Time for Eternity

By Susan Renee and Wilford W. Spradlin

Joe Pitts, a brilliant if somewhat obsessive and cynical graduate student from a wealthy dysfunctional family lashes out under pressure against what he sees as the hypocrisy of society and the futility of his life in it. Briefly committed to a psychiatric ward in the aftermath of an altercation with one of his professors, he meets Dr. Margaret Wright, a resident and Susan Holland, a somewhat mystical nursing student. Just as Joe begins to believe that his intellect and his Ego can overcome what he sees as a minor troubling interlude in his life, he receives a shock. It is a diagnosis of terminal testicular cancer.

With the aid of Dr. Wright, Susan, Roberta Turner, a philosophical fellow student and Dr. Shultz, the very professor with whom his altercation began this odyssey, and a man whose wife has just made the final passage, Joe learns in the hospice to revere his own, now fleeting existence and gains the humility necessary to face the next and final stage of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456739430

Susan Renee

Dr Wilford W. Spradlin received his B.A. and M.D. degrees from the University of Virginia, interned at the Royal Victoria Hospital of McGill University and completed his residency training at Duke University where he later became a member of the faculty. In 1978, Dr. Spradlin accepted the position of Chairman at the University of Virginia Department of Psychiatry. At his retirement in 1977, Dr. Spradlin was awarded the W. W. Spradlin Chair of Psychiatric Medicine and the title of Professor Emeritus. Presently Dr. Spradlin continues to teach and supervise residents. He and his co-author, Susan Renee, pursue their shared interest in the bio-psycho-social foundations of human behavior with emphasis on the psychological, philosophical and religious aspects of reverential phenomena through works of fiction that explore human behavior in crisis situations. www.wilford-spradlin-writings.com

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CHAPTER 1

SUICIDAL

Suicidal? Of course I’m suicidal! What intelligent person isn’t? I know I’m intelligent. I have an IQ of 145 and I’m an advanced graduate student at a major university, even though I’m only 19. Nevertheless, intelligent people can make mistakes, and I made a big one. I was honest with a therapist. I admitted that I thought life was a tragic mistake. That’s why I am now on this psychiatric ward suffering the condescending platitudes of those morons who contend that they care about me.

Sure, I know it’s what they get paid for. They’re professional care givers, or here to learn that let’s-pretend game. Can you imagine getting paid to pretend you care? Sickening, don’t you think?

Well, I’m not a slow learner. If they can play the game, then so can I. Now that I have a psychiatric admission on my record, I have to plan how to use it to my advantage. I have to convince them that I care so much about the well-being of humanity that I became depressed. Thankfully, I didn’t divulge to that stupid shrink in the university health system, how much hatred I have. That really would have been an even bigger mistake. I could have been labeled a schizophrenic rather than a depression. Of course, on psych wards, we’re no longer people; we’re diagnoses. I’m no longer Joseph Pitts. I’m a depression. The so-called professional personnel, and their various understudies may call me Joe to my face, but when they huddle behind the scenes, they refer to me as the depression in Room 14.

There’s a certain ironic humor about this whole scenario, if you like puns. Joe Pitts was thrown in the pit because he was in the pit of depression. I like puns, that lowest form of humor. It’s the pits, right? Now they want to explore the depths of this pit of depression that Pitts is in. Isn’t that pitiful?

I’ve read enough psychology to know that rhyming and punning are a symptom of mania. I have to be careful that I don’t get labeled as a manic-depressive, or a bipolar disorder. In their sacred gospel of diagnostic dogmas, bipolar disorder implies a psychotic disorder. A severe neurotic disorder can be excused, if one is a genius, which I am. However, being labeled a psychotic might limit my future potential.

My first mistake was in letting one of my professors know that I thought he was ignorant. When I realized that he might be vindictive about hearing the truth, I overdid my act of contrition by confessing that I was totally mixed up. That got me sent to student health where I compounded my first mistake by admitting that sometimes life didn’t seem worth living. That’s tantamount to a suicidal threat and a ticket to the looney-bin. Of course, the aforesaid professor will now give me an A to prove that he’s a compassionate liberal who doesn’t discriminate against the mentally ill. Nevertheless, if some faceless committee in the graduate school is confidentially informed that I’m psychotic, it could have repercussions on my future education. The educational industry, like the healthcare industry, prides itself in being compassionate and motivated solely by its concern for the advancement of humanity. Not one of those dedicated individuals in those industries would be as honest as the bank robber and admit that money has anything to do with it. You may protest that prestige is involved, but in our glorious society, prestige equals money. If one has enough money, one can buy prestige.

I have to be careful to keep my thoughts about the hypocrisy of society to myself. If I’m not on guard, my rage will show, and that might change their diagnosis. Believe me, I truly am concerned about society and humanity. I believe it’s a disease that should be cured. Let me quickly insert, with crossed fingers, that it’s the suffering of all the underprivileged that causes me to feel…despondent. Just think of all the starving unwanted children and the prostitutes dying of aids. Doesn’t that make you want to weep?

I can’t let myself think of Wall Street, Big Oil and Political Egotists or my rage might show. I have to convince myself that the Big Industries are truly the answer to all suffering. Once the Earth is destroyed, there will be no more suffering. Oops, I slipped. That sounded hostile, didn’t it? I have to keep my mind on starving children. I can’t reflect on my own perverted childhood, with my super-wealthy upper-class parents, my individual tutors and prestigious prep schools, or my anger will overshadow my supposed depression. I have to actually be worried that my father’s present mistress will desert him, or that my mother’s lover will become impotent.

Oh crap! There I go again! I’m sounding cynical, aren’t I? I really never knew how hard it was to sustain the role of a depressed person without being passively aggressive. It must take a heck of a lot of practice to be a continuous martyr, without any sign of bitterness.

Even Jesus, while he was dying, couldn’t avoid one last dig at his tormentors. Didn’t he ask God to forgive his torturers because they were too stupid to realize what they were doing? Even though he taught forgiveness and love, he got in some pretty good hits on scribes and Pharisees. He called them vipers and tombs full of rot, as I recall. One of my tutors was hyper-religious, and that cured me of any reverential idealism, especially after he wanted to feel my genitals while I prayed. He explained that he was just testing my faith, and that if I were really in the spirit, I wouldn’t get an erection. I passed the test, but he didn’t. The bastard should have worn a jockstrap.

No! I can’t think about that. They may come in to check on me at any moment. I have to look sad and feel sad until the medication takes effect. If I look better too quickly they’ll assume I’m in a state of denial and probably more suicidal than ever. On the other hand, if they believe that I’m not depressed and let me go too soon, that dumb professor will think I was just faking and might be vindictive enough to flunk me.

I have to continually remind myself to slow down and think. My thoughts do race at times. I believe that’s why I was so successful in academics. However, although my superior mind, when running at full speed, can process information much faster than the average person, it can lead to an impulsivity that gets me in trouble. Just like my telling that stupid professor the truth.

Thankfully, I was able to keep my impulsivity under control when Dr. Margaret Wright, the psychiatry resident, interviewed me shortly after my admission. I realized that it was too late to undo the mistake I’d made in student health, so I admitted that I felt depressed. Nevertheless, when she asked about any family history of mental illness, I was able to lie rather convincingly. I was even able to look shocked at the very thought. I hope that I was able to distract her from considering bipolar disorder. I could tell that’s what she was considering by her questions about racing thoughts and lack of sleep.

I didn’t tell her about my grandfather, Crazy Joe Pitts, who made millions during his manic states. I kept my Uncle Frank completely out of the picture. Uncle Frank was hospitalized multiple times for either alcoholism or bipolar disorder or both. His last admission was prompted by a prolonged bout of mania, heavy drinking, and sleep deprivation. He was so out of it that when they hospitalized him, he was talking in word salad. So they diagnosed him as schizo-affective disorder. However, when he went into DTs, had a seizure, choked and died, they changed his diagnosis to organic affective disorder. It seems imperative to them that patients die with the right diagnosis.

Of course I didn’t mention that my hypersexual father drinks heavily and goes for days without sleep. Maybe that’s how he added to his father’s fortune. I didn’t divulge that my mother has been involved in several programs for alcoholics and that she and her present lover, who was in the same program, dropped out of it so that they could shack up and drink while they watched porno movies. I know that because I came home unexpectedly and went into Mom’s bedroom. It was sickening. When she tried to explain it to me, I almost vomited. I’m an adult, and I know that adults have sex…but with liquor bottles? I can’t see the humor in sucking a pickle or lapping a chaser. Maybe I’m just naïve, and I have to keep in mind that, at the present time, I’m the crazy one in our family.

CHAPTER 2

CAPTORS

Well, they just left, and I hope I played the game right. It was my attending psychiatrist, Dr. Thomas Hardy, followed at a respectful distance by Dr. Margaret Wright, the psychiatric resident, who did my workup. I haven’t decided yet whether I admire or despise Dr. Hardy. I try to be more neutral in my opinions, but I have trouble being tepid about things. For me they’re either hot or cold.

Dr. Hardy wasn’t cold, but he wasn’t gushy either. I could tell, when he asked me how I was feeling, that he wasn’t expecting an objective answer. He was studying my face and not really listening for what I was going to say. So I gave him a tired smile, the one that says, I’d rather be dead, but I don’t want to whine about it, and I said, OK…I guess.

He turned to his resident, Dr. Wright and said, as though he was instructing her about the care and feeding of some zoo animal. Watch his sleep pattern before we start him on medication. I don’t think he’s a candidate for some metabolic or neurological problem, but do a screen, and if you have any question about his mental status, scan his head. If there’s any question, get a neurology consult. Then he put on a store-bought smile, patted me on the shoulder, and said in a fatherly voice, I know that depressions are miserable, but please be patient. We’ll get you back in the bump and grind as soon as we can.

I was about to decide that I disliked him, but the very fact that he said, Bump and grind, rather than As good as new, gave me the slight impression that he might be a cynic, too. Not that I necessarily like cynics, but they’re not totally repulsive, like those who radiate a joy in life. Anyone who enjoys this hell, which we call life, has to be dumb or is trying to sell you something.

Dr. Wright punched some keys on the electronic gadget she was carrying. Her expression did not change. Maybe she considered herself as Dr. Hardy’s electronic gadget. When she did my workup, I could have almost sworn that she was human, but as she stood behind Dr. Hardy I was no longer sure. Maybe they were both drones responding to the commands of some geek, observing through a hidden TV monitor. I know that sounds paranoid, but they do have the technology to put electrodes in brains now, just like they learned to put pacemakers in chests to regulate heartbeats.

Hell, I’ve got to stop that type of thinking or next I’ll suspect that the TV set in my room is programmed to influence me. That is possible, after all. Propaganda is powerful stuff. Our entire social system runs on propaganda from TV sets. Anyone who watches children’s programs will understand how they try to sneak education into entertainment. On those programs, some grotesque animal-like character, which is supposed to be cute, repeatedly brainwashes children about their ABCs or some banal type of addition.

One secret, which I must keep to myself, is that I’ve read several psychiatry texts. I was trying to understand my screwed-up family. However, when I discovered that the entire world was screwed up, and that the people who wrote those texts were no exception, I decided to try to figure it out on my own. Nevertheless, I have trouble avoiding using psychobabble. Since I have a photographic memory, those texts are burned in my memory banks. I realize that the metaphors used by psychiatrists are derived from mythology and are not scientific, but they are rather catchy. I know that I have an unresolved Oedipal conflict, castration anxiety, and even penis envy, which is a convoluted way of saying that I get tense when I don’t feel in control. But…who isn’t? So with psychiatric jargon, one can’t be wrong. If anyone wants to argue about it, it just shows that they’re threatened by it, and hence it must be true.

Dr. Hardy did say something, just as he was leaving, which intrigued me. I’m not sure whether he was talking to Dr. Wright or me. He said, again using that rather depersonalizing tone, Depressions are fight-flight patterns. For some social or biological reason, depressed people feel like they’re trapped. They can’t fight or flee, so they go into a slowed down or immobilized state. Actually, many depressions can be viewed as internalized rage. Our anti-depression medications mobilize energy. However, if the depressed patient still feels like he or she is still in a trap, that energy can increase the rage and actually make the patient more suicidal. It would probably be beneficial if Mr. Pitts could ventilate some of his rage before we add more energy to it.

That rather pompous bastard hit the nail squarely on the head. How did he know that I have been in a rage ever since I was a kid? If people expect me to live up to their expectations, it makes me angry. If people act as though I’m incapable of meeting their expectations, it makes me even angrier. In summary, being around people makes me angry. I hate people and that includes my own wimpy self. I would probably have already committed suicide if I thought anyone cared. No one would really give a damn. My mom would use my funeral as a stage for her theatrics. My dad would bitch about having to let his secretary get off his lap in order to make a cameo appearance at the service, just in case some of his wealthy investors showed up there to show concern and thus protect their investments. Everyone might put on the expected long face and say, How sad, but they wouldn’t give a shit about me. They would all be wondering what other people were thinking about them. Everyone’s an incurable narcissist. Their pretended compassion is a front to convince others that they’re really the good people that they assume themselves to be. It’s really all show business.

Why did I have to tell that dumb professor that he was stupid? Of course I could rationalize that I was only telling the truth, but I probably did it out of egotism. I must have needed to convince myself that I was smarter than he was. But I already knew that I was smarter than most of the professors. Why didn’t I just suck it up and go along with the charade? Maybe he seemed too proud of his assumed brilliance. I hate that! Could that be why I hate myself? Because I know that I’m brilliant?

If I’m so damned brilliant, how could I make such a stupid mistake? If I’m the genius, which I candidly admit that I am, why do I keep going in little circles and asking myself the same dumb question over and over? I hate that! Hey, that’s another circle, isn’t it? If I hate me, who, or what, is the I that hates the I, which I call me? I’m like that proverbial bird that keeps flying in smaller and smaller circles until it flies up its own asshole. I have read about that ancient symbol of a snake swallowing its own tail. I think it’s called an Uroboros. It’s a symbol of eternity or the eternal recursive patterns in existence. There really is nothing new under the sun. That old guy who wrote Ecclesiastes was right. All is vanity.

That’s why I hate civilization. A group of people think that they’re the smartest people in the world, until another group of people comes along and kills them off and they proceed to think they’re the smartest until another group comes along and…it’s a never-ending cycle, like that dumb Uroboros. I wonder if that snake thinks that it will really be something after it swallows itself. Maybe a group of people will come along who are smart enough to destroy the whole world, a super suicide. Why does that please me? Why would I like to be a part of that final big bang? OK, so I’m grandiose in my hatred. I’ve already admitted that, haven’t I? Well, just sitting here and obsessing isn’t accomplishing anything. I have to get my butt out of this psych ward and participate in that final accomplishment.

Wait a minute! If I were able to destroy the entire universe, including myself, how would I know that I’d done it?

Oh, hell! Here comes the nurse. I know that she’ll take my vital signs and coo some platitude about helping me in any way she can. She’ll tell me again that all I have to do is push a button and some genie will come in to meet my every need. I wish I could push her button. I wonder what she would do if I asked her to slip under the covers with me. No, that’s something that my lecherous father would do, and I don’t want to be like him. I’m sure I’ll chicken out and thank her profusely for being so caring.

CHAPTER 3

GETTING SETTLED

I hate to admit it, but that nurse wasn’t so bad. Her name’s Nancy Smith. She’s the head nurse on this ward, but not the ball buster that I assumed head nurses all are. She did her job methodically, with no stupid missionary attitude of condescending compassion. She asked if I would mind having a student nurse assigned to me and assured me that I could trust the student to keep anything about my case confidential. She apparently had read my chart and already knew that I was a graduate student. Nurse Smith appeared to be middle-aged and wore a wedding band, so I wasn’t tempted to make any sexy remarks. Besides, she seemed like a nice lady.

I have to watch out for nice people, they can be the worst kind. Once they get your confidence, they can sock it to you. It’s better not to trust anyone. That way, they can’t disappoint you. So far, everyone here seems to be playing it straight. However, I’d better keep up my guard, or the next thing I know they will be wheeling me in for electroshock or a lobotomy. No, they can’t do that, it’s against the law to do a procedure like that without a signed permit. They probably already know that my dad has a staff of lawyers, and that he would have them in court in a heartbeat, not because he’s concerned about me, but because he hates doctors, especially psychiatrists. My mom used to frequent psychiatrists, just to irritate him. When he got over being irritated, she upped the ante and had an affair with one. It pleased my dad to make sure that shrink lost his license. I remember my dad calling it his contribution to world mental health.

I wish I could see my dad’s face when he learns that his only child and heir is on a psych ward. Hell, he probably won’t care, he always considered me a sissy. I don’t think he ever forgave me for not playing football. He’s only interested in making money, sex and football. He says that with money you can buy sex, violence, and alcohol. That pretty well sums up his philosophy of life.

I really don’t know what my philosophy of life is. However, I agree with what I’ve read about Buddhism, that life is suffering. It seems to me that we were put here to suffer. If there is some Supreme Being, He, She or It must be a sadist. Even though I don’t like people, I’ve never met one as evil as God must be. Now, I understand that most people blame evil and suffering on Satan, but that doesn’t make any sense to me. If this hypothetically all-powerful God can’t control Satan, he’s either not all-powerful, or he doesn’t care. If Satan exists, which I doubt, he’s at least honest in admitting his hatred. He doesn’t hide behind some pretense of love, while he tortures you. The only rational approach that makes any sense to me is the one that the Gnostics came up with. They contend the creator of life is an egotistical demiurge who loves praise, but who is rather stupid and continually makes mistakes.

Human life, in my opinion, is a terrible mistake. I agree with Shopenhauer that life is something that shouldn’t have happened. That’s why I have nothing but contempt for the pro-life people. I realize that most of them are ignorant, and since the majority of people are ignorant, politicians, who want to get elected, have to pretend that they are pro-life. Many of those, who contend that they are pro-life, are really anti-sex. If a woman enjoys sex, she should be punished by pregnancy, and then she, and her unwanted children, should be made to suffer for having enjoyed sex.

In a paradoxical way, I agree with anti-sex people, in that I see reproduction as the only unforgivable sin. I consider murder to be more forgivable than having a baby. Now, I realize that people can’t avoid having sex any more than they can avoid eating and crapping. However, with a minimum of intelligence, one can avoid pregnancy. Perhaps that’s why dumber people have more children than the more intelligent people. My parents seem to be relatively intelligent, and they wallow in sex, but at least, they learned from their first mistake, and only had one child. One too many, if you ask me.

A light tap on my door interrupted my cynical thoughts. It was Dr. Margaret Wright, the resident. She pulled a chair near my bed and said with a straight face. You heard what Dr. Hardy said. Have you internalized your rage? She looked directly into my eyes, and continued, I’ve checked your academic records and know that you’re a genius, so why beat around the bush. You’re obviously smarter than I am, so I won’t irritate you by attempting to be diplomatic.

Her hardnosed candor made me smile. "I thought you shrinks were supposed to be subtle and abstract. If I were to tell you that I had no hostility, you’d assume that I was in a state of denial, wouldn’t you?’

Yes, but then I’d know that you were angry at me for being so blunt with my question.

So, if you already believe I’m angry, or soon will be angry, why ask the question?

To see how you handle your anger at a question that would make most people angry.

That’s rather clever, Dr. Wright. What would you think if I laughed in your face, or broke down and cried?

"Neither would change my opinion, Mr. Pitts. However, I personally prefer hostile