Chapter 20 ~ Family Rules – Part V
April 29, 2010
“It’s really quite simple,” the doctor said, closing his notes, leaning forward in his chair slightly, adding emphasis, gaining gravitas.
“Your son is suffering from depression. I hesitate to label him manic at this stage, a little early considering his… Ah… Young age, however the situation should be monitored. Definitely of concern.”
“Depressed? How…”
“I hope you appreciate just what your son has been through in the past six years?”
“Appreciate?”
The psychologist formed a steeple of fingers beneath his chin; stared Ken’s father in the eyes for a moment.
“How old are you?”
“Huh?”
“Your age. How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-nine, why do you ask?”
“How many jobs have you had?”
“I don’t…”
“How many jobs?”
“Four,” the other man answered, feeling suddenly like a patient, scrutinised, prodded, poked. He didn’t like the clammy feeling racing up his neck.
“And you are married, correct?”
He nodded.
“Parents alive?”
Again a nod, suspicion mounting behind.
“Bought a house?”
“Several,” anger crept into his voice, “I really don’t understand quite what you’re driving at. Why are you asking me these questions?”
The doctor leant back, hands coming to rest on the arms of the leather chair. He thought for a moment and then, seemingly satisfied, spoke.
“I estimate that you have experienced at least six major life events over the space of your life,” he said, “and…”
“Now just wait a minute, who are you to…”
“Please, let me finish.”
The authority in that ‘please’ made Ken’s father fall silent.
“It is my estimation that you have undergone one significant experience every eight years on average. Your son, however has not even lived through one cycle of eight years. He is six years old.”
“So tell me something I don’t know,” Ken’s father whispered under his breath.
The doctor looked at him a little longer than comfort would allow. Eventually he continued.
“Kenneth can hardly be described as having lived a normal infanthood. From my sessions with him, I would assert that he has already undergone four significant events. The rigours of daily filming, the stop-start nature of the schedule, the absence of other children to whom he could relate, they have all taken a toll on his development. I am not sure you understand but Kenneth has missed an essential aspect of nurturing.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
The doctor frowned.
“For Christ’s sake man, do I have to spell it out for you? The Mother and Father have not been present during the early years of his psychological development. You have left him to develop in the hands of television people.”
He spat this last out with some venom.
“We didn’t…”
The doctor refused to let the excuse emerge.
“I’m afraid you did. If Kenneth is depressed it is because he has undergone change at four times as fast as you yourself and in absence of any significant parental support. He tells me they used to give him medicine to calm him down between filming. Did you know that? I didn’t think so. Do you know what that medicine was? No? Shall I explain in simple terms?”
The doctor stood and paced to regain his equilibrium. He’d been close to shouting. Long days spent with Kenneth in tears, complaining of headaches, of isolation, of remorse, of guilt, of mourning, of tiredness, of any number of symptoms classically indicative of severe adult stress weighted heavily upon him. What sort of parent could let this happen?
During the last session, Kenneth had grabbed him and hugged him hard, sobbing into his shoulder with huge, wracking, coughing splutters, like a toddler so enwrapped in his tantrum that he forgets to breathe.
And here was Kenneth’s father, trying to justify how he could have left his son practically alone for six years and still expect to be called a father.
Just the one parent here.
It spoke volumes.
He turned back from the window, zeroed his gaze on the seated man.
“Where is your wife?”
“Huh?”
“Your wife. Where is she?”
“She’s… She was… Unable to make it.”
The doctor nodded.
“A long-standing appointment for the results of your son’s psychological assessment, the end of four months of testing, of significant analysis and consultation and she was unable to make it. Unable… To… Make… It.”
“It’s pathetic.”
“Now hang on a minute…”
“No. This appointment is over. If you can trouble your wife to join you, we can reschedule to a more convenient time. Until then, I would advise you to spend time with your son to try and help him through the day.”
“Help him through the day?” the bluster left his voice, “what do you mean help him through the day?”
The doctor walked back around his desk, sat down in his leather chair and leant forward again. After a long breath, he spoke.
“Valium,” he said, “they gave him Valium in between scenes. He talks about sleeping. About how nice it would be to sleep for a long time. Your son is six and he speaks of sleeping to avoid people. The way he describes it… It’s not… Let me read you this…”
The doctor pulled a sheaf of papers from the case-file on his desk. He riffled through until he came to the right page. When he spoke next, Ken’s words emerged:
… sometimes when they’re not looking sometimes I… I close my eyes and pretend I’m not there… They don’t speak to me… they speak to me in the morning, though… if I sleep then they will speak to me… they will… If I sleep then… they can ignore me all they want… I won’t care if they don’t speak to me if I sleep…
“That is your son speaking. Verbatim.”
He looked at the other man. At the grey colouring that had drawn his cheeks, momentarily making his face that of a ghost.
“Not only did they give your son a prescribed tranquiliser but in the process your son has, at the age of six, come to speak of suicide. A situation that you have allowed to happen.”
“Oh, come on…”
The doctor referred to his notes once more.
… they can ignore me all they want… I won’t care if they don’t speak to me if I sleep…
“What is it that you do not understand? What are you not hearing? Your son is speaking clearly. You and your wife, wherever she is, just aren’t listening.”
“But I…”
“Good day, sir,” the doctor said, slamming the case file and leaning back in his chair, “speak to my Secretary to confirm an appointment when you can both be present.”
“But I…”
“Good day, sir.”
