tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69512947035008640802008-07-18T09:52:39.537-07:00P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-16821690233981918642008-05-18T21:16:00.000-07:002008-07-18T09:52:39.842-07:00

Jo Kasten’s middle child has always been difficult. Fiery, defiant, startlingly handsome and hyper intelligent, Eddy’s childhood years were full of turmoil and conflict. But when he reaches manhood, things change--for the worse. Eddy’s struggle with schizophrenia begins in a men’s bathroom at a local junior college and carries him to the deepest recesses of the human mind. In the midst of his

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-34548804156019097012008-05-11T09:23:00.000-07:002008-07-07T17:08:46.669-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart After the radical mastectomy and after the first frightening chemo and after my hair started coming away from my head in handfuls but before my skin turned gray and before Lawrence buzzed me bald and before the hideous cold sore on my lip which flowered tenaciously for more than a week making me feel like a (perversely appealing) gargoyle, Rose suggested spending a day

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-45654928125949464632008-05-04T11:01:00.000-07:002008-05-04T11:55:51.174-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart The last time I saw Jason was when Eddy was still in the partial hospitalization program which the hospital had prescribed as part of his “exit plan.” He arrived with his girlfriend Susie on a Saturday, poking his head tentatively through the front door. I came out from the back of the house at his call and ushered them onto the couch. It wasn’t like old times. Jason didn

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-37622668738412567262008-04-27T07:05:00.000-07:002008-04-27T07:29:50.912-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart Eddy stayed longer the second time around, still without much effect. It would be another year, and a third trip to the hospital, before he was willing to try medication and psychiatry—to make a serious effort to come back. When we passed the three-day threshold of the 5150 “hold for observation” without comment from the doctors, we knew we would be in for a long haul.

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-10193991406846359352008-04-19T15:33:00.000-07:002008-04-27T07:24:59.052-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart That night I had the dream. Eddy and I were down in his room, the one that belongs to Henry now, beneath the rest of the house. It was dark. We were huddled beneath a blanket. The blanket was gray, or iron blue, rough in texture, like the old blankets my father brought home from the army after World War II. Itchy and tightly woven. Warm but uncomfortable. The opposite of

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-30298837547993075462008-04-13T16:38:00.000-07:002008-04-13T17:07:39.568-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart I awoke in the cold cabin to thin morning light and the familiar sound of Jean putting on her shoes. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep as she walked by my bed and out the door, which swung shut with a loud bang. Next I heard her trudging up the hill to the toilet, and knew it wouldn’t be long before she came back. “Are you awake, Jane?” I asked quietly,

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-61705620210366002212008-04-06T11:20:00.000-07:002008-04-06T12:58:13.939-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart After the Cronus fiasco, Eddy somehow managed to pull himself together before I left for camp. At first Lawrence said he would stay home with Eddy, that I should drive up to the Mendocino Woodlands—to the Tall Trees Family Camp we’d been visiting at the end of July for the past 10 years, a vacation which we’d already paid for in advance—with just Henry and Rose. It would

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-82385390748428733652008-03-30T16:50:00.000-07:002008-03-30T17:30:59.168-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart There was a moment in recovery when a large, distorted face leaned over me, shouting, as if from a distance. Can you hear me? Wake up! “Was something wrong?” I wondered fearfully. “Were they unable to revive me?” Then two people were rolling me into an elevator, one at the head of my bed and one at the foot. We took up the whole car. They brought me to a big room with

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-446460981036272032008-03-23T18:38:00.000-07:002008-05-25T11:56:38.382-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart The night before surgery we tried to behave as if nothing unusual was happening, but my nerves hummed. I felt like I was being tumbled by a big wave at Santa Cruz. “Don’t fight it,” my parents had instructed me early. “You cannot beat the Pacific Ocean. Roll with it. Or press your body flat against the sandy bottom--wait for the wave to pass over. Then swim up.”

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-71655478964248610822008-03-16T08:46:00.000-07:002008-03-21T18:13:19.437-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart It was a tremendous relief to have Eddy back at home. Every possibility had passed through my mind during the five or six hours he was missing. He might be hurt. He might be lost at last to drug addiction or madness. He might disappear and never be heard from again. To actually have him in the house, physically safe, calmed the worst of those fears. But what were we to do

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-54151516599872497362008-03-09T08:34:00.001-07:002008-03-09T08:58:33.150-07:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart The day before the operation Lawrence and I went to the hospital for pre-surgical orientation. First we sat on upholstered chairs in a cramped, hidden lobby, tucked behind the main lobby with the smoothly sliding glass doors, and filled out questionnaires. I wielded the clipboard and pen. Lawrence sat close beside me. My anxiety rose as I worked down the sheet and watched

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-80034601094639031762008-03-02T07:25:00.000-08:002008-03-02T13:46:02.970-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart Four days in the wilderness did not cure Eddy, or deepen his relationship with Charles (they argued), or make him any happier to come back to our house, nor did it open a spot for him in Project 60, or even a bed in the less desirable Palm Avenue detoxification center. When Eddy got back from camping, he burst through the front door without saying anything and went

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-64796165646949140142008-02-24T09:33:00.000-08:002008-02-24T10:09:45.596-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart There was an in between time—after the recommendation by the surgeon but before the mastectomy—when Lawrence and I began drawing closer. When he left the house, I wanted to go with him. When we walked down the sidewalk, we held hands. One morning, we went together to several home consignment stores looking for used couches. Normally, I would leave the decorating

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-13189660320954460822008-02-17T08:32:00.000-08:002008-02-24T10:03:46.723-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart Project 60 had no openings that day—a Sunday. If Eddy wanted a slot in their program, they said he would have to show up for an interview on Tuesday. They also recommended a 72-hour stay at Palm Avenue Detoxification Center, which would provide proof that the client was clean and sober. Palm Avenue was not a requirement for admission, but it could create a recommendation,

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-1269847694951594122008-02-10T08:08:00.000-08:002008-02-24T10:03:15.282-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart The next day Eddy kept his distance. Kay and I lured him into playing the promised game of Settlers, which he won as usual, despite his apparently dulled senses, but he spoke little during the game, made his moves without enthusiasm, and left soon afterwards for a walk on the beach. He was gone for hours, reappearing briefly to rummage through the refrigerator, while

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-30263041267666749552008-02-03T09:01:00.000-08:002008-02-10T09:15:49.631-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart Eddy made it through the end of the semester at CSM, living on his own in his apartment at the eco-commune, being transported to school and to counseling appointments by his father, who reported to me that our son seemed to be on the mend. I didn’t see much of him for two or three weeks. When school was over, he and his father brought his things back home. “Are you

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-44731852253336008092008-01-27T00:05:00.000-08:002008-02-10T09:14:49.950-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart They say that mother’s milk is the most nourishing and healthy substance on the planet. When I heard that I had breast cancer, in addition to the fear of death and mutilation, I felt insulted that it had manifested in my milk ducts; it seemed an aspersion on my femininity, on my gender, on my suitability for motherhood. I remember when my breasts first filled with milk.

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-38364898588081608512008-01-20T00:01:00.000-08:002008-02-10T09:14:08.323-08:00

Photo by Lauren Hill When we study Greek mythology at Santa Inez High, I always begin with the creation of the universe. First there was only Chaos, and Night, I tell my freshmen, holding up a picture book I inherited from my teacher sister, Jane. Then Mother Earth emerged, the progenitor, the creator of all living things, but she was barren. So she gave birth to Father Sky, who lay over her and

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-38557086112731267472008-01-13T08:37:00.000-08:002008-01-20T00:33:57.845-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart Claire did come to the appointment to meet with the surgeon. Rose came too, home from Costa Rica just long enough to play a significant role. And Lawrence, of course. The four of us took up half the seats in the waiting room, where an older woman with no hair—her bald head covered by a blue kerchief—sat at one end and an older man reading a magazine sat at another.

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-7445226933657393052008-01-06T02:22:00.000-08:002008-01-13T08:55:18.310-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart After the doctor called to tell me I had cancer, I continued driving the car home. Jean continued crying, but I felt no pity for her. Claire continued comforting Jean, but I felt no gratitude. When we pulled up in front of my house, I briskly went into the living room and sat down by the phone. “I want to call Lawrence,” I curtly told my two sisters when they came in

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-74211393163919367322007-12-30T07:47:00.000-08:002008-01-13T08:56:37.903-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart I called the three psychiatrists Dr. Hu had recommended. One of them sounded like a pompous ass on the telephone. A second had no openings. A third suggested Eddy come into his San Mateo office to communicate with him over a television monitor while he worked in his office in San Francisco. I asked if Eddy could come to his San Francisco office instead. He said no. The

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-13361173885060021772007-12-23T10:25:00.000-08:002007-12-30T07:50:29.836-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart They kept Eddy in the hospital for three days that first time, just like the intern had said they would. Legally, she’d explained, that was as long as they could keep him without getting a judge to approve an extension. In police lingo, it’s called a 5150—a hold for observation, allowable in California only if the detainee poses a threat to himself or others. A person

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-42690818426168236772007-12-16T00:01:00.000-08:002007-12-23T10:31:22.206-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart Two days before I was scheduled to meet my surgeon (“Oh, you have a surgeon now!” my friend Angela exclaimed, as if I had purchased an expensive hat), I woke up at 4 in the morning and wondered what she would want to do with my left breast. Would she want to “remove” it (take it somewhere else, perhaps)? Or could she make, merely, a “large area excision” as suggested by

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-83459995780143265252007-12-09T07:14:00.000-08:002007-12-19T18:48:58.387-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart I woke at 4 a.m. again today and considered the academic term “sequence of events.” In high school, we teach students to pay attention to the sequence of events in literature, to make sure they fully understand what came first and what came next. One graphic organizer pictures the sequence of events like this, implying that one event leads inevitably to another. If I

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6951294703500864080.post-80119120513295635082007-12-02T00:01:00.000-08:002007-12-19T18:47:10.534-08:00

Photo by Brendon Stuart Sometimes I wonder if I brought these catastrophes upon me, lured them to me with a subliminal siren song while I worked or slept. I remember one day before all the trouble started, when Greta came over to do a tarot reading. A fellow teacher at Santa Inez High School, I first realized she was interested in the mystical cards when she invited me to a tarot crafts party

P.C. Fergussonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16615376140874646418noreply@blogger.com