09: Winnie
The ninth installment of the “semi-colon” series.
“semi-colon” contains a discussion of mental health struggles. It may not be appropriate for younger readers or those sensitive to candid descriptions of suicidal ideation or other depressive symptoms.
For those who have ever ignored the pain.
“He had reached a point in his life where virtually nothing was known.”
― Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove
I didn’t have much time. I snoozed a little too long that morning in the spring of 2013 and had to hurry after eating my Eggos. This meant skipping over my vitamins and having a few minutes to pet my dog.
I ran out the door to another day of third grade at Charlotte Latin School. A final blueberry waffle in my hand, I hopped into the car. My older sister, Katie, was planning to help me with long-division on the car ride. As she tried to get my attention, I saw Winston in the front window of our house. I felt bad about missing our morning meeting and offered him a few enthusiastic waves. With his ears slightly forward and his head cocked a bit to the right, I saw his tail wag behind him as we pulled out of the driveway.
My mom said her morning prayers, Taylor Swift sang over the stereo, and Katie tried to teach me about “remainders.” I did not pay any attention. I still felt bad about not petting Winston.
A tan and white King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, “Winnie” slept at the end of my bed every single night. I could not sleep unless he kept me company and I woke up many mornings to my “alarm clock” of him licking my face. In third grade, I was still adjusting to the concept of having three sisters. My dad traveled to New York weekly for work, so oftentimes Winston was the only other boy in the house. He was a good listener, put up with attempts to wrestle with him, and was happy to eat any vegetables off my plate. I focused on my best friend until we got to school.
After a long day of lower school, I stepped off the bus into the sun. My mom was always early to pick us up. “I just missed you too much!” she would say whenever we asked why she arrived so early. But today, I did not see her in the usual front-row spot. After scanning the lot, I saw my dad coming to greet Katie and me. This was odd. My dad never picked us up at the bus. It was easy to sense that something was wrong, despite his mask of normalcy as we approached.
Once we were in the car, Katie asked my dad if everything was okay.
“Mom and I need to talk to you about something when we get home,” he replied. We took the short drive home in stillness. I think Katie asked if a grandparent had died and my dad assured her they were all fine. I listed other people who might have died. Maybe a great-aunt? A distant cousin? What could be wrong? My third-grade emotions tried to make up another story to distract me from reality.
Before I knew it, we were home, where my mom waited for us on the front stairs. My dad’s voice cracked as he said, “Guys, Winston was hit by a car and killed today.”
Before I could cry, my little voice left out a faint “What? How?”
I barely heard the answer. The street. A speeding UPS truck. Instant death.
“He’s dead?” I asked, not wanting to believe it.
“Yes,” my dad said through tears, “he’s dead.”
I ran upstairs to my room, sat in the chair where Winston and I had spent hours together, and cried inconsolably. I was almost 10 years old, and 5-year-old Winnie had grown up next to me for over half my life. He was a truly good boy.
My parents tried to help me process the grief over the ensuing weeks and months, but I did not properly work through his death. For some reason, I shoved my feelings about him into the abyss of my developing mind. If I ignored it, maybe I would never have dealt with it. It was a mistake I would continue to make, with increasing regularity, up until Slippers.
Nearly ten years later I was coming home from a late summer beach trip. I locked into an appropriate cruise control speed and clicked on my Bob Dylan playlist as I came home from my last excursion before senior year. After an hour of Blonde on Blonde, the sun began to set over the pink clouds. Out of nowhere, I saw a tan and white dog run in front of my car. With no time to react, I thought I ran it over. I turned off the music, sat in silence, and believed I killed the dog. I remembered Winston and thought about how I may have just introduced another kid to a silent car ride with their parents.
I slowed down and looked in the rearview mirror at the empty road behind me. I wasn’t sure what to do. Was a dog even there? At this point, I knew nothing about Bipolar Disorder or manic episodes, much less that they can cause vivid psychosis during periods of extremes. After half an hour of driving, I saw another dog dash into the middle of the road. As I pulled into my neighborhood, I saw another one. I slammed on my brakes kept my eyes on the dog for a few seconds. I blinked and it was gone. My mind was clearly playing tricks on me. I was relieved that no dogs had died on my drive home, but equally terrified by my brain.
Back at Davidson Behavioral Center, I started walking toward the rest of the patients, unsure if Tay was following. Glancing behind me, I saw his thin frame covered in baggy tan scrubs. His de-laced Nikes scraped along the floor as his eyes examined the rest of the hallway. When we were a few feet away from the group, my eyes locked into my trusty leather footwear.
“Okay, I need everyone in a single file line next to the wall,” the nurse instructed. “Then take your right hand and place it on the wall, and follow me.” Tay and I looked at each other, perplexed, as we watched the rest of the tan scrubs place a hand on the wall. I reached my fingertips up to the cool wall and we began to trudge.
When we reached the end of the hallway, a security guard opened a door. When I passed through, I began to understand the procedure. We were about to descend a steep, long stairwell. The nurses had spread out among the patients – standing closer to those eying the stairway a little too much. Steven, the nurse who had taken my morning vitals, was now by my side. “What’s up, big guy?” he said.
Steven asked me to put my entire palm on the wall before taking the first step. I blankly obliged. My right hand swung back to my side after the last step as we entered the cafeteria. Steven accompanied me inside, ignoring a Jerry Garcia look-alike who approached him to complain about the wait time for his mid-day meal.
Whether by his own initiative or due to a directive from Dr. Carter, Steven was clearly focused on making sure I ate lunch. He began giving me a tour of the dining hall, but I wasn’t really listening. I was focused on the fact that Blue was nowhere to be found. Had she skipped breakfast and lunch? I did not care about myself but found myself quite concerned about Blue’s well-being.
I realized I was very hungry as I read the menu Steven handed me. He recommended ordering two orders of fries or “else ya won’t get much.” I took his advice. After handing in my order, I moped to the tables. Soon I was eating french fries, chicken fingers, and a Cherry Diet Coke. I felt like a little kid at a football game. I ate it all and decided it rated four stars on Yelp, pretty solid all things considered.
I stood up when I finished, anticipating another private escort from Steven. Instead, I got a funny look from both nurses and patients. We all stayed put until everyone in the group was finished. I wished I had brought Lonesome Dove with me to pass the time. Some patients drag lunch out as long as possible, and it was nearly an hour before Tay and I silently stood next to each other again as we prepared for the journey upstairs.
As we left the cafeteria, Steven explained we could go outside “for a sec” if we wanted to. Through a quick nod, Tay and I mutually agreed to check out the courtyard. We were the only patients who wanted to extend our tour of the facility.
Stepping into the sunshine for the first time in three days, I found myself in a nicely manicured outdoor area, with benches and flowers lining the walls. I was relieved to see Blue on one of the benches with a book in her hand. Another nurse was with her, and she and Steven gave each other a wave. I followed Steven and Tay followed me to their bench, set in the sunniest part of the quad.
Blue looked up and gave me a little smile. The nurses went to another bench as we sat Tay and I joined our fellow patient. After a few seconds of awkward silence, she told us about the book she had brought from home, War and Peace. I peeked at the pages and saw the text was in its original Russian.
“You know Russian?” I said as loudly as I could muster.
“Not yet, but this felt like a good time to learn,” she said with a little laugh.
She asked me about the book she saw me grab the night before. I told her about Lonesome Dove and the Hat Creek Cattle Company, probably being a little too thorough. As I talked about the story, I realized I actually cared about it. Then, I realized I care about a lot of things – including calling my parents. After a few minutes, we headed back upstairs. Our new trinity moved as one back onto the unit – but Steven stood a little closer to me on the stairs.
I passed the common room and the nurses' station and headed to room 2019. I clicked on the lights. On the end of the unmade bed, I found a sleeping Winston. His tan and white body was curled up in a ball, his floppy ears hanging over his eyes. I looked at him for a few minutes before turning the lights back off. Not wanting him to disappear, I decided to delay the call with my parents. I slipped underneath the covers as quietly as I could, taking care not to wake up Winnie.
“Winnie” is the ninth in a planned series about my journey of pain, diagnosis, and healing. To join the over 2,500 followers of semi-colon and automatically receive the next installment please subscribe:
For those struggling with their own mental health, please talk to a friend, parent, teacher, coach, family member, or anyone you know who cares about you. If you are in immediate crisis, please use the buttons below to text the Crisis Text Line or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
Wm - a favorite quote. "It’s your objective to convey everything to the reader so that he remembers it not as a story he had read but as something that happened to himself. That is the true test of writing." You and your words are amazing. Thank you for bravely — and beautifully — inviting us in.
William, I look forward to Sunday mornings to read your story. You are an inspiration to so many. Thank you for sharing your story and I applaud both you and your family for opening up and retelling your story. You have and will stay in my prayers!