The Art of Breathing

by Janie DeVos

  “Naw, s’all yours,” she slurred.

  Hurrying past her, I quickly closed the door, turned the faucet on as hard as it would go, then sat down on the toilet and cried. I cried for all of the sorries that this sorry world owed to every person who was ripped from their homes, their lives and families, and made to endure the torture of this disease; and the separation and degradation that was a result of it. I cried many of the tears that I’d held in all afternoon.

  After five minutes or so, I heard Annabelle softly call to me through the door. “Kathryn, should we have a tray sent up for you?” I told her that it wasn’t necessary, that I’d be ready in a minute. “You take your time, sugar. You take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere.” And that was my greatest fear of all; that none of us were, unless it was by that pulley system in the tunnels.

  I pulled myself together, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and taking a steadying breath, opened the door to the expectant faces of the women who were surely wondering if I was doing myself in, or making myself up. There was almost a collective sigh when they saw me emerge, relatively unscathed except for my red eyes and nose.

  “All righty, then. Let’s see what poison they’re serving up tonight.” Annabelle’s joviality sounded forced. I knew that the women understood exactly what I was feeling, but were being tactful and trying not to embarrass me by making a fuss over me. Instead, Roberta walked up to me and gave me a reassuring hug but said nothing, while Annabelle told Peggy we’d be back shortly and asked her if there was anything from the dining hall she wanted. Then the two women ushered me out of the room to the same elevator I’d ridden up in on my arrival.

  “Where’s the dining room?” I asked, still sounding congested from crying.

  “In an adjoining building connected to the first floor. Just follow the smell—or run from it, which sometimes we’re tempted to do.” Annabelle smiled.

  “Oh, stop it, Annabelle! You’ll have the poor girl gagging before she’s had a chance to take one bite. It’s really not bad, Kathryn. It just gets tiring eating the same old things, in the same old place, with the same old people. No offense.”

  “None taken.” I smiled. “How many patients eat together? Are there different shifts? Are we totally isolated from non-tubercular patients?”

  “Patience, patience, new patient. All will be revealed.”

  We were just coming to the end of the hall, and reached a set of double doors with a brass plaque that read, “Women’s Dining Hall.” Without slowing down, Annabelle and Roberta each pushed open a side of the double doors and we walked down an enclosed corridor to an attached building.

  The room was larger than I’d thought it would be, big enough to hold about 150 people. However, there were both men and women eating there, though they did not sit together. As we made our way toward a cafeteria-style line, I realized that many sets of eyes were upon me. I was the new kid on the block, and it wasn’t too hard to figure out that in a place where not much changed except for the people and their prognoses, any newcomers were of interest to those who had been there for a while.

  “I thought this was the women’s dining room.”

  “It was,” Roberta clarified, “until about ten years ago. A lot’s changed here in the last decade. Used to be that not only were men and women separated at all times, but they weren’t allowed to say so much as hello if they passed each other in the hallway. Shoot, you could be disciplined pretty severely. They’d put restrictions on visitors, or social activities like movie night, or going to the san’s beauty parlor—that kind of thing.”

  “There’s a beauty parlor here?”

  “Not anymore,” Annabelle said. “No money for it now that it’s a state-run hospital. The good thing, though, is that they’re not as strict as they used to be—either that or they don’t really care. I haven’t figured out which one yet. But I guess the powers that be realized that if folks are determined to have a little roll in the hay, they’ll figure out a way to do it, and that telling them they can’t say hi to each other on a walkway wasn’t helping to prevent it.” She laughed, shaking her head as she handed me a tray. We moved down the line. “But old habits die hard, I guess, and men have always been told to eat on one side, and women on the other.”

  “Whatcha havin’ tonight, honey?” A pencil-thin, dark-as-night woman was standing before me, serving spoon in hand and vats of food between us.

  “Evenin’, Abilene,” Annabelle interjected before I could answer the woman. “This is Kathryn, and it’s her first night here at the Ritz. Kathryn, this is the grande dame of the Ritz, Mrs. Abilene Greene, from—where else?—Abilene, Texas!”

  “Happy to meet you.” I smiled.

  “No, you ain’t. If’n this is your first night here, you ain’t pleased at meetin’ nobody! Matter of fact, I’d be willing to bet that you hate just about everybody in the world right now, but you’ll be okay. And I gotta tell ya, good food’s gonna help you. Now, what can I get for ya? You have a choice of two of everything. I serve ya the meats. Tonight, we got pork chops, meatloaf, fried catfish, short ribs, and roasted chicken. So, what’ll it be?”

  “I’ll have a pork chop, I guess.”

  “All righty.” She put one on a plate but didn’t hand it to me. “Now, what else?”

  “Oh, no, I only need one meat. Thanks, though.” I started to reach for the plate, but Abilene actually pulled it farther away from me.

  “Miz Kathryn, you got to have two. It’s the rules. Didn’t they tell you they’re gonna fatten you up or kill ya tryin’?” She laughed at her own joke; either that, or she was laughing at the absurdity of it.

  “Oh, Lord. Well . . . okay.” I looked over the selections. “All right, let me have a little chicken, please.” Just the amount of food on my plate was starting to make me nauseous, and we hadn’t even gotten to the vegetables, starches, breads, or desserts. “Thank you, Mrs. Greene,” I said as she handed me my plate.

  “It’s Abilene, and you’re welcome, darlin’. You need anything in the area of food, you jus’ let me know.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled at her and moved on to the vegetables. Then, after working my way through the line, I pushed my heavy tray of collard greens, fried squash, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, and fruit salad (we were required to take two meats, two vegetables and one each of a starch, bread, and dessert), down to the end of the line, where I was given a bundle of silverware wrapped in a cotton dinner napkin and offered my choice of sweet or unsweetened iced tea, or lemonade. Pitchers of coffee and ice water were already on each table. I followed Roberta as she selected an empty table toward the middle of the room, away from the chilly draft coming through the many huge windows lining each wall. I was sure that I’d never get used to open windows during every season of the year, and I prayed I wouldn’t be experiencing all four of them. Don’t think about it, I told myself. Thoughts like that’ll weigh me down more than this food.

  I was anxious to meet with Dr. Ludlow first thing in the morning to discuss his views on my X-rays and sputum test, both of which had been sent to him from the clinic at Flat Top. The test results weren’t even a week old, but I wondered if I’d have to repeat them immediately.

  One of the first things I wanted to ask him was how often I could have visitors, most especially my husband and son. I ached for them. I’d been apart from Geoffrey for less than three weeks, but it felt more like three years. And I’d been away from Donnie for less than twelve hours, but it felt like a lifetime. I was anxious to know how long Dr. Ludlow thought I might be at Pelham. One thing I knew, though, was that I wanted this damned disease to be treated as aggressively as possible so that I could get out of here and back home to my little boy, my husband, my work at the Children’s Home, and just back to living life in general.

  Roberta interrupted my thoughts. “Think you’ll have enough to eat?” It was a running joke in the san that none of us would die from whatever disease had brought us there, but from obesity instead. However, th
e truth of the matter was that tuberculosis patients rapidly lost weight and one of the main reasons was our lack of appetite. I hadn’t had much of one for a few weeks. I took a bite of the greens. That was the easiest thing to eat. It was comfort food. It reminded me of home, of Mama putting a slab of salt pork, or what some called “white bacon,” into a pot of them. She’d simmer the greens for hours, and every hour or so I’d lift the lid, take a peek, and have a forkful, Just to make sure they’re comin’ along okay.

  They all right? Mama would ask. I would confirm that they surely were, and, hour after hour, the amount decreased by several forkfuls. The other comfort food was cornbread. Lord, how I loved it! I loved it most especially with home-churned rich butter slathered all over it, or with maple syrup poured over the top and dripping down the sides. I loved it broken up into my bowl of greens, floating around in the greasy pot liquor. And I loved cornbread just plain. I had once declared that if God didn’t provide us with cornbread and greens upon our arrival at the pearly gates, he was obviously a Yankee, which would force me to check out what my other options might be as far as where I’d be spending eternity. Cornbread and greens were Heaven to me, so it went without saying that I expected the good Lord to have plenty of them on the menu.

  “Do they really expect us to eat all this?”

  “Of course not.” Annabelle laughed, reaching for the sugar bowl. “But they know that if we only take a tiny amount of food, we’ll only eat part of that. So I guess their strategy is if we take more, chances are we’ll eat more. But it’s nauseating, I know. There’s enough there to make a lumberjack gag. So, Kathryn, you doin’ all right?” she asked, diving right in. Her dark eyes scrutinized mine carefully. “You don’t have to be polite with us, you know.”

  “Oh, I won’t be—I mean, I’ll be honest with you. Well, it’s all a little overwhelming at first. It’s just too . . .” My voice cracked and I didn’t finish. If I said another word I’d start crying again.

  Roberta, who was sitting on my left, gently took my hand. “It’s all right, Kathryn. Everyone here felt the same way you did on their first day. You’d be an odd one if you didn’t feel the way you do. But we’re here to tell you, you’ll adjust. You’ll start to feel comfortable and then you’ll be—”

  “I don’t want to feel comfortable.” I softly blew my nose, then started coughing again. I’d been coughing more in the last hour, and I wondered if being tired and upset could actually aggravate my symptoms. Roberta and Annabelle sat patiently, waiting for the coughing to subside. When it did, I continued. “I don’t want this place to start feeling like it’s home. I don’t want to . . .” I realized how pitiful I sounded. I was already breaking one of the rules: no whining. “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry. I sound like . . .” I didn’t finish my sentence. I could feel the sob waiting to escape, but this time I felt like crying over my shameful behavior. It helped no one. I took a sip of tea to stifle any other sounds and stared down at my fruit salad.

  “Don’t you apologize, honey.” Roberta’s eyes were warm, the color of honey. “You just eat what you want and head back to the ward anytime. This isn’t a jail, you know, though I bet it feels that way right now. You want me to walk you back?” I looked up and realized she was on the verge of tears herself. The last thing I wanted to do was upset anyone. I’d already done enough of that to my family over the last several days.

  “No, no,” I assured her, giving her a weak smile. It was all I could muster at the moment. “I’m fine, really. I’m so sorry, y’all. I hate that I’m being this way. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, I’ll feel better.”

  “Then you’ll be the first one to feel that way on their second day here. C’mon, see if you can eat just a little more,” Annabelle encouraged me. “Then, if you want to, we’ll go for a short walk around the grounds.”

  “Yes . . . yes, I’d like that.” I made myself finish most of the cornbread and greens, and a bite or two of the fruit salad. The meat was left untouched. I just couldn’t force any of it down. We put away our trays, then left the dining room, with many sets of eyes following our exit. Out in the corridor, we walked about halfway down, then, instead of taking the elevator on our left, we exited through a door on our right that led us outside. The administration building stood like a sentinel at the end of the long drive, which I’d driven down earlier that day. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “C’mon.” Annabelle directed us down the right fork of a walkway. “We’ll take you over to the koi pond.”

  “The what pond?”

  “The koi pond. Koi are a Japanese fish; pretty to look at but not good to eat. The pond is part of a water garden. When this place used to be only a tuberculosis sanatorium, they wanted the patients to spend a lot of time outside, just as we’re supposed to do now. And to get people to go out when all they wanted to do was stay in—sleeping, coughing, spitting—they decided to make the outside a better place to be than the inside. So they built different things, like the koi pond, and put in gardens, both flower and vegetable, and a greenhouse. They also put in gazebos, a small band shelter—the list goes on and on. Some of those things have been neglected over the years, or even torn down since this place became more of a psychiatric hospital. Nowadays they try to keep most of the patients inside. There’s less opportunity to make a run for it, or get into some other crazy kind of trouble.”

  “So they’re pretty much under lock and key, day and night?” I asked.

  “Some yes and some no. The criminally insane, of course, are kept locked up, and so are the ones who have the potential to be dangerous to themselves or others. But others, who may be loopy but harmless, are allowed to be outside more. Speak of the devil!” Annabelle stopped, so Roberta and I did, too, and looked around to see what she was looking at.

  A group of patients was gathered around a man who was talking to someone or something up in an oak tree. Most of the patients were wearing hospital-issued clothing, the men in lightweight pants and scrub-style tops, the women in shift-style dresses. Some were still wearing their pajamas. All of their clothing was light green, whereas the pajamas I had been given were light blue. Non-psych patients were allowed to wear street clothing and pajamas of their choice, but all psych patients were required to wear the institution-issued clothing. It was easier for the staff to identify them that way.

  The man who was looking up into the tree was wearing street clothes, however. He seemed to be in his early thirties, with wavy brown hair the color of coffee with a lot of cream in it, longer than most men wore it. He wasn’t dressed like one of the doctors, but he seemed to be directing things; perhaps he was a therapist, or even a visitor? But visiting hours were between 7:00 and 8:00 p.m., and I knew it was only 6:50 because I’d checked the clock in the dining room as we were leaving, knowing that I had a schedule to follow now, and I didn’t want to be reprimanded like a tardy schoolgirl, especially not on my first day there.

  “What’s Philip doin’ now?” Roberta stood there with her hands on her ample hips.

  “Probably trying to talk Captain Crow down.” Annabelle laughed. “Case in point,” she said, turning to me. “Here you have a nutty buddy up in a tree who we call Captain Crow ’cause he thinks he’s a bird. He’s harmless though, so they let him have some outside time. But someone has to keep an eye on him, or he shimmies up a tree. He’s been known to sit on a nest, ‘to relieve the mother bird so she can get some rest,’ and he’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that he can communicate with birds—that they understand him as well as he understands them. He’ll also swear on that same stack of Bibles that he was a bird in a previous life—a crow, and that he was killed by a cat. Lord God, help us all. I swear, I’ve seen that man eat worms an—” Annabelle started coughing hard. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a handkerchief and spat into it. “Good, not as much as yesterday.”

  “Here, let’s take a breather on this bench,” Roberta suggested. “We can watch the spectacle from here.” Annabelle sat down hard, breathing he
avily. Of the three women in the ward, Roberta seemed the least sick. Annabelle didn’t seem nearly as bad off as Peggy, but she coughed more than Roberta, and from my limited observations, I seemed to be closest to Annabelle in frequency of coughing.

  “How long have y’all been here?” I asked.

  “Too long,” Annabelle answered immediately. “I’ve been here almost three months, and Roberta’s been here about, what”—she turned to her—“four months now, Berta?”

  “Five, but who’s counting? Hope it won’t be like last time, though. That was a thirteen-month stay. Too long for my liking.”

  “You’ve been here before, Roberta?” Now I remembered her saying during supper that a lot had changed over the last ten years. It never occurred to me that some of these folks might have come back. Lord God, please don’t let me be one of them.

  “In ’44,” Roberta said in answer to my question. “I was here for over a year. Lordy, I was bad off! I know everyone wondered if I was gonna come out feet first.” She grimaced. “Poor Bob. He did come out feet first. He was my husband,” she explained. “Both of us were working in a factory that made bicycle parts, down in Franklin. There was an outbreak of TB, and we both got it. We came here together. I made it out but he didn’t. Now, here I am again!”

  “I’m sorry, Roberta. I didn’t know. Do you have children?”

  “One son, grown and gone. He’s making the military his career. He’s stationed in Fort Bragg, and still single. And I remarried two years ago—a fella from my church, Jim Truman.”

  “That’s good, Roberta,” I responded, but was only half listening. I was still trying to digest the fact that recurrences of TB were quite common. “What’s the likelihood of getting TB more than once?”

  “Oh, now, sugar, don’t go worryin’ about that,” Annabelle said to reassure me. “Some people just have weak constitutions, and they get sick more than others. Those are the ones who come back. Then there’re the ones who don’t follow the doctors’ orders and they do too much, or too little, and they have to come back, but then it’s their own fault. And with some, it’s just plain bad luck. Anyway, don’t think about that.”