London: Unfinished Business

Note: This copy of the original article, has been amended slightly, so as to give a more accurate focus to same key points. The changes are marked by square brackets

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Before I get down to business, let me tell you about John Carmel Heenan: Bishop of Leeds, Archbishop of Liverpool, and Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster.

He was what you might call, a feisty Christian. He had a good persona, was direct and to the point, and he wasn't afraid of the enemy. In those days it came in the person of Malcolm Muggeridge, a seasoned Fleet Street hack, and atheist. On Sunday evenings, on television, they would lock horns; the clean cut cardinal obviously in control and up for the fight, and Muggeridge, laboured in thought, and crumbling under the weight of excess. But Muggeridge had not been a hack for nothing, and gained time, puffing his cigarette smoke into the Cardinal's face.

Well, I wanted to tell you about Cardinal Heenan, in self-defence. And in particular, by drawing attention to the first instalment of his autobiography. When it appeared in 1971, it was not under some grandiose or flowery religious title, but rather, under the simple and unlikely heading of, "Not The Whole Truth". Perplexed, I found myself wondering why, a man in his profession wouldn't tell the whole truth, until it dawned on me, that this was the Cardinal at his provocative best.

What he was doing, so to speak, was goading the soul, and reminding all of us, (believers and non believers alike), that for all his certainty of religious faith, (that came to him through the Church as the source of "revealed truth"), he had to accept, as a part of that truth, that it is not in mans gift to know everything.

Now for reasons that are a good deal less profound than those of Cardinal Heenan, I want to come clean about the truth in my own case, and alert you to the fact that, when I wrote about "London", I concealed much more about myself than I revealed.

So, here is a little extra.

A few years after I arrived in the city, I went to see my doctor. He was an elderly man with a good reputation. But he was coming to the end of the road, which was why, on his own admission, he wouldn't let you out of his sight, until he had written everything down. Having told him of my symptoms, and asked to be referred to someone who might help, (I had no idea what kind of professional person that might be), I found myself with an appointment as an outpatient at a psychiatric clinic. And I came away from my first interview there, feeling good. It had lasted an hour and a half, and I had the hope, that with that level of support, I would resolve the issues. But it wasn’t to be. Not only were my subsequent interviews brief, but I never saw the same psychiatrist twice. Instead of getting better, things were getting worse, until, after one such visit, I found myself standing outside the hospital in a state of incredulity. Was this it? Had I waited eight weeks to hear a doctor, (in a five minute interview), tell me what I knew already:

"Mr McCloskey, you are going into a deepening depression". So, he added, "I will give you some tablets that will create a feeling of well being".

At that time, I was working in Greenwich, cleaning a fire-station, and rapidly loosing weight as I lugged the heavy equipment to the top of the building, before working my way down. But when I next met a psychiatrist, I was resourceful enough to remain standing. Across the desk I confronted her, complaining about the state I was in: the fact that I had never seen the same psychiatrist twice, and in particular, about the previous non interview, and the fact that the doctor had given me tablets that would create, "a feeling of well being". Angrily I explained that I had never wanted to be on tablets in the first instance, and of how, now that I was on them, I was struggling to stay awake, and worse. And then came the bombshell:

"Mr McCloskey, stop taking the tablets".

For as long as it took to convince myself that I had heard her properly, I was quiet, only to start again; this time, protesting at having to do without the medication:

"Mr McCloskey, what are you trying to say? You are telling me that you never wanted to be on tablets, and I'm telling you to stop taking them".

By now I was more composed, listening, and explaining, that my concern was about the abruptness of the action rather than the idea itself. But she was uncompromising. I was to stop taking the tablets. "It is people like you that I try to help", she told me, before going on to explain, (without elaboration), that this hospital couldn't give me the help that I was seeking. Then, and almost apologetically, she asked if, "I would be willing"! to travel to her clinic in Hampstead. If I was, she told me, she could promise me six interviews. For a moment I was perplexed, Hampstead! And then I concealed the truth. That had she told me that her clinic was in Australia, I would have found a way of getting there.

Well I juggled my life, and free from medication, made my way to Hempstead and up the hill to her clinic. And as I made my way back down, on what turned out to be my fifth and last visit, [I couldn't help but notice the solitary car on the parking lot. Sometimes it is small things that make the difference, and this was a case in point, for the sight of this car standing alone on an otherwise busy parking lot, proved the calalyst for feelings of sadness, not for myself, but for my psychiatrist, who, on what was a balmy Friday afternoon, (and the start of a Bank Holiday weekend), had stayed behind, so as to honour her committment of six interviews. And the though of her having to listen to me, at such a time, seemed incongruous.]

So I never went back for the sixth interview. Nor, despite my wife's concerns that I would, did I pick up the phone to tell her that I wasn't coming back, or to thank her, or to explain why I wouldn't be taking up the offer of a referral to another doctor, once her promise of six interviews had been fulfilled. For I knew, from about the fourth interview, that she was leaving and moving to a new field of work. And this obduracy on my part, despite the fact, that the future was uncertain. For I had no means of knowing of the good things that would come along, on a road that still needed levelling out. But what I knew for certain, was, that I was finished with psychiatrists and mood inducing medication.

Now in some contexts, this would be a good point at which to end. But as it doesn't fulfil the purpose of this blog, I must say more.

The person that I had, and have to thank for this good fortune, is Dr. Eileen Vizard. For many years she has been eminent, and on occasion, publicly prominent, in the field of child and adolescent sexual behaviour and personality disorder. But when I first met her, some thirty years ago, she was a relative unknown. A young doctor, still, it seemed, on the threshold of her psychiatric career. And what happened at our first meeting, (that was different from what had gone before), was, that she recognised in me, (and as a locum), took responsibility for, someone who, though down, still had the will to help himself. A task that she began, in a manner that is worth repeating: By offering me a way out of that particular hospital clinic, and by freeing me from a cycle of dependence on [a coctail] of prescribed drugs.

Now if you have been close reading, as they say, and think, perhaps, that I might have missed the point, that what made the difference was my changed mood, as opposed to the idea that Dr. Vizard was in some sense special, be reassured. That as a possibility, has always been a factor in the equation.

So to Dr. Eileen Vizard, who was there when it mattered, and who made the difference, because she was special, I owe a deep debt of gratitude. And as I didn't thank her privately all those years ago, (for reasons that were part of the healing process), I may as well thank her publicly, now. And especially while I am on the theme of London.

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© Cormac McCloskey

Note: This blog, "London: Unfinished Business", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 15th May 2008

The original paragraph:

"Well I juggled my life, and free from medication, made my way to Hempstead and up the hill to her clinic. And as I made my way back down, (on what turned out to be my fifth and last visit), I felt truly sorry, not for myself, but for my psychiatrist, who, on what was a balmy Friday afternoon, had to sit in the quiet of her clinic, listening to me."