The Thin Place

In Celtic lore the Thin Place occurs twice a year, late in the months of April and August, on top of a mountain in County Mayo, Ireland, called Croagh Patrick. This is when, if one is standing across the valley to the East, the setting sun appears to slide down the slope of Croagh Patrick.

Over the past five or six hundred years, the Thin Place has evolved. It is no longer a specific time or place. It can be anywhere, anytime when the sacred arrives—“the sacred” defined as when Heaven and Earth come closest together—so close that when standing on a chair, with one hand holding the back for balance, one can reach up with the other and touch the fingers of the dead reaching down from above.

Thus, over the past five or six hundred years, the Thin Place has become more democratic. Anyone can define its time or its place.

Mine is December 15th.

On December 15th when I was seven years, two months, and two days old, my mother stood on a chair, held the back for balance, reached her free hand to the noose she had made, and slid from the chair. As the noose tightened, she entered the Thin Place. And in so doing, created mine.

My Thin Place has no hill, no slope for the sun to roll down. Just a chair in a basement of a house in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn.

And on December 15th, if I stand on a chair, I can almost touch my mother’s hand reaching down from the Thin Place to touch mine. December 15th is the day when the person whom I loved more than any other left. December 15th is the day she always almost comes back. I grew up never understanding why she had left but thinking that on that day she would come back to explain.

About two years ago, I experienced sharp pains in my lower back. I saw an orthopedist. Then a neurosurgeon. Two MRIs later I was told my lumbar vertebrae were compressing nerve roots in my spine. An operation was scheduled to widen the foramina—the holes through which the nerve roots pass.

“What day is good for you?” the patient coordinator asked, staring into her computer.

“As soon as possible,” I replied, knowing that if I delayed, I might change my mind.

“There’s an opening next Tuesday.”

“Fine,” I said.

“Fine,” she said, the light of the screen coloring her face slightly green.

The following Tuesday I was admitted to hospital. I undressed, was placed on a gurney. I remember the neon lights and the square white ceiling tiles passing overhead as I was wheeled down the long halls to the OR.

“Good morning, Richard,” the anesthesiologist said as he locked the gurney. His hair was pulled under a cap. He asked routine questions. “When were you born?” I answered. “How do you feel?” He opened an IV. A thick white cloud formed in the line.

“All things considered, I feel — ”

Out.

Propofol, like a switch, turns lights out.

The next thing I remember, I was in a hospital room. I don’t remember being wheeled from the OR. I don’t remember being brought to recovery. I don’t remember speaking to the surgeon. I don’t remember being taken to the ward. All I remember is that when I came to, I was in a hospital room. A nurse was taking my blood pressure. When I turned towards her, she asked, “How do you feel?”

I remember asking if my mother had come down. “You mean your wife?” the nurse asked. “120 over 75,” the machine read. “Yes, of course, I mean my wife.”

I meant my mother.

There was a clock and a whiteboard on the wall opposite my bed. On the whiteboard were the names of a doctor, a nurse, the day, the date.

“Is today… ?”

“What?”

“I hadn’t…”

“I’ll let your wife know.”

I was admitted on December 14th.

I had been in recovery for most of the night. And now written right there on the whiteboard…

“Are you all right?” the nurse asked, leaning over my bed.

“Is it December 15th?”

She nodded. “My name is Sally,” she said as she emptied a bag hanging from the rail of my bed. “I’m your nurse.”

December 15th is the day when I move away from open windows, cliffs, subway platforms, ends of rope. If there were a day when I were to join my mother, end my life…

“Sally…?”

“Yes?”

“Can you get me something to drink?”

“How ‘bout some juice?”

“How ‘bout a beer?”

“Orange or apple?”

“Heineken.”

As Sally walked out, the door softly shut.

I lay there staring at the clock. The walls. The ceiling tiles.

Light that had just come through the window faded as clouds blocked the sun on its roll up the side of a building in Long Island City. Croagh Patrick it was not.

The following week, I learned that ketamine had been part of the cocktail given to me. Ketamine has been used for decades as an anesthesia (to take away consciousness) and as an analgesic (to take away pain).

Ketamine inhibits glutamate, the most common neurotransmitter in the brain. By inhibiting glutamate, especially in the prefrontal cortex (the part of the brain over the eyes, behind the forehead), ketamine interferes with consciousness and pain, interferes with one’s sense of self.

To interfere with the sense of self is not always a good thing. It can make it more difficult to find one’s place in the world. If one’s sense of self is confused, then the task of integration is compounded by ketamine—one understands neither one’s self nor the world into which one is trying to fit.

I turned away from the window and looked overhead. I was convinced that the Thin Place was just beyond the white tiles, a few feet above my hospital bed.

I reached up.

I called out.

By inhibiting glutamate, ketamine releases the prefrontal cortex from the cognitive and emotional currents that are its usual guides. By inhibiting glutamate, ketamine impedes the integration of the new with the old. By inhibiting glutamate, ketamine unmoors perception from frame.

I called out again, “Mommy?”

Ketamine is liberating.

I waited for her reply, but the only sound I heard was clatter from the hall.

Ketamine is regressive.

“Mommy?”

The nurse opened the door. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

She moved to the bed.

When my mother killed herself, she created a Thin Place to which her soul returned every year on December 15th.

The nurse placed a glass on the table by the bed.

“Heineken?”

“Apple.”

“My favorite.”

The nurse left.

Ketamine has a moderate half-life. It hangs in the brain for two or three days.

I looked up at the white ceiling tiles.

I knew what lay on the other side. All I had to do was lift one of the tiles. If I stood on the bed and pushed the tile off its track, I could reach the Thin Place. If I just stood on the bed…

“Mommy?”

And then, as I called, I realized that I had been wrong.

My mother didn’t return to the Thin Place on December 15th. Her soul wasn’t reaching down to touch me.

“Mommy?”

I had imprisoned her soul.

Ever since I had found her body.

As if she were a firefly in a glass jar, I had imprisoned her soul.

I had made her my captive.

I stared at the whiteboard. The names of my doctor, my nurse, the day…

“Mommy…”

As if it were written right there by December 15th. I had imprisoned her soul the day of her death. Her soul wasn’t searching for me. It was searching to be free.

“Mommy,” I called, and as I did, I reached up my hand.

“Can you forgive me?”

I opened my hand.

“Mommy!” And as I called, I let go.

Sunlight came in the window as if reflecting some command from above.

The nurse came through the door.

She looked at me, lying in bed, my hand open, outstretched over my head.

“Are you all right?”

I stared at the ceiling.

“Are you…?” she asked moving to the bed. “Are you all right?"

I turned to her. “Yes,” I said.

Richard Brockman, M.D., is a clinical professor in the Department of Psychiatry at Columbia University and the author of Life After Death: Surviving Suicide.

If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. Dial 988 or text TALK to 741741.