The Silent Ringing

Every day, between two in the afternoon and nine at night, our home telephone will ring anywhere between seven and twelve times. The call ID always reads the same: Pay Phone from a 609 area code. It rings and rings and rings, but we don’t answer. No, these days we hardly even flinch. Every so often, the silence is broken and one of us will check the phone to see whose calling, but once we see who it is we forget immediately. It’s too painful and frustrating to do otherwise. Once every few days, one of us will forget to check the Caller ID and we’ll say, “Hello.” We’ll hear “Collect call from” followed by a shaky voice carefully pronouncing the name Beverly Cohen. That’s our cue to hang up and call back. “Mom,” whoever picks up will shout, “Grandma Bev’s calling again.” “I know,” she wearily replies, the mere thought of the painful conversation to be draining her energy instantaneously.

Last November, my Grandma Bev tried taking her own life. After being institutionalized for a couple weeks and subsequently released, she tried again. She has remained at Trenton Psychiatric Hospital. Back in those days, the phone calls would be answered. My mom would talk to her, trying to be there for her mother and help her get through these darkest of times. But my mom’s calm and hopeful demeanor at the start of the conversation would quickly diminish into the words “Mom! I ca… Mom! I will call you later,” as tears welled – tears that can only come from the frustration of watching a loved one suffer with absolutely no way of helping. Slowly but surely, my mom – as well as the rest of us – realized that answering her every call to her about her every worry would only give her one more way to avoid confronting her real problems. At first, we’d hear the phone ring. We’d want to pick up, but we knew that it would not do any good. The twenty seconds or so of sonic torture wrenched our hearts as we waited for the call to drop. But, like everything else in life, if you do something enough it becomes an unconscious habit. Now, over half a year since her hospitalization, the phone ringing gets no more attention than the furnace turning on.

Tonight, however, was different. Tonight I decided to acknowledge the ringing phone. While I was cutting up some bell peppers, the phone rang on the counter next to me. The screen read Pay Phone and I disobeyed my instinct to put it down. “Hello?” I said, waiting for the automated recording. I hung up, took a few deep breaths, and then redialed.

“Hello?” My Grandma answered. The last time I talked to her, her voice was strained from crying incessantly for weeks straight, literally. This time, she sounded different. Her voice was less hoarse, but still weak; it sounded frail and resigned.

“Hey Grandma Bev. It’s Tommy.” “Oh, hi Tommy. Is your mother home?” “No she’s at Angie’s swim meet.” She becomes silent. “But… how are you doing Grandma Bev?” “The same,” she mumbled pessimistically before rambling on about them giving her the wrong meds. For the past nineteen years, doctors were always “giving her the wrong meds.” It’s not the meds! You don’t need them and you have to stop telling yourself you need them, I shouted against the inner walls of my skull. She paused and for several seconds there was silence.

“So, are you working now?” she asked, but not in the typical condescending adult manner. She was genuinely interested in what I was doing. As small of a question as it may have been, it was one of the few times I had heard her take a genuine interest in someone else’s life in a long, long time. Usually she buried herself too deep in her own anxieties to wonder what the rest of the world was up to. “Yeah I do actually. I’m teaching Geometry at St. Joe’s,” I responded proudly. “That’s wonderful,” she said sincerely. Then silence again.

She broke the silence with her usual laundry list of complaints: “they’ve got me in here with drug addicts and homeless people,” “it’s horrible the way they treat you,” “there’s nothing to do,” and so on. My head began to spin but this time, however, she caught herself. “I know I shouldn’t be complaining, especially not to you.” I calmed myself. “It’s ok, Grandma Bev, but don’t think so much about what you shouldn’t be doing. Just focus on what you should be doing to get out of there soon.” She took a breath before admitting, “That’s good advice.” Maybe she is doing a bit better, I thought, wanting to be optimistic.

Then she slipped. “But when I go home I don’t know how I’ll afford all of this. I don’t have enough Social Security… I have to get a new driver’s license, but I don’t know where any of the documents are…” and so she continued. It was as if I could see the furious winds of worry swirling inside her head as her speech failed to grasp each anxiety individually. Frustrated but trying to remain patient, I let her finish. Then silence again, longer this time.

“I had a dream about you this week,” I said changing the subject. “Was it a good dream or a bad one?” she nervously inquired. “A good one. You were over my house and you seemed happy and healthy.” “That would be nice,” she lamented, as if this dream could only be just that. Desperately trying to stay positive, I responded, “Well just keep doing what you have to do to get out of there. Like I tell my students, the KISS method: keep it simple stupid.” She almost chuckled. “Just focus on getting yourself better and when you get out we’ll all work on the other problems together, as a family. You know we’re here for you,” I reminded her. “I know, it’s just so hard. There’s nothing to do here and these new meds make me feel anxious. It’s like a prison.” One that you put yourself in, I thought bitterly. She continued, “On Sundays we don’t even get out of bed because there’s nothing to do.”

I desperately wanted to lambaste her; wanted to tell her, step by step, everything she did wrong and what she needed to do to make it all better. But I bit my tongue. She’s been told these things hundreds of times before, I reassured myself, They don’t sink in for her. “Just focus on what you need to do to get healthy and come home to everyone. Keep it simple,” I say finally. I heard only her labored breathing for a few moments before she broke the silence. “Make sure your mother calls me back. But not between 7 and 8.” “I will,” I said, half relieved the conversation was over but half heartbroken the it ended where it did and where it always does: the same place it started. “I love you,” she said and meant it – or at least wanted to. I sighed – reluctantly accepting that this phone call wouldn’t be the one to change her life either – “I love you too, Grandma Bev.” “Don’t forget to tell your mother. Love you,” she blurted anxiously. “I love you too,” I reiterated, hoping these words will magically summon something in her. And with the push of a button our worlds became separated again.

I returned to cutting the peppers, trying to distract my brain from what just happened. She sounded better, right? Or is she just getting too tired to sound as bad as she did? My mind would not stop.

Minutes later, the phone rang again. It was her. Why is she calling? She can’t be calling to see if my mom’s home yet, could she? Oh no, she’s losing it. I forced my thumb to answer the call and then again to redial the Pay Phone. Come on Grandma Bev. You can do better. I know you can. The ringing stops. “Hello?” I ask. “I just wanted to say how proud I am of you,” she said unexpectedly. “Oh,” I stumbled, shocked by how wrong my presumptions were. “Thank you, Grandma Bev.” She continued, “I didn’t feel anxious. Usually on the phone I feel anxious, but I felt calm talking to you.” “Good. I’m glad I can help you calm down,” I said, at almost a complete loss for words. “Maybe I can come see you soon. Would that be ok?” She replied instantly, “You can come Sunday. There’s nothing to do on Sundays. No reason to get out of bed…” she started again, but all I heard was my mind raging, You’ve got to give yourself your own reason to get out of bed! Appreciate your family and use that as motivation to get yourself better. I remained silent, though.

“Don’t let them give you any problems,” she said randomly, her mind jumping from concern to concern once again. “Who? My students? They’re good. Don’t worry about them,” I reassured, trying to relieve her of at least one unnecessary worry. “Well, that’s good,” she said before silently returning inside her head. “Well I’ve got to finish making some dinner here. I’ll tell my mom you called,” I said, now looking for a reason to end my discomfort. “I’m very proud of you,” she repeated. “Thank you… I love you. Just take care of yourself,” I said again desperately. “Ok. Tell your mother to call after 8.” We hung up.

I told myself she sounded better – at least compared to last time we spoke – and I convinced myself that there was still hope for her. I went back to cutting my peppers – to my life as usual –, the conversation echoing in my head like the phone ring in my ears.