More Romantic than Flowers

Celebrating Valentine's Day as a patient in a psychiatric ward is a unique experience. In 1988, my husband, Louie, was on active duty in the US Navy, and his ship was hundreds of miles out to sea. I was in a hospital psychiatric ward, recovering from a complete and total breakdown. Of one thing I was very certain: There would be no flowers for me on that Valentine's Day. Nor would there be a phone call or one of those tender smiles that light up his eyes and melt my heart. I did not feel normal, and in this hospital ward, I had no idea whom I could trust.

All the patients had their own problems, and my goal was to get well, so that I could get on with my life. I suppose one could say that I'm an overly optimistic person. I view each downfall as a new beginning. I usually carry hope in my heart by the bushel, but hope in a psychiatric ward can be an illusive dream.

A day in the psychiatric ward was not just another day. The food was not that bad, but it was too much, and too high in calories for a group of people on anti-depressants, who are too depressed to exercise. I had gained 20 pounds, and I was feeling like a blimp. Valentine's Day is a day to spend time with those you love; however, with my husband out to sea, and my children in school, I felt pretty much alone.

By lunchtime, I had attended two group therapy sessions. I had promised two social workers, and my group-mates, that I had no intention of hurting myself. I had attended a craft class, where I'd been given sharp pointed objects to help inspire my creative side, and I couldn't help wondering who needed the medication here. Then came a lunch that was guaranteed to add on another five pounds. We were gathered in the dining area so we could stuff ourselves, when the heavy steel door opened. In walked my daughters, Jenny, age 16, and Helen, age 13, wearing excited grins. Seeing their blonde and red-gold loveliness brought joy to my heart and a smile to my lips. What a nice surprise!

They explained quickly that they both had school permission to leave during lunch, to make a special trip, with the hospital's permission, to see their mother outside of visiting hours. Incredulous, I looked over at the nurses, who were wearing mysterious smiles on their faces. Then Jenny handed me the small, brown paper bag. What in the world was this? The last thing I needed was a donut.

I opened the bag, my hands trembling, and inside I found my husband's small pocket computer. Oh, it was nothing like what you'd see today. It was one of the first small computers which ran on an archaic DOS program. I hated the little thing. I didn't even know how to find the "on" button.

I parked a smile on my face before I looked back up at the girls. "What's this?" I asked, in a cheerful voice.

"It's from Daddy!" they chorused, grinning broadly. Of course, my husband, the original techno-geek, wouldn't send flowers.

"How sweet!" I lied, grinning broadly through my teeth.

"Turn it on!" Helen instructed, her red curls bouncing merrily.

"OK," I said, now truly annoyed. I began pressing one button after another, looking for the stupid "on" button.

"It's the red button," Jenny explained. Of course. Red means "stop" in any language, so it had to be the "on" button. Just like a computer! I pressed the red button. Then all kinds of whirring began, and the tiny view screen became busy, and then stopped. The words jumped out at me, and in my heart they were 10 feet tall.

"I LOVE YOU, JAYE … I LOVE YOU, JAYE … I LOVE YOU, JAYE …" Again and again, the words scrolled across the tiny screen, as the tears streamed from my eyes. Louie had programmed his precious pocket computer to scroll his love for me, for as long as there was life in it, and that's when I discovered that a computer can be more romantic than flowers.

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