The Medea Complex (3 page)

 What does she think I am, a donkey? To be tethered to a
lamp-post at will? The girl holding me is wearing a night-gown identical to my
own. But it strikes very quickly that she worryingly bald; out-rightly denuded
of hair, and two large, water-filled blisters bulge like over-sized bugs on her
head. Her eyes are devoid of human emotion, and her eyelashes are gone too. I
yelp, kick her in the shin and she lets go of me with a cry.

I start running down the corridor, the sunlight burning
flashes in my vision as I pass the windows at the speed of a gazelle. The sound
of a shrill whistle being blown momentarily startles me but I ignore it,
keeping my momentum. I revel in the fact that my feet are taking me far away
from here, leading me home. I'm free, I'm free, there's no way that fat woman can
possibly catch me. People jump out of my way, tables’ crash in front of me, a
birdcage tips over, and as I look behind me, I see a dove soaring his own way
to freedom. It is a funny sight and I giggle, just as a familiar cramp hits me
in the side and I am bowled over by a man.

“Nurse Ruth!” He shouts in a loud and authoritative boom,
and the buzz of activity I incited during the past few minutes stops. The dove
flaps ineffectually against the glass in a fatalistic attempt at freedom.

I know just how he feels.

Just as someone catches him in a net, the man catches me and
as we are both being led back to our cells in opposite directions, the bird's
little black eyes meet mine. He stops struggling for a moment, looking at me.

 
What happened?,
he says.
We were almost there.

I know bird, I know. I'll ask them to give you extra feed
tonight for your trouble.

But it's not really good enough is it? I hate you
, he
says.

I shrug.
Qui onques rien n'enprist riens n'achieva, I say
to him.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I repeat aloud, in
English.

The man deposits me back outside of my cell, and the fat-one
comments on how 'mad' I am, glaring at me as she holds the door open. The
doctor tries to push me through, but I thrust back.

“They're all mad, Nurse Ruth, or have you forgotten where
you work today?”

“If only,” she harrumphs, practically farting out of her
mouth.

“You never answered my question,” I say to her, my
principled display of non-conformance with the doctor continuing as I advance
through the doorway inch by excruciating inch.

“What question, Anne?” she says, idiotically.

“You could at least employ someone intelligent,” I say to
the man, who I realize now is the 'doctor'.  “I asked her name, about four
minutes ago, and she's already forgotten about it.”

He looks at me and offers me a small grin. For a second,
less than a second, I feel a brief sense of solidarity. It quickly disappears
when his fish eyes goggle at me.

“My name isn't the question Anne, and my memory isn't the
one in dispute here: yours is. Lady Anne Stanbury.” she says, one half of her
mouth turned upwards in a parody of a grin.

I could scream, I really could.

So I do.

And then, with lack of any other options, I sit on the floor
in the doorway.

“Oh, how frustrated you people are making me! I've told you
before, and I'll tell you again: you have the wrong woman! My name is Lady
Anne, yes, but my surname is Damsbridge, D-A-M-S-B-R-I-D-G-E. Just in case
you're having difficulty understanding that, I thought I should spell it out
for you. But are you illiterate? I suppose you probably are. Again, Damsbridge.
My father is the Earl of Damsbridge. The name of Stanbury is not mine, I have
never heard of it, and I don't even know anybody by that name!”

“Anne, her name is Ruth,” says the 'doctor'. 'Ruth' farts
again, and the doctor turns to her, saying, “Well? There is no harm in her
knowing your name. She should, anyway, you're supposed to be building a
relationship with the patients. I've told you before.”

Ruth makes another noise, and I ask her whether she just
farted out of her bottom or out of her mouth. “For when you talk, it’s nothing
but a lot of smelly noise,” I tell her. “Your breath stinks. I noticed the
other day, but decided to be polite about it and not say so.”

Her face turns a deep shade of pink.

“But...she's so, so, stubborn! Doctor, she won’t do hardly
anything I tell her, she-”

“There is no such thing as a 'stubborn' insane person, Nurse
Ruth. A man or woman bereft of reason is perfectly incapable of such. The only
stubborn people of the world are sane, and to understand this is your job. Now,
leave us alone for a minute. Seen as how I am here, I may as well utilize this
opportunity to try to assess Anne again.”

“You shan't be assessing anybody, least of all me. And I'm
not bloody well insane,” I tell him as Ruth leaves, slamming the door behind
her.

Ruth.

Fat-Ruth.

It has a certain 'ring' to it, or 'roll'. A dumpy, lardy,
big Fat-Ruth roll.

“Put out your tongue, please, Anne,” the 'doctor' says,
approaching me slowly.

“I don’t want to, you beast,” I say. I'm really in trouble
here.

“Anne. You must show me your tongue. I am a doctor.”

“My tongue is perfectly fine, you fiend. The only thing
wrong with my tongue is that it has to be used to talk with you,” I say,
closing my mouth and pursing my lips together tightly.

He sighs and looks about him, before making his way over to
my bed and sitting, putting his head in his hands.

“Yes, you may very well cast your eyes upon the ground, you
despicable creature. How dare you lock a Lady in a cell, and pretend to be a
doctor, in order to look upon her tongue?”

He moves to pull something out of his pocket, and I move
quickly: far too fast for him to catch me.

“Anne-“

“A-ha! You never imagined this did you, you wobbly eyed
fish!” I am over the other side of the cell, facing him, brandishing my
chamber-pot. I hold it above my head. “It is full, stinking, filthy, dirty
full, and I shall throw it upon you unless you give me the key.”

His puffy-fish eyes wobble a little more, practically
standing on stalks out of his face.

“I can smell them,” I say. My arms are starting to ache.

“Smell what?”

“Your eyes, you sea-creature.”

“My eyes?”

“Yes, your eyes. Your horrible, beady eyes. Fish eyes. I
should imagine you’d like to cut mine out and make chairs out of them. I simply
refuse to put my tongue out.”

He starts writing on a long, slender notepad, evidently that
which he pulled out of his pocket before I retrieved my weapon.

“Can you stretch out your arms for me, Anne? Perhaps wiggle
your fingers a little?”

Whilst I'm holding a chamber-pot? What a stupid question.

“No. I shan’t do anything you ask of me. Is that my ransom
note?”

“No, Anne. It is-“

“It is, I know it is. Why else would you be writing upon a
pad? I hope that the ink leaks out of your pen, all over your disgusting,
cheap-smart clothes.”

He frowns, ignoring me, continuing to write, occasionally
wiping an invisible piece of dust from his lap.

“Have you ever taken any drugs, Anne?”

I ignore the question.

“Give me the key.”

“No, Anne. I can’t give you the key.”

“Give it to me!” My voice rises; my throat starts to close
up. “Give it to me right NOW, give it to me, give it to me! Give it to me, give
it to me-“

The door opens with a bang, hitting itself upon the wall.
Some yellow paint falls onto the floor in a pile. I want it.

“Doctor! What on earth is she up to now-“

I launch my chamber-pot.

Time stops for a moment.

I giggle.

“Oh, my!”

The ‘doctor’ runs to Fat Ruth’s aid.

“Doctor! Ohhhhhhh, oh, oh, oh, ohhhhhhhhh!!!!”

I am in hysterics. The laugh simply won’t stop and it comes
with force, pushing my voice up my windpipe and out into the air in dancing,
happy tones. It forces me to bend over, such is its vigour and wait, something
is shining next to my foot.

A shard.

Before I can grab it, hands pull my arms behind me sharply,
and I am thrown to the floor. My giggle stops in a huff sort of sound, and I
can’t breathe right. The odour of faeces invades my nose.

“Nurse Ruth!”

“What, Doctor? What? You want me to let this little wretch
hack us both to death?”

“She would not have harmed us, she is-“

“She would! Why is this lunatic not at Broadmoor?”

“Because of her father, Nurse Ruth..."

My father? Broadmoor? Lunatic?

The hands let go of me, and they, as well as I, are covered
in my filth.

“Get the gloves, Nurse Ruth,” he says, wiping at his
trousers that now, I laugh, have something on them to be wiped off.

“How about the dress?”

“Yes, fetch the dress then. Right away.”

What are they talking about? The 'doctor' looks at me
forlornly from a few feet away, blocking the door.

“I am sorry to have to do this, Anne,” he says, leaving, as
Fat-Ruth comes back, holding a brown sack.

“Do what? What is that?”

“A restraint. For imbeciles like you,” Fat-Ruth says, and
launches herself upon me with astonishing speed, making me wonder if earlier,
she just watched me run for amusement.

“Let me go, let me go, let me GO!” I shout and I shout and I
shout. My voice is heard by everyone but acknowledged by no-one.

Dr George Savage

October 16th, 1885

Royal Bethlem Hospital

There is nothing in the world more soothing than a strong
cup of coffee coupled with a light read. I consider the newspaper in front of
me longingly for a moment before pushing it aside, and open Lady Stanbury's
case file.

Emotional side of Lady Stanbury
uncontrolled, a tendency to mood swings, verbal and physical violence, marred
by restlessness. Hallucinations ceased, yet delusions very much in force.
Attempted to escape this morning, disturbing other patients and frightening
staff. Threw a full chamber-pot of faeces over an attendant. Reached for a
broken shard, unknown whether she harboured intention to do harm. To remain in
isolation until behaviour improves. Currently restrained in strong clothing for
as short a period as necessary; whilst she is a danger to herself and others.
Lunacy Commissioners informed.

The law requires that during the first three months of a
patient's admission, I make an entry into this book every week. After that,
once a month, and after that, once every three months. However, given my newest
patient's current behaviour, I find myself writing inside it much more often
than required, as I do not wish to incur a twenty pound fine.

Gone are my mornings of a good, hearty breakfast accompanied
by news of lighter matters.

I finish the paragraph and blow on the paper, the ink drying
perfectly. That should make the commissioners happy. A tidy read portrays an
organized hospital.

I tap my pen against the desk, thinking.

Prescribing Croton Oil.

Attention to the bowels can be of great service to these
particular patients, though in Lady Stanbury's case I am eager to examine her
uterus. Yet...

Patient will not let me perform a physical
assessment. Hydrotherapy may be useful in calming her enough for me to do so,
slowing the blood flow to her brain and thus decreasing mental and physical
activity.

To review patient afterward.

A loud knock on my office door startles me, causing me to
drop my pen.

“Yes?”

“Doctor?” Nurse Ruth leans through the gap. “Sir, Lord
Damsbridge, and a Mr Stanbury are here.”

“Send them in, please. And bring the tissues, too, as this
will stain.” I've asked her before to knock more quietly.

She peeks at the widening ink-stain and grimaces, turns on
her heel, and exits the room. Seconds later the aforementioned gentlemen enter.

I glance at the paper. If I am unable to read it, it can
still be put to use.

I throw it over the ink stain.

“My Lord, Mr Stanbury. Good morning to you both.”

“And to you, Doctor,” says Lord Damsbridge, shaking off his
umbrella. His eyes search my office.

“In the corner-”

He deposits it in the stand before I can finish.

The recently bereaved husband stands back and off to one
side with his hands in his pockets. His face is as grief stricken and apt to
the occasion as his stance as he glares at the certificates upon my wall.

“Mr Stanbury, I don't believe we have met.”

“Indeed not. And I must say, I would rather have preferred
it stayed that way.” His gaze moves toward me as he answers, but his body
remains still.

Generally, people dislike meeting me. The policemen because
they believe I 'save' guilty men and women from the gallows.  The patients,
because they are terrified I'm going to throw them in a cell and let them
starve. The relatives, because they don't understand why their loved ones are locked
away from society. Other doctors, who sneer in disdain at alienists.

It would affect a lesser man than I, of that I have no
doubt.

“I agree. It is most unfortunate that this has occurred, and
I offer you my most sincere condolences.”

He grunts in acknowledgment, nodding.

“Excuse my son-in-laws' rudeness, Doctor,” says Lord
Damsbridge, helping himself to a chair. “Stanbury, sit.”

“Oh, I'm not at all offended, My Lord-”

The Earl interrupts me.

“Well, you should be. A true gentleman should know how to
act despite, or perhaps, because of his grief.” He stops, and peers around the
chair. “Stanbury, I'm not going to tell you again.” He turns back to me, and
offers a small, secret smile. “I keep telling him Doctor, an attitude like that
doesn't exactly inspire endearment from others.”

Mr Stanbury shoots a look of hatred towards the back of his
father-in-laws head, but acquiesces.

“My apologies. I fear I am not myself. My wife did murder my
baby less than two weeks ago, so you'll have to excuse me.” His anger is
palpable.

“Completely understandable, Mr Stanbury. Now, could I offer
you gentlemen a coffee?”

“Yes-”

Lord Damsbridge interrupts his son-in-law.

“Something stronger would be more appropriate at this time.
Whiskey, perchance?”

I glance at the large grandfather clock, left here by my
predecessor. I assume he's referring to the meetings impending subject matter,
as opposed to the hour, as the hands show only nine and twenty.

“Well, of course. I'm sure Nurse Ruth can fetch some, that
woman can find anything given half a chance. She should be back momentarily, as
I spilled-”

I stop.

It's best I keep my inherent clumsiness to myself.

“You were saying, Doctor?”

Opportunity presents itself in the personification of my
attendant, as she knocks on the door and peers questioningly at me through the
gap.

“Yes, come in, Nurse Ruth. I was saying, gentlemen, that
when you let women into a man’s domain, they tend to get carried away with
their curiosity. Take this one here, for example: liked the look of my pen, and
decided to write a note to her husband with it. And look at what she did!” I
remove the newspaper with a flourish. “This is solid oak, gentlemen. Ruined, by
romantic sentimentality in a flash.” I press my finger into the ink pointedly.

Her mouth drops open, but she quickly recovers.

“Yes, I am such a stupid woman,” she says, the sarcasm lost
on the two men. She shakes the tissues in her hand, and advances. “Here, let me
clean that.”

I wave her away.

“No, Nurse Ruth. I shall buy a new desk. You can repay me by
finding our gentlemen here a bottle of our finest whiskey.”

“Certainly. Nice to meet you, My Lord. Mr Stanbury.” She
curtseys, and leaves the room quietly, shutting the door with a small click.

“Women,” I say, laughing.

“Quite,” says Lord Damsbridge.

I reach into the desk and pull out Lady Stanbury's folder.

“Right. I requested your company today so I may learn more
of Lady Stanbury: her habits, friendships, personality, etcetera, in order to
start appropriate treatment. This is a two way discussion, and I welcome any
questions from you both.” As they nod in synchrony, Lord Damsbridge more so
than the other, I continue onward with the speech I give to the relatives of
every new patient admitted.

“Let me allay any fears you may have with regards to Lady
Stanbury being in, dare I say it: a lunatic asylum.” I raise my eyebrows in an
imitation of mock horror. “Forget the histrionic stories that old wives
exchange on street corners about madmen being chained to the walls. This is the
nineteenth century gentlemen, and our field of expertise is much more advanced
than that which prescribed the inhumane and inexperienced treatments of
yesteryear.”

“Though it remains true that the people in here are
lunatics, does it not, Doctor?” Mr Stanbury says, spitefully.

“Well, yes – some of them, but Bethlem is a place of rest
where anyone suffering mental deficiency can come to be treated. We even have
people admit themselves voluntarily, of their own will.” I sift through the
drawer of my desk again, and pull out a form. I put the paper in front of the
gentlemen and reach for my pen. Ah, it is covered with ink. I fumble discreetly
for a spare whilst the men read over the sheet. “Cast your eyes over the
writing at the top.” Aha. A pen. I pull it out and tap it over the paragraph I
want them to read. “It says: 'All persons, of unsound mind presumed to be
curable, are eligible for admission into this hospital for maintenance and
medical treatment'”.

“Presumed 'curable'?” Lord Damsbridge asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” I say, pleased he focused on that word. “She can be
cured completely.”

“Cured of what, precisely? What is wrong with her? Why did
she kill our eight week old son?” Mr Stanbury says, his jaw set tight.

“She-”

We are interrupted by the door opening, and Nurse Ruth makes
her way inside carrying a silver dish. Atop lay a crystal decanter, three
glasses, and a bottle of Tullamore Dew.

“Good choice,” says Lord Damsbridge, lifting the whiskey and
pouring two generous measures. Handing one to Mr Stanbury, he looks at me.

“For you, Doctor?”

“I'm a coffee man, myself.”

He frowns, disapprovingly.

 “But I do enjoy a little indulgence from time to time,” I
lie, as he fills a third glass. “Yes, I would like one after all, thank you.” I
lift the golden liquid to my mouth; loathe to taste that which leads to
perversion of the mind. I sip it tentatively, and it travels down my throat
like liquefied nails.

Mr Stanbury has drunk his fill before I lifted the glass to
my lips.

I swirl the liquid, and place it on the desk.

“To answer your question, Mr Stanbury, your wife is
suffering from a mental illness called 'Puerperal Mania'. I believe you have
both heard this term before, at the time of her first assessment shortly
following her arrest on October 5th, 1885. I stand by that diagnosis. Puerperal
Mania, in Lady Stanbury's case, is the cause of her insanity. Just as others
may go mad because of epilepsy, or alcohol, or fever; pregnancy and childbirth
has caused Anne to become temporarily insane.

“My Lord, Puerperal Mania tends to have an element of
inheritance. Indeed, it is the chief cause: pregnancy itself being only a
secondary factor. How did your wife fare after giving birth? Can you remember
whether she displayed any signs of seeing to the baby too much, or too little?
Did she retreat to her bed and sleep at unusual times of the day, or suffer
insomnia of a night-”

He interrupts me.

“My wife died in childbirth, Doctor. She never got the
opportunity to even hold her daughter.”

I make a note.

Patient may have dwelt upon the misfortune
of her mother – whom expired during labour, contributing to stress and anxiety
during her own pregnancy. Clear precipitating factor. Unknown whether mother
might have suffered from puerperal mania – the possibility remains: in which
case the patient had a strong disposition towards insanity.

“Right. Mr Stanbury, did your wife display any of those
signs I just mentioned during or after the pregnancy? Did she act strangely in
any way, or was it only after having the child she became unstable?”

“Nothing seemed amiss until after our son was born,” he
says.

“My Lord?”

“I barely saw her during her confinement, Doctor, though I
hear she kept well enough.”

“How was your relationship with your wife, Mr Stanbury?”
Puerperal mania has more social aspects than other forms of insanity, and I
have to consider the kinship of Lady Stanbury not only to her child, but to her
home and her husband.

“It was fine,” he says, crossing his arms. Despite his
statement to the contrary, his body language betrays his words. I make a mental
note to return to this at a later date, when I am alone with him.

Possible relationship difficulties – to
follow up on this.

“How was the birth? Did she cope well?”

“She suffered badly,” Mr Stanbury says. “The doctor
eventually gave her Chloroform.”

Recent research established that anaesthetics can bring on
an attack of insanity. My pen is now moving continuously across the cream page.

“And was there a copious amount of blood? Did she
haemorrhage?”

Lord Damsbridge winces. Mr Stanbury says that he wouldn't know:
he wasn't present in the room for the birth, and it wasn't something he thought
to ask.

Insanity appears to have developed
following parturition; no marked insanity before expulsion of the baby.
Pronounced emotional state may have been brought on by the pains of labour, and
compounded by the intake of Chloroform. Unknown amount of blood loss, but
possibly she could have become anaemic. 

 “How was she towards you after the birth, Mr Stanbury?”

“She was normal, at least initially she seemed to be, but as
time went by she became restless. She wandered the house at night unable to
sleep, checking on John constantly. Occasionally she would wake him just to
check he was still breathing...” He opens his mouth to say more, but stops
mid-sentence.

“Yes?” I prompt him.

He fidgets.

“Well, that’s the thing, Doctor. She was very protective
towards John. I don’t understand. How she can change from being so over-bearing
and affectionate, to...” He stops and clears his throat. “To being the person
to cause him harm? She worried about dirt, for heaven’s sake!” Tears well up in
his eyes, threatening to fall, and underneath the angry exterior I see a man
filled with grief, and love. He discreetly removes a handkerchief from his top
pocket, and continues onwards, dabbing at his eyes. “How can she, a mother,
hurt her own baby? Why?”

“Quite,” Lord Damsbridge adds. “That's the part we don't
understand. People go insane all the time, but they don't go around killing
others, least of all their own flesh and blood.”

This is the hard part for me to explain, and I make the
decision to keep it simple.