, it was a wail she seemed unable to control and which came from deep within her somewhere. It wasn’t the sound of a young girl weeping, but of a woman with a terrible sadness which she could no longer contain.
“Shall I come down? Or Benita?” I kept asking awkwardly into the sounds made by her distress. She would gulp and sniff, trying to control her tears, then in a plaintive small child’s voice she’d say, “No!” Finally she managed to talk, “Please don’t come down, Bryce. Please! I’m all right.”
Celeste, exhausted beyond endurance, simply wanted to be left alone and, belatedly, I understood her need. She didn’t want me or Benita or Damon. For the moment she needed to be rid of us all more than anything else in her life.
Celeste had hardly been off the phone a few minutes when Damon rang her from the hospital. He sounded perfectly normal, totally sane, and he wanted her to go over and see him. “I’ve called Toby, he’s coming too,” Damon said, his voice excited. “Please come, babe? It will be so nice, the old threesome together again.” Celeste, of course, should not have gone, but she couldn’t refuse Damon. She’d borrowed Benita’s car earlier in the day and hadn’t yet returned it. I guess she thought, now that he was safe in hospital, another hour or so with Damon couldn’t do too much more to her exhaustion.
She called Toby to ask him how Damon had been when he called. “He sounded fine,” Toby replied, “in fact, just like the old Damon; his voice didn’t have that weird quality of conspiracy he’s been using these days.”
Celeste was rather glad of Toby’s company. Of all Damon’s friends, he and Christopher Molnar had been the most involved with Damon over the weeks of his mania and both had been very supportive, often coming over to be with Damon and keep him occupied, so that she could get away for a few hours on her own before Damon would begin to miss her again and become agitated. Celeste arranged to pick up Toby in half an hour, enough time for her to change her dress, splash cold water over her swollen eyes and comb her hair.
They drove into the hospital, stopping at the hospital gates to pay the dollar parking fee. They hadn’t travelled more than a quarter of the distance to the Marks Pavilion when they saw Damon storming up the road towards them, actually running and swinging his small overnight bag around his head. He was several hundred yards from the Marks Pavilion and not where they would have expected to find him. He kept looking behind him, as though he were expecting to be followed, and it was clear even from a distance that he was running away. Running wasn’t something Damon could do very well and, even from a distance, Celeste could see from the way he swung the bag about his head that he was in a state of great agitation.
“Shit, what now?” Toby said and Celeste stopped the car as they drew nearer to Damon. Then she jumped out of the car and ran towards him. “What’s wrong? What are you doing, Damon?” she asked, trying to hold him, to stop him running.
“Get out of my way!” Damon screamed, his face inches from her own. He shrugged off her embrace and continued to run towards the car. “They’re following me, they’re following me!” He opened the car door and jumped into the driver’s seat.
“No, Damon, don’t!” Celeste screamed, running up to the car.
Damon slammed the driver’s door shut and turned on the ignition, seemingly not aware of Toby seated beside him. “Jump in, we’re leaving, we’ve got no time,” he yelled frantically at Celeste. With the engine running, it was no time to argue and Celeste jumped into the back of the car. Toby had his arm on Damon’s. “Don’t be a bloody fool, Damon, you can’t possibly drive!” he said, trying to stay calm.
Damon shrugged his arm away and put his foot down on the accelerator so that the car lurched forward, then he slammed on the brakes, so that Celeste, who hadn’t yet fastened her seat belt, was hurled backwards then forwards, knocking Damon forward as she grabbed frantically on to the back of the driver’s seat. Damon swore, then straightened up and pushed the automatic into reverse and did a U-turn, hurling Celeste back into the rear seat again as they took off, tyres squealing.
They drove back out through the hospital gates and past a startled gateman, waving his hands in an attempt to stop them, and hurtled onto the major four-lane highway running past the hospital which, by some miracle, was free of traffic from both directions.
Celeste best describes what happened next.
“Driving down Anzac Parade Damon had his foot down flat. Both Toby and I were screaming at him to slow down, but nothing seemed to help. He was going as fast as the Citroën would allow while constantly looking behind him. I don’t mean into the rear mirror, but screwing around and looking out of the back window. He was fearful, very, very scared and seeing him like this I momentarily lost my own fear. ‘Please Damon, you shouldn’t drive, let Toby drive,’ I said, surprised at the calmness in my voice and massaging the back of his shoulders.
“’No time, no time to change!’ Damon said, looking back through the rear view mirror. Each time he did this, the car moved across a lane. Toby also seemed to understand that shouting at Damon wouldn’t help. He leaned slightly towards Damon and in a calm voice said, ‘Damon, you wouldn’t want me to drive if I were this angry, now would you?’ Almost immediately Damon took his foot off the accelerator. Toby’s appeal to Damon’s sense worked, because Damon didn’t like bad drivers. Damon realised that he was driving irrationally, that he was very, very angry, perhaps even that an accident might prevent his escape.
“Toby pushed his advantage, ‘I’ll drive very fast, but I’m not angry, so I’m not going to have an accident.’ Damon agreed with this, stopped, and Toby got out of the car. He ran around the front of the car and jumped into the driver’s seat and Damon simply moved over for him. The immediate crisis over, another prese
nted itself: we had to convince Damon, while at the same time attempting to calm him down, not to go back to Bondi but to come to Bennelong Crescent, to you and Benita.
“I remember we said, ‘Damon, let’s go to Bellevue Hill, let’s not go down to Bondi. Why don’t we go and have a coffee with Benita and Bryce?’ And Damon just said, ‘Why? I want to go home!’
“’No, no, I feel like some real coffee. Benita makes great coffee. We don’t have any real coffee at home, only Nescafe.’
“We weren’t thinking very straight. We didn’t think to point out that they, whoever Damon thought was following us, would obviously go straight to Bondi. Instead we persisted with the silly business of having coffee at your place.
“’We’ll stop on the way then and get some coffee,’ Damon said, sounding the most logical of us all.
“Of course, I couldn’t talk to Toby, but I knew that we didn’t know how to deal with Damon’s escape. You’d earlier told me what the consequences were if he ran away and I was scared. We simply had to get Damon to your place so that you could take charge of things. He was constantly looking behind through the rear window and this, in a sense, distracted him and so Toby drove on to the apartment. Damon was furious. He didn’t want to see you. I suppose he saw you as a part of the conspiracy against him. It was Toby who made him leave the car by suddenly coming up with the obvious argument about the people chasing him logically going directly to Bondi.
“We took him to your flat, walked him down the steps and pressed the door bell.”
* * *
Seemingly minutes before they arrived the phone rang and I picked it up. It was Dr Springsteen.
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