Valley of the Shadow of Depression

by Kerry Blair

According to Sunset Magazine, traditional Southwestern décor is once again in vogue. (At least it is here in the Southwest. Maybe don’t adopt it in Hawaii or Massachusetts; Navajo rugs do not come in tropical colors, nor do cacti thrive in snow.) This trend is heartening to me because somewhere along the way my surroundings have strayed from shabby chic to Early Monument Valley. Monument Valley, for those of you who have never been to Arizona and/or seen a John Wayne movie, is a vast stretch of red dirt and scrub brush broken up by the occasional miracle of geology – towering sandstone monoliths. They formed slowly, over millennia of time. My own monoliths of great expectations are almost as high, but formed much faster.

Perhaps “monolith” is too kind a word. While it’s true that the piles of quilting fabric that obscure the dining room table may be monoliths of great expectations, the rest of my towering stacks of stuff are mere monuments to procrastination and sloth. This morning I spent ten minutes clearing six square inches of tabletop – just enough to balance a laptop so I could blog. I haven’t seen my computer since we moved it into a spare bedroom just after Thanksgiving. It’s probably still in there somewhere, albeit buried under the six hundred books, eighty rolls of almost-gone wrapping paper, and assorted other “treasures” I hold onto in case we ever need them. (Doubtful.) Mercifully, my husband closed the door to that room a couple of weeks ago and I have yet to open it. Maybe if I wait long enough it will become a mysterious and romantic memory, like a closed-off wing of a mansion in gothic literature. Everyone who passes by the locked door will wonder what lies within, but no one will dare to enter until after my death. (And then the snooper will be buried alive in an avalanche of junk and the room will become even darker and more mysterious. I like it!)

I don’t really need the computer since I haven’t read e-mail in two weeks, but I would like to have the desk. Flat surfaces are at a premium around here. Weeks ago I moved a broken antique table into the family room until I got a chance to repair it. The inlaid top has disappeared under mail I am absolutely going to answer, thank you cards I am certainly going to send, magazines I will surely scan, coupons I will indubitably clip, Cub Scout materials I am about to organize, and Whitney books I will indeed read by the end of the month. (Fortunately, the books are the only thing with a deadline. My tried-and-true routine with coupons is to stack them up, wait for them to expire, and then recycle the paper so we can start the process again. I figure if I leave the Cub Scout stuff there long enough I’ll be released and can throw it all into a box for the next victim . . . I mean den leader. As for the magazines, well, one dates from 1902 – yes, really, and, no, I haven’t read it yet – but the rest are slightly newer. Plenty of time to get to them.)

If only time, or the lack thereof, was my problem. What I lack nowadays is the strength and oftentimes the inclination, to accomplish anything. How did a nice girl like me end up in a valley like this? I wish I knew. I sat in my oncologist’s office recently and sobbed. I told him I felt like I was being sucked into quicksand. (I am very much into simile and metaphor as you all know.) You would think that a guy who’s been dealing with cancer patients long enough to charge $75 a minute would give me my money’s worth, but no. “Perfectly normal,” he said, and even had the nerve to look me in the eye and smile when he said it. (The man keeps no letter openers nor blunt objects on his desk; now you know why.)

I’m here to tell you there is nothing “normal” or “perfect” about feeling this way. I owe half the people who read this blog an apology and an explanation. This is the apology, but the explanation is harder to define. I’ve searched the scriptures. (Jonah found more light the belly of the fish.) I’ve re-read inspiring literature. (“(S)he also serves who only stands and waits.” Bah.) I’ve eaten better and attempted to exercise. (Being in chemo and struck with an exacerbation of MS, “exercise” is often defined as making it all the way from the bed to the bathroom to a chair in the living room.) I’ve even perused a couple of self-help books. (Which were beyond doubt the musings of men mingled with the oh-so-rare glint of wisdom.) I did not sink so far as to watch talk-TV, but I was getting there.

I’d have probably attempted to climb one of my monoliths and jump, but I just couldn't summon the energy.

I’ve never been depressed – clinically or otherwise. In fact, while this is harder to confess than admitting I voted for McCain, I’ve long suspected that depression is to medical conditions what the Bunny is to Easter. I think now that I may have been at little hasty, and harsh, in my judgment. Perhaps—gasp!—I was even mistaken. Time will tell. For the last year I’ve poured poison into my system to save my life. Over the last decade I’ve taken gallons of medication to slow the progression of MS. Why then is it so much harder to even consider taking one tiny pill a day to perhaps save my sanity?

I don’t know, but I’m working on it. Even alluding to depression today was an unbelievably big step for me. (Hopefully in the right direction.) If you’ll please forgive me for the past couple of months I’ll let you know how the next few work out. And if you don’t hear from me, well, just assume I felt better and opened the door to that terrifying room after all.