Butter Safe Than Sorry Read Free Page B

the change in my personality.
    Again it was the perceptive Freni who diagnosed me first. "So," she said to Gabe, and right in front of me too, "about our Magdalena, I have been thinking."
    "Yes?"
    "She has the post-pardon expression."
    "I beg your pardon?"
    "Ach, not that one. The other one. The post -pardon."
    "I see." And Gabe did. He's fifty, and she's seventy- six; he's Jewish, she's Amish; he's a cardiologist, she's a cook, but somehow the two of them ended up sharing the same brain wave that deals with communication.
    "Yet it is clear that you do not agree," she said.
    "Freni, it's been four years since Little Jacob was born. If it was postpartum depression, we would have seen signs of it before this. I think it is generalized depression brought on by the trauma of what happened at the bank."
    As they talked, they calmly peeled potatoes for supper. It was just as if I wasn't there--but I was, sitting ramrod straight on a chair in the corner, because that was how Gabe had positioned me, and even slumping seemed like it was too much effort. Thank Heaven the little one was spending the day with Freni's grandchildren on the Hostetler family farm.
    "Is there a pill for such a thing?" Freni asked.
    "Yes and no. There are several medications that can help, but she also might benefit from some talk therapy."
    "Yah, that one can talk."
    Gabe set peeler and spud in the sink and slid an arm affectionately around my kinswoman. Normally, that would have been twice as much contact as she might have experienced during a reproductive cycle with her husband, Mose, but the Babester has killer good looks, and Freni has had a crush on him since day one.
    "I know of a top-notch facility in the Poconos. She'll have round-the-clock supervision and all the talk therapy she can handle--plus, since she'll be in a safe environment, they'll be free to experiment with her medication levels."
    Freni nodded, which took a bit of effort, seeing as how she has no neck. "So this is the Clooney bin of which they speak?"
    "Of which who speaks?" Gabe demanded, his brown eyes flickering.
    "Ach," Freni squawked, "folks!"
    By "folks" she meant just about everyone in our tightly knit community of Mennonites, Baptists, Methodists, and yes, Amish, all of whom shied away from seeking help for so-called mental illnesses. The Lord was supposed to be able to fix what was wrong with us. Sometimes, however, the Devil got such a strong hold on a person that he or she was unwilling to shake his- or herself loose from demonic possession, and again turn to the healing power of Christ. Only then, and this happened very rarely, did one of our own get shipped off to a loony bin somewhere, and usually those folks never returned.
    "The word is 'loony,' " Gabe said sadly, "not 'Clooney'--although our Magdalena--at least the one we used to know--is very found of George. Anyway, Freni, we don't call them loony bins anymore; it isn't PC."
    "Personal computers, yah? This word I learn from Magdalena, but now you make no sense." She wrested free of Gabe's comforting arm. "This world makes no sense to me."
    "Me either," said Gabe, his voice breaking.

    I spent three and a half months in the West Pocono Home for the Emotionally Challenged. There I was deconstructed, reconstructed, and instructed in the basics of good mental health. But although I recovered to the point that I could be engaged in meaningless conversation, I felt as if I had yet to recover my oomph.
    "We need to help her find a way to get her mojo back," my Beloved said on one of his weekly visits.
    "Ya," my Jewish mother-in law said. "Dis von needs her mo-Jew." Although Ida was born Jewish, she is now Mother Superior to a convent operated by the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy.
    "Ma," said the Babester, "do you think you can help?"
    Believe me, I heard the words. I was just incapable of protesting. When one is in the deepest of depressions, taking any action, even one as simple as speech, is an intense struggle. To step once