Swing Low Read online

  ALSO BY MIRIAM TOEWS

  Summer of My Amazing Luck

  A Boy of Good Breeding

  A Complicated Kindness

  for Mel

  In the end, one can give only one look upwards, give one breath outwards. At that moment a man probably surveys his whole life. For the first time — and the last time.

  FRANZ KAFKA

  acknowledgments

  Thanks, as always, to my family. I am also grateful to the Manitoba Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts for their support.

  prologue

  “Nothing accomplished.”

  I don’t know what my father meant when he said it. I had asked him, the day before he took his own life, what he was thinking about, and that was his reply. Two hopeless words, spoken in a whisper by a man who felt he had failed on every level. This book is my attempt to prove my father wrong.

  At the age of seventeen, he was diagnosed as suffering from the mental illness known then as manic depression and today as bipolar disorder. His method of self-defence, along with the large amounts of medication he was prescribed, was silence. And maybe, for him, it worked. He managed, against the advice of his psychiatrist, to get married, to rear a family, and to teach elementary school for more than forty years. His psychiatrist warned him, way back in the early 1950s, that the odds of living a normal life were heavily stacked against him. In fact, Dad’s life fell into the typical pattern of our small town of Steinbach, Manitoba: an ordered existence of work, church, and family, with the occasional inevitable upsets along the way. His managing to live an ordinary life was an extraordinary accomplishment. It is a measure of his strength, his high (some would say impossibly high) personal standards, and his extreme self-discipline that he managed to stay sane, organized, and ordinary for so long.

  A year or so after his retirement, my parents went out for a drive in the countryside around town. “Well,” said my father after they’d driven in silence for a while, “I did it.” “You’ve done many things, Mel,” said my mom. “What are you referring to?” “I did what they said I would never do,” answered my father.

  And he did it exceptionally well. He became a much-loved and respected teacher, known especially for his kindness, exuberance, and booming voice, and at home my mother and my sister and I had everything we could possibly want or need. There was only one thing we missed, and that was hearing him speak. I have often wondered what he would have said about himself, if he had spoken. He never talked about his past, even his childhood, and often he simply didn’t speak at all. His whole world, it seemed, was in the classroom. And when there, he gave it his all. My sister and I, both students of his at one time, used to sit in class in absolute awe. Was this funny, energetic, outspoken man really our father? It must have been teaching, the daily ritual of stepping outside himself and into a vital role, that sustained him all those years.

  Had we known then what we know now, we would have understood that the end of his teaching career would, essentially, mean the end of Mel. After his suicide, we were left with many questions. How could this have happened? we asked ourselves over and over. After all, other people have difficulty retiring, but they don’t necessarily kill themselves. I became obsessed with knowing all that I could about his life, searching, I suppose, for clues that would ultimately lead me to the cause of his death. With the help of my mother and my sister and Dad’s friends, colleagues, and relatives, I’ve managed to put a few pieces of the puzzle of his life together. But in spite of many theories and much speculation, there’s really only one answer, and that is depression. A clinical, profoundly inadequate word for deep despair.

  At the end of his life, my father, in a rare conversation, asked me to write things down for him, words and sentences that would lead him out of his confusion and sadness to a place and time that he might understand. “You will be well again,” I wrote. “Please write that again,” he’d ask. I wrote many things over and over and over, and he would read each sentence, each declaration and piece of information out loud. Eventually, it stopped making sense to him. “You will be well again?” he’d ask me, and I’d say, “No, Dad, you will be well again.” “I will be well again?” he’d ask. “Yes,” I’d say. “I will be well again,” he’d repeat. “Please write that down.”

  Soon I was filling up pages of yellow legal notepads with writing from his own point of view so he could understand it when he read it to himself. After his death, when I began writing this book, I continued to write in the same way. It was a natural extension of the writing I’d done for him in the hospital, and a way, though not a perfect one, of hearing what my father might have talked about if he’d ever allowed himself to. If he’d ever thought it would matter to anybody. After his death, I read everything I could find on mental illness and suicide, poring over facts and statistics, survivors’ accounts, reasons, clues, anything at all that might help me to understand, or if not to understand then at least to accept, my father’s decision and to live with it. By dragging some of the awful details into the light of day, they became much less frightening. I have to admit, my father didn’t feel the same way, but he found a way to alleviate his pain, and so have I.

  one

  Bethesda Hospital, Steinbach, Manitoba. I’ve been trying for weeks to make sense of things. For instance, why am I here? I’ve filled up several yellow legal pads, right to the margins, with words and sentences and sentence fragments, but nothing is clear to me. It seems, upon rereading my notes, that I’ve written several things repeatedly, such as “Develop a new life strategy.” That particular sentence appears on almost every page, as do hearts (I’m drawing hearts!) with the words “I love” inside them. I suppose I’ve forgotten the names of those I love or I haven’t drawn the hearts big enough to hold them all or I’m simply confirming with myself my ability to love. It bothers me that I haven’t put the names in.

  Two days ago I decided to test my younger brother, who runs this hospital. He sat at the foot of my bed watching me and I sat at the head of my bed watching him. (What was there to say?) Eventually I blurted out, I’m mentally ill. I said it because I wanted him to say that I wasn’t or that, if I was, I would soon be fine, that life was like this for a lot of people from time to time, that I wasn’t alone, that I had nothing to be ashamed of, and that I’d be just as right as rain in no time.

  My brother answered, Yes, you are. No more and no less, a brief (life) sentence hanging in the air between us like a raised fist. I sat on my bed and stared out the window. Eventually my brother went on a bit to say that he felt my “admission” was a big step forward, an essential part of the healing process, and now, perhaps, I’d be able to open up with my psychiatrist. You’ve got to be honest, Mel, he said. And of course he’s right. But one must find the words first, and words don’t come as easily to me.

  And I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but the thing is there is no psychiatrist here for me to “open up with.” I would like to ask my brother when and if I’ll see one, but I can’t find the right words to do that either and I’m ashamed besides. Rather, we spend our time staring at one another. And the days go by. Reg told me that he has a difficult choice to make, that is whether to treat me as a brother would or as a regional health authority CEO would, and he has chosen “brother,” which means he comes to visit but doesn’t interfere with my hospital care. I guess that makes sense, it sounds nice, but I would have preferred it had he chosen “CEO,” because after all I do have a family, and what I need, at least according to Reg, is a shrink to be honest with, and I could use a plug from him, an endorsement rather, and so … perhaps he could produce one for me, because I think I would like to get some help. I mean, it’s wonderful that he’s being brotherly, but it raises the question then of who’s in charge of me he
re. In the meantime, I’ve decided to write a few things down. Things about myself, my life, etc., so that when my time comes to open up, if it should, I’ll have a bit of an idea of what to say.

  Bethesda Hospital, Steinbach, Manitoba, Date: find newspaper, determine date, insert here. (The custodian brings the newspaper to me every morning. He is a friend of mine and former custodian of Elmdale School.)

  I’m a methodical man so this business re losing my mind is frustrating. I keep records of everything, every transaction, every purchase, every drawing my children ever made, every notebook they filled as students. Everything. But they’re not doing me much good now.

  In my travel diaries I record seating orders: wife, Elvira, and daughter Miriam, left side of six-seater plane. Pilot, myself, and other daughter, Marj, on right side. Wind coming from the north, Elvira decked out in colourful new pantsuit, gas gauge at halfway mark, etc. I wrote my own textbook on Canadian history when I found the existing province-issued text to be inadequate. I have three filing cabinets with file folders precisely labelled and carefully maintained. In my safety deposit box I have kept, for forty-two years, the receipt for the wedding rings my wife and I bought at Birks Jewellers, and also the receipt from the hotel we stayed in on our wedding night … eleven dollars. I didn’t sleep at all that night. Not for a second. I was a wreck. I willed my hands to stop trembling. I would have shouted at them if I hadn’t been worried about waking Elvira. I’m rather a nervous man, prone to panic attacks and nail-biting. I worry.

  There are two things that help to dispel my nervous energy: writing and walking. Once, years ago, I stopped walking and lay down in my bed for several months. Once, very recently, I went for a walk and ended up in a town twenty miles away. When I say writing I mean writing down facts and details and lists and instructions to myself. I’ve been researching the lives of important Canadians such as Emily Carr, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Foster Hewitt. By writing down the details of the lives of these accomplished individuals, I learn how to live.

  I should add that part of the reason, beyond my own obvious limitations, for the interrupted feel of my writing has to do with the nurses who come into my room from time to time with questions and drinks and pills and clipboards. They have become curious about my writing, and every time they come into my room I stop and nod and smile pleasantly. Occasionally I’ll say something like Keep up the good work, or, Quite an efficient system you’ve got here, which isn’t necessarily true, but I like to offer encouragement when I can.

  When I begin to write again I have often forgotten entirely what I was writing about. Several of the nurses are former students of mine and still call me Mr. Toews. The nurse who attached the wander guard to my wrist reminded me of the year we built a replica Hudson Bay Trading Post and operated it as a real store for the entire school year. I still have the photographs, she said, and offered to bring them in to show me. I told her I’d like that. Some of the nurses are mothers of former students of mine and will tell me what their children are doing these days. When I was first admitted to the hospital last night or two weeks or eight years ago, I spoke to the nurses at length. I asked them questions such as Where am I? Why am I here? Where is my wife? (this last over and over and over) until they grew short with me. I noticed that one nurse had written on her clipboard, “Patient talks non-stop, obviously wants attention.” Many of them, however, know their boss is my brother, and they try hard not to get angry with me. I’m grateful for every kindness.

  But this business of “wanting attention” embarrassed me to such an extent that I vowed to remain quiet. Besides, it wasn’t attention I wanted so much as clarification. But they’re busy, these nurses, and I understand that I baffle them. I baffle myself. As for walking, my second-favourite chaos-dispelling activity, they frown on it. They’re afraid I won’t come back. (And yet they don’t know why I’m here.) After I was admitted for the second time, they attached a wander guard to my wrist, a little device that makes a bell ring at the nursing station should I get as far as the front door. I had actually escaped previously; that’s why they put the wander guard on me. The nurses promised my older daughter, Marj, that I would not be discharged over the weekend. He will tell you he’s fine, she said, and he will be convincing, but please don’t believe him. There’s nobody at the house, my mother is exhausted and on the verge of having a nervous breakdown herself (from taking care of me they don’t say) and is staying in the city for the weekend. Please don’t let him go home.

  They promised they wouldn’t. In less than an hour I was out of there.

  It didn’t turn out well. I don’t know exactly what happened or why I have these painful blisters on my feet. Naturally I asked but a well-meaning nurse in training mistook me for a large four-year-old and said, Oh, you’ve been a busy guy in the last couple of days. Busy, adds a doctor, having a psychotic breakdown. All I knew is that everything blew apart in my brain.

  It’s extremely difficult to get a straight answer around here. I imagine I walked for several miles before returning to my empty house, or that I returned first and then went for a fifteen-mile walk around and around town, I don’t know. I can’t find Elvira. In any case, I’m back in my brother’s care for a while, and my daughters are very upset that I was allowed to leave in the first place. I suppose they didn’t want me to see the blood or to find out the truth about Elvira. I am still not being told where my wife is, other than “in the city, resting,” and I suspect she is dead. I suspect I have killed her. A friend came to see me and told me that on the day I was accidentally discharged he had given me a ride for several blocks, and we chatted like old times, but I don’t remember that. My brother told my younger daughter, Miriam, that I smell bad. Thankfully I shifted into my catatonic gaze at nothing to save him the embarrassment of thinking I’d heard. Also, I’m not sure why there is blood on my kitchen floor, or whose it is. I asked him where Elvira is and he said the girls had told him she was very, very tired. And in the city, resting.

  I don’t believe him. I don’t believe anybody. What I do believe is that I have accomplished nothing in my life, nothing at all. I have neglected my children and I have killed my wife. There is nothing left to do now but record the facts, as I always have.

  two

  I was born, in this very hospital, maybe even in this very room, on May 31, 1935, in the middle of the Great Depression (how apt) in the same year that Elvis Presley was born in Tupelo, Mississippi. I include that fact for no other reason than because I read it in the hospital copy of the Winnipeg Free Press just this very morning. That’s part of my regular morning routine. That and checking on my friend Hercules in the hallway, and making a few rounds of my own. Checking up on morale.

  And then what? I suppose I just lived, as a baby, with my parents and my older sister, here in Steinbach. A little to the north and west of Steinbach is the city of Winnipeg, to the south the border to the United States, to the east the lakes and rocky terrain of the Whiteshell Provincial Park and also a forest called the Sandilands. Directly west is farmland, very fertile, the best in the country, sunflowers, canola, alfalfa, you name it. In the middle of all of this sits Steinbach, a wealthy, industrious town of ten thousand or so, settled by several Mennonite families in the late 1800s. The Mennonite communities on this, the east side of the Red River, are called Ditzied, in Low German meaning “this side.” The Mennonite communities on the other side of the Red are called Yantzied, meaning “that side.” Of course, to the Mennonites living on the west side of the river, it is just the opposite. Both sides believe that those from Yantzied are less sophisticated and more religiously conservative. Naturally it’s an argument with no end.

  My grandfather, a baby at the time, was the youngest member of the “migration” that made its way from Russia to this patch of land promised to them by Queen Victoria and given to them for nothing by a government eager to have the land farmed and settled. He came close to dying and was nearly pitched overboard on the way. The Mennonites have a long hi
story of moving from place to place in search of religious freedom. Here, apparently, they have found it. Thousands of Mennonites who stayed behind, in Russia, were eventually killed by the army, but some managed to escape. My friend Henry, for instance, fled Russia as a child sometime during World War Two and spent years wandering through Europe with his mother. The last thing I remember knowing about Henry — he told me this himself, at a barbecue — was that he had leased a brand-new Ford Saturn with an excellent mileage and maintenance policy.

  When I was two I choked on a peanut and my mother said that incident might have shifted the fault lines in my brain and made me the anxious man that I am today.

  When I was three and a half years old I was sent to the neighbours’ with a message. My baby sister had died, and thank you very much for the soup. Did you thank her for the soup? my mother asked me when I got home. Yes. You were polite, then? Yes. And the other message? Yes. A year later my little brother was born to take my dead sister’s place, and my mother, understandably, doted on him. She made it very clear to me and my older sister, Diana, that we were never to feed him peanuts or ice cubes. Nobody had ever told me that I’d had an incident with an ice cube, and in fact I think my mother made it up on the spot, but I appreciated her including it in the short list of banned treats for the baby. In my four-year-old way of thinking, addled, mind you, by the peanut incident, I saw my mother’s inclusion of the words “and ice cubes” as a tender gesture meant to relieve some of the burden I felt as a person my little brother should not come to resemble. Don’t choke on a peanut, you’ll turn out like Mel. Oh, and also avoid … ice cubes! In my mind there were hundreds of little boys like myself who had had incidents with ice cubes and were just as guilty of being “off” as I was, and so I felt less responsible and less alone, and I was grateful to my mother for reducing some of the pressure I felt at the time.