The Happy Treatment

There are those moments in life when you’re aware you’re making a stupid decision while you’re acting on it in the present. It’s something you know you’ll regret later, you just know it, yet you can’t stop yourself, and you decide to let your future self just regret it.

The chances of dying from slitting the wrists is a low percentage. There’s a better chance one ends up with searing physical pain and afterwards, permanent damage in the hand rather than death.

I know little information about the aftermath of slitting wrists, but I’ve decided I know enough to confirm that it won’t affect my Happy treatment. If I don’t die (which I most likely won’t), my hands could end up with nerve damage, and even permanently deformed, being unable to move them how I always have, but if I feel nothing but happiness, I won’t care.

The costs of the procedure along with the stitches and probably hand surgery for possible damaged nerves from my wrist slitting will be unnecessarily expensive, but I’ll feel nothing but happiness, so I won’t care.

I won’t feel pain anymore, yet I won’t be dead, so I’ll still be alive for Mom, and even Eva and Zophie if Zophie ever reaches out after I get my procedure, because I probably won’t be the one reaching out anymore.

The faint sound of beeps and hums from machines stirs me awake. Bright fluorescent lights shine in my eyes as I squint. I groan as I shift, my voice sounding choked and hoarse. As I shift, I whimper as I begin to gain feeling in my sore and achy body. I’m alone in a hospital room, the walls and bed sheets blindingly white and colorless. I look down with a crick in my neck and see both of my arms decorated with a long line of stitches. Blotches of the yellow povidone-iodine solution used in surgery still stains my wrists. Loose, itchy restraints hold my wrists by my side, rubbing against the fresh stitches in my skin. I could probably get out of them in an urgent situation, but even shifting my arms or hands slightly sends a jolt of pain through my body. The pulse oximeter monitoring my heartbeat clips to my right index finger, sending beeps to the monitor next to me, while my right thumb rests on the remote to call for assistance. I press slightly on the call button, and pain instantly thrusts itself up my arm. I let out an involuntary screech as I feel the ache in my body.

The wide hospital door to my room opens, and Mom walks in holding a cup of water and ice. I sit up as best I can, shock filling my face at the image of Mom standing in front of me.

“Oh, you’re awake!” She says as she hurries over to me, setting down the water cup on the small table next to me and hugging me as tightly as she can without hurting me.

“How…? How did you -?” I stutter.

“Please talk to me,” Mom says desperately as she holds on to me, “Why would you do this? I was so afraid, Cindy.”

“How are you here?” I finally manage to say, still shocked.

“Zophie texted me what you said to her,” Mom says as she finally lets go and wipes a tear away, “She was concerned why you sent such a text out of nowhere and when you wouldn’t respond, she told me I might want to check on you.” She sat down in the chair next to my hospital bed.

“But - but Zophie doesn’t have your number and how’d you know to come here and how’d you know which room to go in and -”

“Cindy, Cindy,” Mom said cautiously, trying to slow me down, “Zophie told me she was concerned and checked Eva’s phone and saw you had texted her something strange too. Eva has my number, remember? Zophie got my number from Eva. Zophie and Eva should be on their way now to see you too.”

“How’d you know I was here? Did I give the doctors your contact and I just don’t remember or something? Fuck, am I Happy now?” I pick my arm up to feel my head for any trace of stitches or surgery, but the restraints hold it back and I feel the ache run up my body. I groan.

“Relax, Cindy,” Mom says, “No you haven’t gotten it yet, thank goodness. You’ve just had surgery on your wrists. Dr. Goodwin says you hit some nerves and a tendon if I remember correctly.”

“How’d you know where to find me?” I ask again, ignoring the information that I’ve possibly permanently damaged my hands.

“I didn’t,” Mom says, “I called a driver to come pick me up from work as soon as I got the text from Zophie to take me home, but when I saw the car wasn’t there and you weren’t anywhere in the house, I got the driver to take me to the ER. The official Happy Mind Treatment Center near us was going to be my third option, so thank goodness I chose to come here before then.”

I was surprised. Mom would never pay extra money for someone to drive her to all of those places and more when there’s a bus to take home, but obviously she was in a hurry.

“They told me they had an unidentified patient here,” Mom continues, patiently answering all of my questions even though she must have many questions of her own, “and when I showed them a picture of you, they confirmed you were the patient. I gave them our insurance and everything and after proving I was your guardian, I was finally allowed to come back here. It felt like it took absolutely forever. Cindy, I was so scared.”

I look down, “I’m sorry,” I say. That’s all I can manage right now.

“Alright,” Mom sighs tiredly, “I’ve answered your questions, now you need to answer mine. Why am I here, Cindy?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. It was quite a loaded question.

A knock fills the brief silence between Mom and I, and both face the door. A woman in a long, white, lab coat holding a clipboard enters the room. “Heard you’re awake!” She says with a plastic smile, gesturing towards the call button that still sits under my hand, “You called.”

“Hi, Dr. Goodwin,” Mom says with exhaustion in her tone.

“The unidentified patient,” Dr. Goodwin states as she flips through the chart on the clipboard, “We sure got lucky your mother found you. You didn’t have any ID on you or car keys or anything! Some of the nurses think you walked all the way here!” She laughs, “We now know you’re Cindy Reeves. I only mention that because my first name is Sydney. We’re almost the same!”

Mom attempts to smile politely at the doctor’s attempt to lighten things up, but it comes out more as a depressed and worried expression.

“So,” Dr. Goodwin says, clicking her tongue as she reads my chart, “You had to have a little more than stitches on each arm. You got a lot of nerve damage, but the surgery mostly fixed that up and you should be fine as far as that goes over time,” she pauses, “But,” she emphasizes, “you’ve cut a flexor tendon on your right. I won’t ask you to try now, since I know it’s going to hurt, but you’re most likely not going to be able to bend some fingers well in your right hand. We’ll have to set you up with some physical therapy. Also -”

“Dr. Goodwin,” I say, interrupting, “I’m sorry, but this just isn’t important to me now. When am I getting the Happy treatment?” I see Mom’s face turn to pure concern and almost a hint of betrayal on the side of my eye. “Cindy,” Mom says.

“Well, someone’s eager!” Dr. Goodwin says, “No judgment, though! I was too when I needed it to stay alive! You will get your treatment as soon as possible, but surgeries usually don’t go back to back and you’ve just got out of surgery. You sure did cut deep!”

“Wait, so when will I get the Happy treatment? I can’t wait another few days,” I say desperately. Mom opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something but Dr. Goodwin responds. “Don’t worry!” She says, “The Happy treatment is a little different from regular surgeries. Since it’s the most needed procedure for most, we don’t waste any time when someone requests one, especially an emergency one. You’ll get your treatment as soon as we have more doctors available today. At most, it may take a few hours since this is an emergency.” She points to my stitched up arms.

Mom stands up abruptly, “Okay, okay,” she says, quieting down Dr. Goodwin, “Dr. Goodwin? No, I’m sorry, but I will be taking my daughter home tonight. She’s not getting that treatment. It’s not happening.” She spoke firmly yet her voice was shaking and worry filled her eyes.

Dr. Goodwin winces, “Oh,” she says, making a face, “Unfortunately, Mrs. Reeves, you don’t have the authority to make that call. That decision is not up to you.”

Mom opens her mouth in disgust. “It’s not up to me?” She says, offended. She points to me, “That girl is my daughter. She is 16 years old! I don’t know how old you thought she was, but she is still a minor!”

“I’m aware of how old she is, Mrs. Reeves, but in this specific case, the fact that Cindy is still a minor does not make a difference. This is a matter of life or death and to reject a treatment that could result in saving her life would be considered child abuse.”

“Child abuse?!” Mom grew hysterical in her lack of control in this situation, “That treatment won’t help her, it’ll destroy her!”

The emotion must have been too much for Dr. Goodwin to take. She made the same confused smile Eva would make whenever I tried to talk to her about my pain. “I’ve had patients like Cindy before,” she says, “with guardians like you. This decision is up to Cindy. Only she can reject the treatment, and even if she were to chose to do so, she would have to go through evaluations that prove she’s not suicidal anymore. I’m required to inform you that you will be faced with criminal charges if you deny this treatment for Cindy.”

“Criminal charges?” Both Mom and I say at the same time, her tone more angry while mine more shockingly confused.

“Woah, woah,” Dr. Goodwin says lightly, “That always gets everyone freaking out,” she laughs, “I know it sounds extreme, but denying needed medical treatment for your child is considered a form of child abuse. It’s under section one fifteen of the Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act. Crazy how many patients like you have come in here that I know that off the top of my head!” She says proudly.

Mom is speechless, and I’m not sure what to say to break the silence that fills the room.

“Cindy,” Dr. Goodwin faces me with the plastic smile on her face, “let me or any of the nurses know if you need anything. We’ll have someone come in shortly to prep you for your next and last surgery when the next available Happy treatment surgeon is ready to prep too!”

I nod hesitantly as Dr. Goodwin exits the room, closing the door and leaving Mom and I alone together. Mom closes her eyes and rubs the bridge of her nose, sighing frustratingly.

“I’m going to ask you again, Cindy,” she says, “Why am I here?”

I’m still not sure what to say. “I..” I stutter, “I just want to be happy,” I say simply, the rest of the words in my mind refusing to come out of my mouth.

Mom sighs disappointingly, “But Honey, if you get this procedure, that’s all you’ll be. You shouldn’t live your whole life living just one emotion. You don’t live that way.”

“I shouldn’t live my life being nothing but happy? Why is that such a bad thing, Mom?” Tears form in my eyes and my voice starts to crack. I feel the emotions breaking through my wall of numbness, “Everyone against this treatment always says it’s unhealthy to be just one emotion, but, fuck, I’ve been living my life being nothing but sad for so long, so what’s the harm if I just switch to another emotion now? That’s what people don’t get about this treatment. People who need this are already living their lives being nothing but one emotion, so they might as well switch it to a happier one.”

“When you look at Eva does she really look happy to you?” Concern is written all over Mom’s face.

“She looks oblivious,” I say, “which is honestly happier than happy right now. Everything that’s been happening, be it in this screwed up world or in my life, it won’t matter after this.”

“Cindy,” there’s a crack in her voice as she says my name. She walks over to me, “You think it won’t matter after, but all these problems you’re trying to run from will still be there after this procedure. They don’t disappear.”

“It won’t matter if they disappear or not, I’ll be happy either way,” I say stubbornly.

I expect another response, a fight out of Mom. I expect her to throw another argument at me, for her to not give up, but nothing comes. She only stares at me, stunned and hurt filling her expression. She’s never looked so hurt. She plops down in the chair next to me again, appearing as if she’s fighting to get the words she wants to say to part from her mouth.

“I used to be oblivious,” she says, finally breaking the silence, “... I was oblivious when I was with your father. Do I look happy now?”

A few tears escape from her eyes that match the little hint of green in my own hazel eyes. “Mom,” I say cautiously, “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry.”

“I haven’t told you everything about why he killed himself,” she continued, wincing at the last two words she said, “Do you remember how much you always loved going to those little family reunions with him to visit his family?”

I nod slightly.

“I know you probably don’t remember, but you were so sad when we stopped going to the reunions. You’d always ask when we’re going to see Grandma and Grandpa again, but I had to shoo you off.”

Now that she mentions it, I vaguely remember the warm evenings on the porch of a house playing with my dad and grandparents. It’s a moment that had been buried underneath so much junk in my mind for so long, I forgot it was there.

“One day,” Mom continues, “we went to visit your dad’s parents and family again, but it was different this time. Almost all of them were… Happy. I remember how devastated your dad was when he tried to have his usual catching up conversations with your grandpa and your grandpa just couldn’t talk how he used to anymore. It was as if his phrases were limited and whenever he responded, he would just pick one of his limited phrases randomly out of a jar. During that visit, I remember having to watch you because I couldn’t trust your grandma to watch you after seeing how bubbly and oblivious she seemed to her surroundings. I don’t know what all happened during that visit with your dad, but when he came home, he was so depressed, Cindy.” She wipes a tear, “He wasn’t just depressed, he was mourning. I could tell, yet… I didn’t do anything. I just sat on the couch that night, thinking about how I need to get a refill on my medication soon. I thought about that while - while…” Her voice fades away as she stares passed me at the plain, white wall across from her. She’s quiet, and when she spoke again her voice turned to a whisper, “While he was in our bedroom… alone. Alone with his thoughts, no medication to calm them, no one to comfort him, no loving wife to hear his silence. Just alone, while his wife sat on the couch, scrolling through her phone to try to make an appointment for more medication that he needed so much more.”

She’s silent now, and I’m speechless. My lips part as a few tears rush down my face around them. Mom buries her face in her hands as she rests her elbows on her knees.

“I didn’t know his family got the treatment,” I say quietly. I always knew it was a mother’s job to worry for her child, and I learned that because of Mom. It was something she would always do for me no matter how tired she was or how long of a day she had at work. It was something she’d do no matter what, though I never knew the whole story behind why she was always so extreme with taking care of me, so extreme with staying by my bedside at night when she knew I was depressed, or so extreme with always trying to make me talk to her when she felt something was wrong.

“Cindy…” She says sympathetically and pauses, gathering herself together as she wipes her eyes and looks directly at me, “please believe me when I say I know, sometimes pain is so agonizing that the idea of living another single day with it seems unimaginably excruciating. But Cindy, you can only be happy if you first recognize your pain, not run away from it and expect it to not chase after you constantly. This isn’t a cure. It’s an exhausting race between you and your pain that you’ll never win.”

I sniffle. I don’t know how to respond. I’m so tired, and arguing only takes my energy. This is what I was afraid of happening if Mom showed up too soon. She would talk me out of it, and I didn’t want to think logically. Thinking logically is so exhausting, and I’m just so tired of crying, but I see the pain carved deep into my mother’s eyes, and I can’t look away. I can’t help but to listen to what she has to say. I speak to her with my voice barely a whisper, “Why is happiness so hard, Mom?”

“Because it’s the thing we desire most,” she responds simply, “I’ve already lost your father, Cindy. Please, I can’t lose you too.”

I feel her talking me out of the stupid decision I want to make, and I hate it. I start thinking logically. Mom will already have to pay a fortune for the hand surgeries and physical therapy I’ll have to do later, and paying for an emergency Happy treatment too will financially break her. If I get the treatment, she won’t be able to have the long, deep conversations we have together now, and we won’t be able to talk to each other about what’s going on in our lives like we do now. I’ll be gone from her like Eva is to me now.

But for a moment, I tried to forget about all of that. I wanted to make one, drastic, selfish decision to forget about everything, to throw out all my logical thinking, and just try to escape.

The door swings open wide, hitting the wall, and Mom and I jump at the sudden noise. Zophie storms in with Eva strolling along behind her. She looks me dead in the eye without blinking once, speaking slowly to enunciate each syllable.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She says.

“Hi Cindy!” Eva says excitedly.

“You shut up,” Zophie yells at Eva.

“I’m sorry,” I say cautiously. Zophie storms to my side and rips the velcro restraints off my wrists. I screech briefly in pain as she violently rips them, rubbing against my stitches and nudging my arms in the process.

“Shut up,” Zophie says, “You’re done. We’re getting out of here, right now.”

Mom rubs her face tiredly, “Zophie,” she says as if she’s repeating herself, “It’s not that simple of a process.”

“Why not? You think they’ll tackle us down if we try to just walk out?” Zophie says, not really interested in the answer.

“They just might, Zophie,” Mom says, a hint of annoyance in her voice, “so sit down and we’ll get this figured out.”

“So excited for you, Cindy!” Eva says. Zophie looks at her in disgust.

“You want me to get it?” I say, still weak to illogical thinking.

“No.”

It seemed at that moment, everyone froze and looked at Eva. Zophie’s look of disgust turned to surprise, Mom’s exhaustion turned to shock, and I was taken aback by Eva’s response.

“You don’t want her to get the Happy treatment?” Zophie says with surprise still locked on her face.

Eva smiles, “Yes,” she says. She turns to me with the plastic smile still stuck on her face, “Don’t get it, Cindy.”

“Wait,” Zophie says, her expression turning to desperateness, “so do you regret getting the treatment?”

“Of course not!” Eva says eagerly, “I’m so much better now and so happy! But don’t get it, Cindy. If you do, though, I’m so excited for you!”

Zophie, Mom and I exchange looks, all three of us caught off guard by Eva’s response.

I felt almost convinced when Mom shared her pain with me, but I feel that Eva’s three words of “don’t get it” was the last, drastic push I needed to be shoved painfully back into reality. It was the smallest bit of hope I needed, that maybe, just maybe, a piece of Eva may still be there, afterall.

The shove back into reality breaks the numbness I’ve felt inside me for what feels like an eternity. I sniffle and my breaths become shaky. I feel the warm tears as they fall down my face all at once. I throw my head down and cry, bringing my hands up to my face, thankful Zophie removed the restraints. I can’t shift my hands how I want them and bury my face in them, but I keep them covering my face as best I can without feeling pain thrust itself through my arms.

The emotions that have refused to come these past few days finally come all at once, and the feeling is overwhelming. I feel the pain of the emotions overflowing in my mind and it feels as if it’s too much to take, yet I’m here, taking it all in, accepting every emotion that wants to be felt. I have the people I love in this room with me, and it makes me feel stronger, yet it makes me feel like I can feel weak at the same time.

The emotional pain is strong, yet for once, I feel stronger having Mom, Zophie, and even Eva with me. I don’t feel okay, yet I’m okay with not feeling okay. I feel Mom wrap her arms around me delicately so as to not hurt my arms. She feels warm and comforting. Zophie, though not the hugging type at all, places an arm around me as well, along with Eva hugging me too. Though Eva still feels cold, she feels sincere, and I realize that though I could just be feeling what’s not there in my head, whether she’s sincere or not, I love her, and that’s not going to change.

I’ve done something stupid, I know that, but they’re still here for me. Mom is here for me even though I’ve hurt her deeply with what I’ve done and what I was about to do. Zophie is here for me in her own aggressive yet caring way even though I was about to leave her in the dirt to take care of Eva by herself and have no one to really talk to anymore. Eva is here for me in the best way she can be.

I hurt these people by letting pain control me and my actions, yet they’re here.

They stay with me while I cry for a long while. I’ve realized just how much damage I’ve done to them and myself, and more importantly, I’ve realized just how much they love me.

After a long needed while, I sniffle and manage to have my cries subside.

“Can someone press the call button on the remote?” I ask as I sniffle and sigh shakily.

Mom lets go and looks at me desperately. “What does that mean?” She asks as she wipes a few tears of her own.

I take a breath, “It means,” I pause, searching for the right words, “the Happy treatment won’t help me.”

“So you’re not getting it?” Mom asks with desperate hope filling her eyes.

“I’m not getting it.”

Mom grabs her chest with relief as if someone has placed her heart back into her body. She falls into the chair next to me and lets out a heavy, much needed sigh.

“Oh my goodness, thank you so much, Cindy,” she says as she closes her eyes, seeming about to cry again.

“Thank fuck,” Zophie says, running her hands through her dark, tight curls.

“Wonderful!” Eva says as if she’s a dog who’s randomly happy because everyone around her is too, but I feel like hopefully behind the plastic happiness in the back of her mind, there’s genuine relief.

Mom presses the call button on the remote several times, until eventually a nurse knocks and walks into the room.

“You called?” She says as she enters. I take a deep breath. I’m exhausted, but I’m almost through this. Now all that’s left is making it through the doctors and out of this hospital with my mind still intact.

I’m ready to go home.