The Rosie Effect
Page 32
‘I’m okay.’
Zero points.
‘Are the problems causing you to lose sleep?’
‘Did I wake you up again? You know I’m a lousy sleeper.’
From lousy sleeper to lousy sleeper was no change.
It seemed a good point to throw in a random question, unrelated to the EPDS, to disguise my intent.
‘Are you confident of my ability to perform as a father?’
‘Of course, Don. Are you?’
Improvisation was getting me into trouble. I ignored Rosie’s question and moved on.
‘Have you been crying?’
‘I didn’t think you’d noticed. Just last night when it all got on top of me and you were out with Dave. It’s got nothing to do with you not being a good father.’
One occasion only.
‘You’re sad and miserable?’
‘No, I’m coping okay. Just under pressure.’
No. Zero.
‘Anxious and worried for no good reason?’
‘Maybe a little. I think I get it out of perspective sometimes.’ Oddly, given that this was the first answer that indicated some depressive risk, she smiled. The simplest means of quantifying maybe and sometimes was to reduce the score for the question by fifty per cent. One point.
‘Scared and a bit panicky?’
‘Like I said, a little. I’m really pretty okay.’
One point.
‘Possibly you’re blaming yourself unnecessarily for things.’
‘Wow. You’re being remarkably perceptive tonight.’
I decoded her response. She was saying I had got it right—hence yes. Full points.
She stood up and hugged me.
‘Thank you. You’re being really sweet. When we were talking about me taking time off, I thought we weren’t connecting…’
She started crying! A second occasion. But it was a few minutes outside the one-week survey period.
‘Are you looking forward to dinner?’ I asked.
She laughed, an extraordinarily rapid mood swing. ‘As long as it’s not tofu again.’
‘And to the future in general?’
‘More than I was a few minutes ago.’ Another hug, but there was an implication that Rosie had been looking forward to things rather less than she used to over the week, taken as a whole.
The last question was tricky, but I had laid a foundation for enquiry.
‘Have you thought about harming yourself?’ I asked.
‘What?’ She laughed. ‘I’m not going to top myself over multiple regression and some jerk in admin being stuck in the 1950s. Don, you’re hilarious. Go and make dinner.’
I counted this as able to laugh and see the funny side of things, but, considering the full week, there had been some diminution.
Nine points. A score of ten or greater indicated a risk of depression. Lydia was probably right to have been concerned, but the application of science had provided a definitive answer.
As I walked to the kitchen, Rosie called out, ‘Hey, Don. Thanks. I’m feeling a lot better. You surprise me sometimes.’
The following evening, Gene arrived home at 7.38 p.m.
‘You’re late,’ I said.
He checked his watch. ‘Eight minutes.’
‘Correct.’ There would be no impact on the quality of dinner, but my own schedule had now been thrown out. It was frustrating to be the only person in the house affected: Rosie and Gene would barely notice the shift. Having Gene as part of our family significantly increased the chances of such disruption.
Rosie was still in her study. It was a good time to confront Gene.
‘Were you drinking with Inge?’
‘I was. She’s quite charming.’
‘You’re planning to seduce her?’
‘Now, now Don. We’re just two adults free to enjoy each other’s company.’
This was technically true, but there were two reasons I needed to prevent Gene from adding another nationality to his list.
The first was the directive from David Borenstein, which I had been blackmailed into accepting in order to secure Gene’s sabbatical. The Dean’s requirement was that Gene keep his hands off PhD students, but I suspected he would extend it to a twenty-three-year-old researcher, though there is no law against professors having sex with junior researchers or even students, assuming the person is of legal age and the professor is not involved in their assessment.
The second reason was that, if Gene demonstrated celibacy, Claudia might forgive him, and his unfulfilled desire for sex might drive him back to her. I had expected that Gene would be unhappy at the breakup of his marriage and that Rosie and I would be required to console him. To date, I had seen no evidence of unhappiness on Gene’s part. I was faced with another human problem that would not be resolved without action by me.
Over the following week, I attempted to leave the Lydia situation for my subconscious to work on. Creative thinking benefits from an incubation period. On the Saturday evening, after my regular VoIP call to my mother, I initiated another interaction.
Greetings, Claudia.
I typed the message rather than attempting to establish a voice link. It was possible she was with a patient. I was operating at maximum personal empathy level, facilitated by isolation in my bathroom-office, a recent jog and a pink grapefruit margarita that I was still consuming. My schedule was up to date, and the previous night I had drawn the outline of Bud on the tile for Week 7.
Hi, Don. How are you? Claudia typed back.
Zero points.
‘Are the problems causing you to lose sleep?’
‘Did I wake you up again? You know I’m a lousy sleeper.’
From lousy sleeper to lousy sleeper was no change.
It seemed a good point to throw in a random question, unrelated to the EPDS, to disguise my intent.
‘Are you confident of my ability to perform as a father?’
‘Of course, Don. Are you?’
Improvisation was getting me into trouble. I ignored Rosie’s question and moved on.
‘Have you been crying?’
‘I didn’t think you’d noticed. Just last night when it all got on top of me and you were out with Dave. It’s got nothing to do with you not being a good father.’
One occasion only.
‘You’re sad and miserable?’
‘No, I’m coping okay. Just under pressure.’
No. Zero.
‘Anxious and worried for no good reason?’
‘Maybe a little. I think I get it out of perspective sometimes.’ Oddly, given that this was the first answer that indicated some depressive risk, she smiled. The simplest means of quantifying maybe and sometimes was to reduce the score for the question by fifty per cent. One point.
‘Scared and a bit panicky?’
‘Like I said, a little. I’m really pretty okay.’
One point.
‘Possibly you’re blaming yourself unnecessarily for things.’
‘Wow. You’re being remarkably perceptive tonight.’
I decoded her response. She was saying I had got it right—hence yes. Full points.
She stood up and hugged me.
‘Thank you. You’re being really sweet. When we were talking about me taking time off, I thought we weren’t connecting…’
She started crying! A second occasion. But it was a few minutes outside the one-week survey period.
‘Are you looking forward to dinner?’ I asked.
She laughed, an extraordinarily rapid mood swing. ‘As long as it’s not tofu again.’
‘And to the future in general?’
‘More than I was a few minutes ago.’ Another hug, but there was an implication that Rosie had been looking forward to things rather less than she used to over the week, taken as a whole.
The last question was tricky, but I had laid a foundation for enquiry.
‘Have you thought about harming yourself?’ I asked.
‘What?’ She laughed. ‘I’m not going to top myself over multiple regression and some jerk in admin being stuck in the 1950s. Don, you’re hilarious. Go and make dinner.’
I counted this as able to laugh and see the funny side of things, but, considering the full week, there had been some diminution.
Nine points. A score of ten or greater indicated a risk of depression. Lydia was probably right to have been concerned, but the application of science had provided a definitive answer.
As I walked to the kitchen, Rosie called out, ‘Hey, Don. Thanks. I’m feeling a lot better. You surprise me sometimes.’
The following evening, Gene arrived home at 7.38 p.m.
‘You’re late,’ I said.
He checked his watch. ‘Eight minutes.’
‘Correct.’ There would be no impact on the quality of dinner, but my own schedule had now been thrown out. It was frustrating to be the only person in the house affected: Rosie and Gene would barely notice the shift. Having Gene as part of our family significantly increased the chances of such disruption.
Rosie was still in her study. It was a good time to confront Gene.
‘Were you drinking with Inge?’
‘I was. She’s quite charming.’
‘You’re planning to seduce her?’
‘Now, now Don. We’re just two adults free to enjoy each other’s company.’
This was technically true, but there were two reasons I needed to prevent Gene from adding another nationality to his list.
The first was the directive from David Borenstein, which I had been blackmailed into accepting in order to secure Gene’s sabbatical. The Dean’s requirement was that Gene keep his hands off PhD students, but I suspected he would extend it to a twenty-three-year-old researcher, though there is no law against professors having sex with junior researchers or even students, assuming the person is of legal age and the professor is not involved in their assessment.
The second reason was that, if Gene demonstrated celibacy, Claudia might forgive him, and his unfulfilled desire for sex might drive him back to her. I had expected that Gene would be unhappy at the breakup of his marriage and that Rosie and I would be required to console him. To date, I had seen no evidence of unhappiness on Gene’s part. I was faced with another human problem that would not be resolved without action by me.
Over the following week, I attempted to leave the Lydia situation for my subconscious to work on. Creative thinking benefits from an incubation period. On the Saturday evening, after my regular VoIP call to my mother, I initiated another interaction.
Greetings, Claudia.
I typed the message rather than attempting to establish a voice link. It was possible she was with a patient. I was operating at maximum personal empathy level, facilitated by isolation in my bathroom-office, a recent jog and a pink grapefruit margarita that I was still consuming. My schedule was up to date, and the previous night I had drawn the outline of Bud on the tile for Week 7.
Hi, Don. How are you? Claudia typed back.
