A Marigold Metamorphosis

I gaze at the two packages of marigolds, a crinkly poly pack in each hand. One package of 12 boasts the bright orange variety, the other a more muted golden yellow. My eyes dart between the flowers in hand and the piece of paper taped to the metal shipping cart in front of me.

Reviewing the paper, I say to myself, “Okay, I need to put the orange marigolds on the middle shelf and the yellow ones on the top. Come on, Brady. You can do this.” Shaking and sweaty, my hands manage to follow through as I place the flowers on their appropriate shelves.

After just one month of working in the warehouse of this large greenhouse, thousands of orange, yellow and mixed marigolds have passed through my fingers. Of course, I have handled not just marigolds, but countless petunias, pansies, impatiens, and many more annuals. Everyday I pull a shopping cart filled with flowers down aisles of even larger shipping carts. The papers taped to the shipping carts indicate which flowers and what quantity of packages are to be transferred. I repeat this process over and over, sometimes for 12 hours a day--all in a warm and stuffy warehouse.

While this job may seem easy enough to perform--just a matter of following straightforward directions, it is anything but easy for me. At least I have a diagnosis now: major depressive disorder. Apparently I am not the only one who regularly experiences difficulty focusing and remembering while thoughts spin in negativity. Sometimes my unwarranted despair makes me wonder if living with this condition is worth the fight.

The vibrant orange and golden yellow marigolds parade before my eyes, but my brain’s cloud darkens my perspective such that the flowers may as well be a pile of ashes. The marigolds appear lifeless and inconsequential. I see no beauty. They are simply materials to be shuffled around--a means to a $12/hour paycheck.

********************

Taking a day off from this summer job, I arrive for my appointment at The Center for Emotional and Cognitive Health 10 minutes early and give the receptionist my name. She thanks me and directs me to the waiting area. I sink into one of the comfortable, yet sleek lounge chairs. The waiting area decor wears bright colors to boost the wallowing spirits of the three other patients scattered around the room. Soothing classical music plays softly from a surround sound speaker.

Despite the serene environment, the sensations in my brain and body are anything but. My head throbs from a headache, the depression symptoms create fear and a sense of panic, and I’m just plain tired. I pull my hoodie over my head and rest my head in my hands.

“I hope these specialists know what they’re doing,” I think, “I can’t do this much longer. I can’t fight these suicidal thoughts.” Due to the severity of my symptoms, the psychiatrist at my local hospital referred me to “The Center,” a new psychiatric hospital receiving favorable reviews in its first three months.

A man’s deep voice interrupts my thinking, “Brady,” he says looking around the waiting room. He is tall, in his mid-40s, wearing navy blue dress pants, a white dress shirt, and a tie. The tie stands out with its navy-blue background topped with yellow and orange marigolds.

I pull the hood off my head and slowly stand up. “That’s me,” I say softly, eyes on the floor and hands in my pockets.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Erickson. You can follow me. I am one of the psychiatrists here, and I will be conducting your evaluation today.”

I don’t respond but quietly follow him to his office down the hallway.

This time rustic, forest green furnishings are meant to send relaxing vibes. I sit on a cream-colored couch with an oak frame while he rolls his desk chair closer towards me.

With right leg crossed over his left and a clipboard on the knee, Dr. Erickson looks straight at me and says, “Brady, it’s nice to meet you. I have read your report and can tell you have suffered a great deal these past months. I am really sorry to hear that, but I am glad you are here. Shall we start working to figure out what's going on in your brain?”

For the first time since I walked into the building, I raise my eyes. His voice exudes tranquility. His gaze suggests full presence and care for me. I have only just met this doctor, but I already believe that he will fight for my well-being.

The boldness of the marigolds splashed on his tie again draws my attention.

Not addressing his question, I mumble, “That’s quite the tie you have. I work at a greenhouse and see a lot of marigolds.”

Dr. Erickson looks down at his tie and then slowly raises his eyes back to my face.

“Brady, my wife died unexpectedly two years ago. I didn’t know what hit me. I fell into a spiral of despair and grief--couldn’t get out of bed for a week. Here I was supposed to be an expert on emotional and cognitive health, yet I no longer thought life was worth living. Fortunately, I knew enough to seek help from colleagues. . . After a few months and a considerable amount of treatment, I feel some sense of purpose again.

“Marigolds were her favorite flowers.”

Dr. Erickson leans forward in his chair, his eyes glistening.

“I wear this tie once a week to not only remind me of my wife, but to remember the pain I went through. The tie reminds me of the pain of mental illness, what my patients deal with every day.

“Brady, this path of finding the right combination of treatments may be difficult. We need to find the right medications for your brain and develop a psychotherapy, exercise, diet, and meditation regimen to suit your needs. But I will never give up helping you live your best life. I will never stop trying treatment methods until you tell me you are well.”

I sit still, listening, eyes locked on his.

“I need you to keep fighting, Brady,” he continues. “Do not give into the thoughts that arise. Lean on your mental health care team, your family, your friends. Pay attention to the way you think and feel, so that you can relay that information to others. I think that we can get you feeling and thinking well again. Shall we get started?”

I pause for a moment. My body feels heavy, and dark thoughts rage on in my brain. But his words and his obvious care give me something powerful. They give me a glimpse of hope.

“ Yes, I’m ready to get started. I won't give up.”

********************

One year later, I am out watering the flower garden in my backyard. Dr. Erickson wasn’t kidding when he said that achieving health could be a difficult and long process. After seven long months, I finally landed on a treatment combination that worked. I can now say that I am the healthiest I have ever been in my life.

The water pours from my can onto two marigold plants: one a bright orange and the other a golden yellow. The vibrant colors not only hit my eyes--I now experience them in my brain in a way that I didn’t know was possible. Their orange and yellow hues remind me of the sun that shines on me and fuels these flowers’ photosynthesis.

Like the sun for the marigolds, my medications and self-care techniques fuel my life. They allow me to live.

I stopped working at the greenhouse a few weeks ago so I could have some down time before starting medical school. Although my dream growing up was always to become a sports physician and orthopedic surgeon, my plans have shifted. The compassion of Dr. Erickson and the power of my mental health treatment makes me want to become a psychiatrist.

Recently, I came across a quotation by Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl:“What is to give light must endure burning.”

I thought of Dr. Erickson and his grief following the passing of his wife. He allowed his suffering to transform him such that he could give light to others. My hope was that the “burning” of my mental illness could eventually be a source of light for others. Light like the marigolds--in their vibrant coloration.