7. "Everything is just fine" DIAGNOSIS

A new day finally arrives. The sun rays pop through the window and brush my face. I am awake but I am exhausted. I didn’t get any sleep last night but now I need to use the restroom so I reluctantly drag myself out of bed. I move slowly. I am a slug. My brother is still in bed, awake. His covers are pulled up all the way to his chin but his eyes are cautiously following me to the door. Most of the time, he is a busy boy. It is not like him to be this subdued.  I need to get to the bathroom but I have to go through the hallway first.  I peek around the corner to see if the air is clear. Oh, no, he is there…oh no, he sees me. 

There is a table and two chairs in our hallway and they create a nice sitting area. My father is sitting in one of the chairs and our house rotary phone is in his lap. A million little tiny phone parts are spread out on the table around him. He has a screwdriver in his hand and gasp… a kitchen knife by his side too. He is digging into the phone with his screwdriver but the moment he sees me, he pauses and gives me a big smile. “Good morning, Jarka.” I am inching through the hallway, trying to ignore  eye contact as I attempt to move past him. “Good morning, dad,” I mumble and I pick up speed around him.

“Wait, Jarka. I am fixing the phone, someone is recording us. They are plotting to mess with us. But I have it under control now. Well, hm, almost under control, I think. I still need to fix the radio and then it will be all good. Yes, it will be all good, don’t worry.” He goes back to fully immersing himself into his thoughts, trying to repair the phone that was never broken in the first place. I wonder if he found the device that someone, probably our neighbours, planted inside it. I rush to the bathroom, shut the door, and lock it. I sit there for a while, in disbelief, processing all of the recent events. When I finally come out, my father doesn’t register my presence at all anymore. It’s like within a split second, I don’t exist anymore. It is just his thoughts and him. His delusions and him. His hallucinations and him. His paranoia and him.  I don’t want a place in his world. I am a little girl and I am scared of it. 

The sound of a doorbell suddenly interrupts the creepy silence and resonates through the hallway. There is someone at the door. My father jumps out of his chair, the half-disassembled phone rolls down from his lap with a loud clunk, and all the little tiny pieces scatter on the floor. He grabs the screwdriver and tippytoes to the door. “Shhhh, it may be them,” he whispers, with a legitimate worry on his face. “Shhhhh, shhhhh.” 

“Let me see,” my mother hurries to the front door and answers it. Phew, it’s just grandpa on the other side. “Hi guys!” he smiles, “ I came to see how things are going with you all.” He is still smiling at me and my mother but eyeing my father with a hint of concern at the same time. There is a bag packed on the floor next to him. “Ahhhhh, I may just stay with you for a few days if you don’t mind.” My mother nods as he brings his luggage inside. He evaluates the scene displayed right in front of him, the mess on the floor, the screwdriver, the knife…. He gently touches my father’s elbow and leads him to the kitchen. “Son, come on, I brought you something.” He reaches into his pocket and I see a little bottle full of pills in his hand. I run back to the safety of my room and shut the door. A few minutes later, not even the thickness of the door prevents  the screams coming from the kitchen.

“There is nothing wrong with me!” my father yells. “I am not taking this!!” My brother and I keep looking at each other. “Let’s go look, Jarka,” he whispers to me. So we both quietly walk out of our room, then sit on the floor by the kitchen and hide behind a wall. We are two curious kids after all. 

“Son, just take this and you will feel better. I promise.  I got it from your doctor,” my grandpa’s voice is urgent but calm. Bang! Something goes flying across the room and shatters. “I am not crazy, I am perfectly fine! You all go away, go to hell. You are all dumb. LEAVE ME ALONE!”

It takes another 20 minutes but my grandpa manages to calm his son down. We see father take the medication with a big gulp of water. “It will be ok, you got this,” grandpa is now satisfied. He walks out of the kitchen, sees us on the floor, smiles again, and says: “It’s just the flu. Your dad has the flu. Nothing to worry about. He will be ok. I brought him some medicine to get him better. But I will stay here for a few nights to make sure he doesn’t get worse, ok kiddos?”

My father unlocks the living room door for my grandpa and he even lets him sleep on the couch by the piano. No one else is ever allowed to exist or breathe in the vicinity of the piano so we know the situation is serious. 

In the next few days, my father obediently takes his “flu” medication. His eyes become glazed over, his mouth dry, his eyes tic, and he moves slowly. He has no energy for the flood, the fire, or the phone. I suppose he is “better,” if being a shell of one’s previous self counts as “better.” Oh, but now he remembers that the piano is his biggest passion again. He is a pianist and a talented composer. He is going to have his songs played on the radio. He is going to be famous and be on TV. His daughter is going to be a pianist and will attend the Music Conservatory. This is his new tune that sticks with him for life. Pianist…..composer….radio….famous….TV…..daughter…..pianist….composer….radio….

Pills or no pills, the same song repeats inside his mind for days, weeks, months, years….it never stops and never will.

P and S

I know that our family is going through a challenging crisis. But no one knows, no one “on the outside” knows.  We are all perfectly fine. My father had the flu and now he is better. THE END. 

People have no clue and even if they suspect anything may be amiss, they never say anything to our faces. So I am existing and living in a pretend, happy world.  I am not allowed to tell anyone about what’s going on behind closed doors. If I confide in my best friend, I may possibly lose her forever. I am sure of it. People would also think of me as crazy by association. The rumors would spread like fire. And I wouldn’t want people to know about my tarnished DNA, would I? What if I am crazy after all? Maybe I am? Where does the sanity end and insanity begins? Where is the line? Doesn’t matter. I am conditioned not to say a word. For now, it is just us with our secret: mom, dad, brother, grandma, and grandpa; we as a family stick together and stay quiet. 

Oh wait, I forget. The piano knows too. The piano knows everything. 

“Jarka, come here, girl,” my mom calls me. “Come here, sit down, I want to talk to you.” So I sit down and wait. I see my mother trying to collect herself, get her courage and composure. “You are old enough to know now,” she looks at me again, worried. “Your dad doesn’t have the flu.”

“Yes, I know,” I say quietly, question marks in my expression.

She takes a deep breath. “Your father has P…….S……,” she blurts out and then runs to me and hugs me, her eyes full of tears.

Note: I still can’t write the full name of his diagnosis here. While today I would  share it with you in a personal conversation, putting it out there into the entire world is difficult. There is still a block of the past secrets that is hiding inside of me.