Have a Little Faith - Mitch Albom [23]
He told the man to go away.
Then Henry went into the bathroom, got on his knees, and began to pray. After he finished, he guzzled a bottle of NyQuil.
The next day, he guzzled another.
And the next day, he guzzled another—all in an attempt to numb himself through a self-imposed detox. It was three days before he could put a morsel of food in his mouth. Three days before he could even lift up out of bed.
Three days.
And then he opened his eyes.
SEPTEMBER
Happiness
The Reb opened his eyes.
He was in the hospital.
It was not the first time. Although he often hid his ailments from me, I learned that in recent months, staying upright had become a problem. He had slipped on the pavement and cut open his forehead. He had slipped in the house and banged his neck and cheek. Now he had fallen getting up from his chair and slammed his rib cage against a desk. It was either syncope, a temporary loss of consciousness, or small strokes, transient attacks that left him dizzy and disoriented.
Either way, it was not good.
Now I expected the worst. A hospital. The portal to the end. I had called and asked if it was all right to visit, and Sarah kindly said I could come.
I braced myself at the front entrance. I am haunted by hospital visits and their familiar, depressing cues. The antiseptic smell. The low drone of TV sets. The drawn curtains. The occasional moaning from another bed. I had been to too many hospitals for too many people.
For the first time in a while, I thought about our agreement.
Will you do my eulogy?
I entered the Reb’s room.
“Ah,” he smiled, looking up from the bed, “a visitor from afar…”
I stopped thinking about it.
We hugged—or, I should say, I hugged his shoulders and he touched my head—and we both agreed that this was a first, a hospital conversation. His robe fell open slightly and I caught a glance at his bare chest, soft, loose flesh with a few silver hairs. I felt a rush of shame and looked away.
A nurse breezed in.
“How are you doing today?” she asked.
“I’m dooooing,” the Reb lilted. “I’m dooooing…”
She laughed. “He sings all the time, this one.”
Yes, he does, I said.
It amazed me how consistently the Reb could summon his good nature. To sing to the nurses. To kid around with the physicians. The previous day, while waiting in a wheelchair in the hallway, he was asked by a hospital worker for a blessing. So the Reb put his hands on the man’s head and gave him one.
He refused to wallow in self-pity. In fact, the worse things got for him, the more intent he seemed on making sure no one around him was saddened by it.
As we sat in the room, a commercial for an antidepressant drug flashed across the TV screen. It showed people looking forlorn, alone on a bench or staring out a window.
“I keep feeling something bad is going to happen…,” the TV voice said.
Then, after showing the pill and some graphics, those same people appeared again, looking happier.
The Reb and I watched in silence. After it ended, he asked, “Do you think those pills work?”
Not like that, I said.
“No,” he agreed. “Not like that.”
Happiness in a tablet. This is our world. Prozac. Paxil. Xanax. Billions are spent to advertise such drugs. And billions more are spent purchasing them. You don’t even need a specific trauma; just “general depression” or “anxiety,” as if sadness were as treatable as the common cold.
I knew depression was real, and in many cases required medical attention. I also knew we overused the word. Much of what we called “depression” was really dissatisfaction, a result of setting a bar impossibly high or expecting treasures that we weren’t willing to work for. I knew people whose unbearable source of misery was their weight, their baldness, their lack of advancement in a workplace, or their inability to find the perfect mate, even if they themselves did not behave like one. To these people, unhappiness was a condition, an intolerable state