A Reason to Believe_ Lessons From an Improbable Life - Deval Patrick [65]
Learning eventually to keep my guard up in political life, I rarely answered directly when asked if there were things about those early weeks I regretted. Of course I felt disappointed, angry, and even bitter, mainly at myself. But I had learned to channel those emotions into something positive. That’s how I had put setbacks behind me in the past—by climbing the next mountain. So I set about trying to pursue the very goals that had motivated me to become governor in the first place. Even after I delivered on many of the big initiatives we had promised in the campaign and successfully steered state government through the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression, the media could not resist recalling those early missteps. But I kept going, kept producing, remembering that at the end of the day, history will judge me not by the symbols of office but by the substance of our accomplishments and their impact on the lives of people.
Unfortunately, it was not so straightforward for Diane. For as long as I’ve known her, she has read the newspaper each morning before doing anything else. She craved the information to feel connected to the community and to the culture at large. The newspaper itself seemed to bring clarity and order to her world. It was once a healthy addiction, but now it was torture.
“Reading the paper,” she told me one day, “makes me nervous and weak. It feels like kryptonite.”
“Then stop reading the newspaper,” I said. “Do you think Superman seeks out kryptonite?” I thought it was that simple.
I had been consumed with the campaign and then with the immediate demands of my new job. I knew that expectations were high, that I would be held to a different standard, and I was eager to serve with class, thoughtfulness, and professionalism, so I was busy poring over résumés to find outstanding appointees for the cabinet and trying to understand the intricacies of the state budget. I was conscientious about serving the people of Massachusetts, but I did not serve the most important person in my life. I didn’t realize how badly Diane was hurting. When our official photograph was taken as governor and first lady of Massachusetts, she wore a radiant red jacket but could barely muster a smile. She felt that she had lost control over her life and was spiraling into depression.
One night in early March of 2007, about nine weeks into my new job, I told Diane about an article that would appear the next day. The Globe would report about a call I had made to Citibank. I spoke as a character reference for the executives of a company on whose board I had once sat. It was innocent but dumb, and the insinuations were about to fly. Was I using my position as governor rather than my prior personal relationships to influence the bank? Did I stand to gain financially? Had I violated the state ethics rules? (I had not.) We turned off the lights, but Diane awoke after a fitful sleep. She nudged me awake and said she just couldn’t face another critical story. She began to cry and shake. When I asked her what was wrong, she said, “I just hate this. I hate this. This is what the next four years are going to be like.”
Her heart was racing, and her skin was cold and clammy. (Our daughters were away at school, so just the two of us were at home.) At first, I thought she was having a heart attack. I couldn’t console her. She was in a panic and unraveling.
“I don’t want to get up,” she said. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Years earlier, she had seen a therapist in Boston, so I called her, and she suggested that I take Diane to the hospital. “Let’s admit her medically,” she said. She thought McLean Hospital, a psychiatric facility, was the right place for her, and she would meet us there. Diane wasn’t suicidal, but she needed to be away from this reality. I then spoke to Diane.