Читать книгу Conversation with God - David C. Wilson - Страница 11

We returned home from holiday to a world that was fast changing, and as the decade gave way to a new one, talk of slowing growth and recession, was in the air. At the very time when it became noticeably harder to make sales of the financial products so essential to profitability, Chris’s contribution to the business had diminished to almost zero. Two almost opposing factors were now combining to keep Chris out of the office. Firstly, there was the leaden fatigue and myalgia which is such a defining feature of CFS, and which tied her to her bed until late each morning. Secondly, there was the hyperactivity which can come to dominate the life of an anorexic approaching the latter stages of semi-starvation, and that for Chris, was manifested as three and sometimes five mile walks into the office. Physiological starvation produces significant changes in the brain, reducing neurotransmitter levels in particular, and some animal studies have indicated that hyperactivity could help to reverse this effect. Put simply, hyperactivity could be viewed as a defensive, almost involuntary mechanism, helping to minimize the effects of starvation. In any event, the combined effect of the CFS and the anorexia was that Chris would often turn up at the office towards the middle of the afternoon, invariably leaving again quite soon afterwards because her concentration span was so limited. These two opposing physical effects were, however, to pale into insignificance when compared to another outcome of both illnesses.

As noted already, many sufferers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome meet the diagnostic criteria for major depression. Likewise, anorexics as a result of the changes to brain chemistry they undergo, invariably suffer from depression in the later stages of semi-starvation. Depression, although not proven to be a direct cause or product of eating disorders, is invariably found associated with them, so much so, that the eating disorders have latterly been described as the ‘new depression’ of the late twentieth century. The vagueness with which depression is linked to the eating disorders is matched by a similarly inexact link with brain chemistry, and with serotonin in particular. Serotonin is a chemical messenger (neurotransmitter) in the brain that is linked with mood and consciousness as well as with eating, sleeping, and sex. Depression is linked with a deficiency of serotonin and may also be linked to obsessive illnesses such as binge eating. As a sufferer from both CFS and anorexia nervosa Chris would have a high probability of also suffering from major depression, but this only became apparent later on through perfect hindsight.

I still had implicit faith in the medical profession at this time, and with Chris maintaining that all her problems stemmed from her enhanced senses of smell and taste, I arranged for her to be admitted to a private hospital at my own expense. Shortly before admission Chris’s depression had become critical and she had begun to express suicidal intent. When this continued during her stay in hospital, a decision was taken to detain her under section 3 of the Mental Health Act 1983 in order to protect her from self-harm. The effect of section 3 is to make a period of detention of up to six months available to the medical staff, during which they can both assess and treat the patient. Paying for a few weeks private care while tests were carried out was one thing, but the prospect of funding a stay of up to six months was quite out of the question. I was immediately obliged to make arrangements for Chris to be transferred to our local NHS hospital, and within two weeks of her admission to the local psychiatric hospital, she had been detained under section 3.

Fortunately, the NHS still had dedicated psychiatric hospitals in most towns at that time, usually set in spacious and beautiful grounds, but tending to group together patients with widely differing complaints. At least Chris was able to enjoy the therapeutic effect of the late summer weather in those gardens, before they came to be sold off to a housing developer and replaced by a so-called ‘secondary unit’ in the nearby general hospital. In addition to her ‘escapes’ into the grounds, Chris actually did escape from the premises on one or two occasions, for she so hated the enforced confinement and pressured food regimes. Inevitably she was returned to hospital by the police, and began to ‘plot’ a more permanent exit by ‘cooperating’ with the ‘programme.’ The psychiatric treatment programme was twofold in its approach, consisting of the administration of antidepressant drugs to combat the depression, together with what was basically a feeding schedule. At first, Chris had refused to take part in that schedule, using every ruse imaginable to trick the staff into believing she was complying. Eventually, however, she realized she must eat, and eat substantially, in order to get out and to get home. I was enlisted to bring huge quantities of bananas into hospital for Chris, who throughout, still insisted her heightened sense of smell prevented her from eating much else. Apart from the bananas and toast, which she could tolerate, she ate little else, and on these alone her weight increased to eight stone plus, a point at which the staff considered her ‘safe.’ Chris was discharged shortly before Christmas, after spending only three months detained under section 3, but bringing the total time spent in both hospitals to nearly five months.

Despair

Sadly, the whole thing had been a ruse, a means to an end which, once achieved, allowed Chris to continue her anorexic lifestyle in peace. The truth was that nothing had changed and semi-starvation, hyperactivity and weight loss resumed as the new year unfolded, despite a number of new factors entering the equation. Following discharge, Chris had been encouraged to take part in some of the activities at a local day centre, as a continuation of the occupational therapy which she had received whilst an in-patient. In Addition, she began to see a social worker for an hour’s counselling each week at the local social services centre, and this, together with a weekly home visit from a second social worker put a much needed monitoring regime in place. The social workers befriended Chris, who responded to their counselling with intimate confidences about her innermost fears, seeming to make some headway with their help. In the face of remorseless continuing deterioration and the return of suicidal inclinations, it was the advice and counsel of these new friends, which persuaded Chris to agree to a voluntary re-admission to hospital in the early spring. Chris had believed that going into hospital was to be for a fortnight or so, but this is hardly ever the case with psychiatric admissions, and the fears of the social workers were soon confirmed as the following entry in her diary reveals:

Had a bad night last night, intended to take the aspirin at about 9.30. I was very desperate, but the nurse saw this and sat and talked to me until about 2.45, when they put me to bed. She managed to talk me into giving her the aspirin and now I’m regretting it already. Didn’t sleep, had perhaps one hour all night. Now I’m very tired.

For fully two and a half months, the diary entries record the prevalence of persistent low mood, and towards the end of May, Chris discharged herself. Throughout June, the concerned social workers attempted to persuade Chris to return to the ward. Finally they succeeded, and by the middle of the next month Chris voluntarily admitted herself, before seemingly realising the pointlessness of it all and leaving again on the very next day. I was weary of it all, for although these voluntary admissions allowed much freedom—permitting for example, evenings and weekends to be spent at home—they were completely ineffectual, failing to alter either mood or behavior. I decided to bring Chris home for good, knowing full well that such a decision could have led to Chris’s death, since a heart attack in her weakened anorexic condition was a distinct possibility. Nevertheless, come home she would, whether to live or to die.

The medical record of the late summer of 1991 shows that my (unilateral) decision to discharge Chris, and to subsequently block attempts to section her, had thrown both the medics and the social workers into consternation. The consultant psychiatrist made his fears known to the G. P. in a letter discharging Chris from his care, at the same time making clear his belief in the continued need for her “psychiatric management.” Modern Western society will not permit individuals to make such life-determining, decisions against the collective wisdom of the medical profession, and in such circumstances, the system has remedies. When presented with this state of affairs the social services department considered invoking Section 29 of the Mental Health Act, which can be used to displace the nearest relative, “where consent is unreasonably withheld.” Despite the advice of the social services department, and notwithstanding Chris’s brief admission to Accident & Emergency following another overdose, the G. P., in whose primary care Chris now was, failed to act.

Throughout that autumn, and against this tragic background, I continued to struggle with the other problems, to which had been added the medical debts from the period Chris had spent in private care. We were now hopelessly behind with the accounts, financial services regulation was even more onerous, and we had been obliged to (prematurely) employ staff. The hiring of a general branch clerk to deal with an enlarged motor insurance account had become essential, but in terms of (wo)man power, our clerk had merely replaced Chris in the office, and at substantial further cost into the bargain. Interestingly, it came to light that our clerk’s husband was a member of a well known, fraternal, and charitable fellowship, the same one it turned out, that I had joined a few years earlier. One of the major tenets of this fellowship is a professed belief in ‘The Great Architect of the Universe,’ and prior to initiation into membership, candidates are asked the question: ‘Do you believe in God.’ To answer this question in the affirmative forced a major turning point in my life, for I had always previously vocalized a kind of vehement, scientific atheism, loosely based on the theory of evolution. The examining committee had, of course, only wished to have me mouth the words in a compliant manner, but strangely, it had meant so much more to me than that. Now, in the hour of my greatest need, I found that this worldwide fellowship of brothers, was not so much unwilling, as unable to help us in our desperate situation—they were simply out of their depth.

The Feast of Christmas

Christmas had always been a difficult time of year for us ever since the death of Chris’s father in the early eighties. With Stan’s death, a central focal point of the wider family had gone, leaving no one among the four married daughters who felt either willing or able to assume the mantle of family head. All this meant disarray at Christmas, when social arrangements tended to be made in a tentative and half-hearted manner, frequently leading to mild upset of one form or another. In order to avoid such complications, we began to spend the Christmas holiday away from home. The Christmas this year was no exception, being the eighth such year spent away, and the four of us duly departed for a five day sojourn in a rented cottage in Wales. Winter in west Wales is, as often as not, a fairly mild affair and that week in Harlech proved to be one of the warmer ones, positively balmy in fact. Nevertheless we stocked up with coal, not so much for fear of harder weather or even for aesthetic effect, but more to combat the bodily coldness Chris was feeling due to her emaciation. The emotional pain of the past twelve months was now reaching a crescendo, as Chris combined her long-standing culinary skills with the anorexic tendency to constantly work with, and be around food, whilst avoiding eating much of it. Gradually one becomes accustomed to the tiny portions of food and the drinks of diet Coca Cola, but to be sat at the Christmas table—the table of plenty—and be served by an emaciated, five and a quarter stone anorexic is the most harrowing experience imaginable. At such a low weight Chris was constantly tired, and when this was reinforced by the C. F. S. symptoms, she was in the habit of taking frequent naps, and I would, like as not, take advantage of this time to venture out for an after dinner walk to think things through.

The Deal

The streets of the town were completely deserted (indeed there is nothing quite like a Welsh seaside town during the Christmas break for peace and quiet), as my mind turned over the seeming impasse of our situation. In the past I had always found it possible to solve every problem thrown up by the vicissitudes of life, for although a little introverted, I possessed confidence and courage of a sort, in good measure. We had begun a business on a shoe-string budget, based on a partnership between two people who contributed different skills, both of whom had assumed that good health was a given, that would always be there. As long term illness encroached on our lives, the unanticipated costs of that illness had accrued to the business, which was now approaching a debt-ridden crisis point. All the possible solutions to our problems, such as the employment of domestic cooks and cleaners, or the hire of a bookkeeper and private nurse, seemed to involve yet more uncovered expenditure. I was beset on all sides not only by the regulators, but also by numbers of other creditors whose ranks had now been joined by the Revenue, and who distracted me from the sales and marketing so essential to continued earnings. As I walked along that deserted main road, I knew that I had reached the end of my capabilities, and I knew moreover, that nobody else could help me either.

It is well known that low light levels can have an adverse effect upon a person’s mood, and I feel sure that the gloom of that late December day heightened the sense of despair I felt. As I continued to mull over the intractability of my problems, I noticed a small, stone church, slightly raised above the road, to my left. The churchyard seemed a yet quieter place—if that were possible—in which to think through my predicament, so I opened the gate and entered. Truth to tell, I felt like praying (for the first time in thirty plus years), or at least vocalising the situation to somebody–anybody. Expecting the church door to be locked, I was surprised when it yielded, giving me access to a very simple, empty church adorned only with a few children’s drawings. High up on the wall at the far end of this one-room church, was a filled crucifix, which struck me as unusual for an Anglican church in congregational mid-Wales. To this figure of Jesus I spoke these words:

I have no power to affect anything in my life, but you have the power. If you will help me, I will serve you.

No answer came, no still, small voice, indeed, having spoken these few words in the deadliest earnestness and sincerity; I simply turned on my heel and left the building. The only feeling I had as I walked back up the road to the cottage, was one of having done something concrete, something quite particular, and which made the ‘after’ different from the ‘before.’ Perhaps it was my imagination, perhaps it was hope, but I knew that a new factor was there now, which hadn’t been there before.

Looking back on that moment, having had the benefit of five years of full time theological study, I still find myself amazed at those words, for I had somehow managed to condense most of both testaments of the bible into a couple of dozen words. To begin with—and most importantly—there was repentance, which at that time I thought simply meant an oft-repeated apology to God for ongoing sin. Now whilst it may mean that, it has a much more fundamental meaning involving a person’s orientation towards God. Put simply, repentance is a once-for-all about face, in which a (wo)man makes the irrevocable decision to turn around from facing self to facing God. Sin is subsumed within that decision, which by its irrevocable nature, ensures that sin continues to be covered. It had always puzzled me that my words in the Harlech church contained no apology for, indeed no reference to sin, but this was because I had unwittingly renounced the fundamental ‘sin’ of Genesis 3:6—the ‘sin’ of disobedience. Then there was humility, for I had abased myself before God sharing this trait with Jesus himself, and combining this with an acknowledgement of, even fledgling trust in, God’s superior ability to sort the mess out. Whatever we understand them to be, repentance and humility, together with an acknowledgement of God’s power, are to be expected as par for the Christian course, but what of servility, is that too required? Twenty first century moderns could perhaps be forgiven for believing, that the slavery abolished two hundred years ago, plays no part in Christian conversion. Such a belief would, however, be based upon a false premise about slavery in the first centuries of the Christian era.

Fundamental differences exist between the wholly economic exploitation of the mainly African slaves of recent centuries, and the slavery of early Christian and pre-Christian times. The cruelty and grinding poverty which were so much a feature of the former, are largely absent from first century Romano-Greek culture, where slavery was not so much a vile oppression, as a means of organising society, and which, bizarre as it may sound, approximated to the social security system of the day. Indeed, many free men sold themselves into slavery in order to avoid starvation for themselves and their families. On this point, it was not unknown for slaves to buy themselves out of one form of slavery (e.g. heavy agricultural work), and then sell themselves into slavery within a domestic household. As a result they would become a family retainer, often developing a discrete skill or trade to the mutual benefit of themselves and their new masters. It was certainly the case that some people actually sold themselves into slavery in order to climb socially. Moreover, in the Roman paterfamilias, the Roman head of house(hold) treated his slaves and his own sons exactly alike, having in fact, the (legal) power of life and death over both. Against this background, Paul’s exhortations to the Corinthians (1 Cor. 7:22) become a little clearer, especially when it is understood that very little difference existed between a slave and a freedman, since both owed exclusive duties of service to master and patron respectively. It is my belief, therefore, that slavery is part and parcel of the Christian life, and that my servility in Harlech was a needed, indeed essential part of the conversion act.

The whole thing became clearer still when I later realized that the Christ or Messiah was a king, and thus Christians were kingsmen or vassals. The word ‘vassal’ brings the argument full circle, since it derives from the Greek, basileus, (king). This seems odd really, until you realize that to our English ears, the Greeks, and indeed the Spaniards (but the other way round), mix up their ‘v’ and ‘b’ sounds. Moreover, all the great covenants or deals (for that is what a covenant is) of the Old Testament involved vassals. The great covenants of the faith recorded in scripture, are said to be modelled on suzerainty treaties, in which a Suzerain or regional super king offers his protection to lesser vassal kings, in return for tribute, as was the case with Nebuchadrezar’s first incursion into Judah in 605 BC. Usually, these treaties were very workaday affairs, enabling life to go on in a normal fashion, and especially allowing cross-border trade to be conducted in an orderly manner.

Despite my overwhelming feelings of despair on that day in Harlech, I remember being consciously aware that the deal I had done had that same workaday feel about it—I had had the nerve to approach Almighty God with a proposition and He had accepted it without fuss. The realisation didn’t dawn on me until much later on, that He has been doing this kind of thing for a very long time, and as with many others before me, it involved my trading everything that I was, or could become, not for my social security—as in Roman slavery, but rather for my eternal security. Following our return from Wales, I began to pray regularly, prayers which were short and to the point. I would usually pray kneeling beside the bath for the sake of privacy, since I had not spoken to anyone of this event, Chris included. Soon, things began to change.