Are You My Father?

by Margo Walter

  The only other memory is one incident from the memorial service. Chris was embracing Wes, my first husband, and they were both sobbing. I wondered why they were so upset and how strange it was that they were trying to comfort each other. I still have that picture etched in my mind. I guess a mother can only handle so much.

  We flew back home and tried to pretend that life would go on as always. Not for me. My life stopped, and there were no words, no hugs, and no medications that would repair the colossal defect in my heart. I could not talk about it and was not ready to accept the loss. I stopped all contact with my AA group, did not go to recovery meetings, did not call my AA sponsor, and made excuses not to see friends or anyone. I stopped writing to my father and refused to talk to my mother. My mother was not doing anything to make the situation bearable and I was not going to give her the chance to make me feel worse. If someone asked how I was doing, my standard answer was “Fine.” It would be years before the emotional pain escaped. I felt just like I did when I was nineteen, hopeless, very depressed, numb, and all alone. Not even a father could fix this traumatic time in my life.

  January 29, 1997

  “Dear Janet… I guess the road to hell is paved with good intentions for I have intended to write long before this. I know just how David’s death must have crushed you. There is little to say to anyone that has had such a tragic blow. I am so old I just do not understand the youth of today. The sad part is to realize how discouraged and hurt he was to take his own life. I guess no one could have helped him. All we can do is pray for him.

  My life has been full of tragedies these last years but I am not one to tell all my troubles to the world, but times are hard…. We are here in our little house by the sea and probably will never go back north. We both need twenty-four hours around-the-clock care, and my wife is bedridden most of the time. I can drive in the day only. My cancer treatment is still on going and we both go to the Mayo Clinic here in Florida. I get a bone scan every sixty days. I turned up with a broken neck from an early accident and have lost most of the use of my left arm. My titanium leg is still doing ok, but I stagger around a bit when I walk. Any way you look at it, old age is the pits.

  I wish this could be a more pleasant letter but then I knew I should write and tell you all that has happened but always put it off. You had your own problems, and there was little use in telling mine. This is no excuse for not writing but maybe I did give up.

  I pray all the time that I can do what has to be done. I just hope the good I have done in my life will outweigh the bad but really do not know if that will happen.

  I look at some of the things I wrote over the years and wonder how it all came about. In my diary in 1930, I wrote on the first page: “”There is room in the halls of pleasure / For a long Lordly train / But one by one we must all file on / Through the narrow Aisles of pain.” Another entry was: “We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray / And we think that we mount the air on wings / Beyond the call of sensual things / While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.” I guess I was a very serious young man in those days but am so glad I kept a journal over all those years in the Navy.

  Anyway, I will do better on writing and letting you know how things are going with us. Please give Chris my regards. I know you know how hard it was for me to write this letter, but now I am glad I finally came around to do it. Love, Matt”

  It took fifteen months after my son’s death for the Admiral to write to me. Procrastination, denial, fear—they are indeed the opposite of persistence. In the last letter, my father had decided my son’s death was a suicide, his current life was a tragedy, and there was nothing he could do to make me feel better. He was right about the last conclusion!

  Chapter 6: Surviving

  Life did resume after David’s death, and we all took up from where we had left off. Chris went back to teaching, Kate went back to high school, and I just went to our house. Sadly, it no longer felt like home. I could not look at family photos, and I kept my souvenir sweatshirt from Mexico hanging in my closet. It would hold its place of honor at the end of the sweater section for the next twenty-plus years. I never could bring myself to wear it and often feared that the white would turn yellow or that the lettering would deteriorate as time went on. The only personal item that the police saved for us when they found David was a sketch pad. What a gift and a curse! I wanted to hold it, to look at all his drawings and I never wanted to see it again. I was so confused and just wanted my son back.

  It was about this time that I began having severe physical problems. An old back injury from my thirties, from waterskiing “high” and hitting a beach, showed its ugly head. I had to go to the University of Virginia and have the chief of neurosurgery perform my second back surgery. All went well, but physical recovery was prolonged.

  Any time that I am restricted physically, the results are complicated by my mental illness. My bipolar disorder rears its ugly head and the added stress sends me into a tailspin of suicidal depression or a mixed state where the mood swings skyrocket out of control. It is challenging to be manic or hypomanic and not be able to move around. It’s like trying to throw a stick for one of our Labradors and holding him back so he cannot do the retrieving that he is bred to do. Unfortunately, during those manic times, I would often go beyond the limits of my body and do harm to my joints, muscles, or bones. Mania is not my friend. Family and friends would often remark how lucky I was to have the energy to clean my whole house in two hours or cut four acres of grass in less than three. True. I did like those moods and bursts of energy, as I could get so much done. The price I paid was debilitating. During those high mood swings, I also hiked too far, skied on too tricky slopes, played twenty-four holes of golf, and risked too much. During the next two decades, I would have another back surgery, a right knee arthroscopic surgery, operations on both shoulders, and a serious neck surgery. Fortunately, my systemic lupus diagnosed nine years earlier was in remission. Due to my drinking and drugging in my twenties and thirties, I had destroyed my digestive system. Over time, I would have to have a colon resection, an esophagus relining, a gallbladder removed, and a special diet to accommodate diverticulitis and acid reflux. It is utterly amazing how resilient our body is, and I really do try today not to abuse it. I had to learn my limits if I was going to accomplish any of my goals.

  ***

  Having completed my graduate studies, it was time to look for a job. I was hired to be a school counselor in an elementary school. Life was a play, and I began acting the parts that were expected. My role as mother, wife, and employee started again. I had a few new friends, and they were trying to give me emotional support. I remained sober, if that describes an empty life void of being happy, joyous, or free. David’s death hung over me like a black cloak. I did not drink or return to my drug addiction, but I could best be described as being on a “dry drunk.” I am not proud of that time in my life because I was totally self-absorbed and was not there for anyone else, even my family. God knows that they tried to reach me, to help, but the pain was too big for any of us. Chris and I attended a support group called Compassionate Friends that was meeting once a month to help parents who had lost a child. I wanted to cry in those meetings, but the tears that I felt burning my eyes would not come out. My David was not lost. He was dead. The euphemisms I heard made me angry. Almost everything made me angry. It was the only emotion that made sense, and I stayed stuck in that stage of grief. Occasionally, I would move into a deep depression and then back to my comfortable feeling of self-righteous anger. One of my friends said to me, “At least you have two other children.” I did not talk to her for an exceedingly long period.

  ***

  The following fall we decided to breed the Labradors that we owned and sell the puppies. We had plenty of acreage, a large room in the back of the garage to house all those dogs, and a library that would serve as the whelping room. It was too bad that all the excitement and joy looked incredible on
the outside. However, my outsides did not match my insides. The bipolar disease was running rampant.

  Living with mental illness affects not only me but my entire family. The psychiatrist could not find the medication that would control my rapid mood cycling. I never knew who I was going to be when I awakened in the morning. I would look at Chris lying beside me and wondered when he was going to take off and put my family and me behind him. The issue of abandonment surfaced big time, and I just expected him to leave me. The only question was when? There were only the extremes, very manic or very depressed. I was continually performing by trying to be someone stable that had a full-time school counselling job, a functional family, and a side job of breeding puppies. Something had to break.

  ***

  During lunch or after school I would drive down to park by the lake and stop to smoke a cigarette or burn the butt into my arm. Other coworkers would decide where to go have lunch, and I would decide on the self-mutilation for the day. I would contemplate the most accessible form of suicide and watch the clock, so I would get back to work on time. I saw a counselor, visited with the psychiatrist, and told everyone that everything was “fine.”

  Denial is a compelling state of mind, and I had no idea just how powerful the act of minimizing or ignoring the symptoms could be. It did not help that I was lying by omission to everyone. Finally, the counselor got to the truth and demanded that I go to the local psychiatric hospital immediately. By local, I mean one hour from our house, as I certainly did not want anyone to know that I was crazy.

  Psychiatric hospitals are unique in that almost no one wants to be there. Everyone lies about why they are there, and there is a dark cloud that convinces most residents that they are there by mistake. I was no exception and was not compliant with the routine. The staff kept telling me to get with the program. What program? Speaking up in group sessions, not isolating in your room, and taking your medicine as prescribed are prerequisites for getting out. In my case, the program was not working. It was time for drastic measures. I gave up.

  ***

  One out of five persons experiences depression in their lifetime. Normally (that is an ambiguous word), this brain disorder can be treated with anti-depressants. However, I was “unaverage” and one of the exceptions. Different medications still had little or no effect on my depression. It was time for electroconvulsive shock therapy, or ECT for short. After a series of eight ECT treatments, I was released from the hospital and scheduled to return for four more ECT sessions. Yes, this treatment is still very controversial, but it saved my life. The details are just not important. My family got Janet back. I was able to return to work. The miracle is that I still stayed sober through that experience and was able to get back into a program of recovery. My lupus remained in remission. It would not be my last hospitalization or my last ECT treatment.

  Mania is a two-headed dragon. Let us just say that I got a lot done in a short period of time. I became the superwoman, needed little sleep, and accomplished what most people only dreamed of achieving. Unfortunately, at the same time, I was continuing to wear out my body physically and would end up collapsing from fatigue at some point, usually four to six weeks in the manic cycle. Depression always followed, and ECT would come shortly after that. Often, I would lose one or two days after the shock therapy. It does require general anesthesia, makes you very lethargic, takes your short- and long-term memory away, and would give me a crushing headache. Thank God for Dilaudid! It would help with the post-trauma of ECT and be given to me in the hospital so as not to interfere with my drug addiction issues. I did not ever discuss the pain of losing my son, but I survived.

  ***

  My experience in the parking lot at our local grocery store did help. I was putting plastic bags in the trunk and heard David say, “Mom.” I whipped around to find him, and he was not there. I know it was David and he spoke to me. I did not tell anyone about the experience, as I knew everyone would write it off as being “crazy.” It was David.

  I believe that to this day. There is an afterlife, and my son is part of it. He is somewhere, and I just want to be there.

  ***

  By this time, I was overcome with self-pity and self-loathing. I was still practicing self-injurious behavior and pretending that everything was alright. I wore a thick mask and would not let anyone into my world. However, my father’s correspondence helped more than he would ever know.

  March 3, 1997

  “Dear Janet… Distressed to hear of your illness. I hope this finds you back on an even keel. George seems to be doing real well and I know he must be enjoying what he is involved in at the university. I have no real knowledge of how they treat you but have read considerably on the subject of manic depression. I feel very depressed at times myself but have never taken anything for it…. I try to grow old gracefully not telling anyone of my aches and pains and going about my business.

  I do enjoy my charity work at the children’s hospital. I feel so sorry for some of those children who are retarded, but we do get excellent results in our work with them. It’s the single-parent families that are in the worst condition. Anyway, I spend a day down there every time I can, which is about once a week….Get well in a hurry. Love, Matt”

  January 28, 1998

  “Dear Janet… I do have a must engagement in Washington on the 3rd and 4th of March. I am pretty crippled but will be there, as I have to make a meeting where I am a trustee and must settle some affairs by the board of one of the people involved who died recently. The doctors say I will be able to make it. I will be staying at the Army Navy Club on Farragut Square. I would love to have lunch with you on the 4th at 12.30 if you can meet me there. I will let you know if anything should change but at this time do not think anything will happen to change it.

  I can tell you I am persisting and am sure you know just how depressed I am with my wife’s condition. There is little hope for her I realize but then we have been married sixty-five years and I will embrace the challenge…. Hope you can make it. As ever, Matt”

  February 8, 1998

  “Dear Admiral… I am anxious to see you in Washington on March 4th and will meet you at the Army/Navy Club at 12:30 pm. I am surprised that you can make the trip and hope that is a good decision on your part…. I just surprised Chris with a big birthday party on his fiftieth and he says that he had no idea. I guess that I am still a good liar. Work is going pretty well but I am extremely busy and having some difficulty balancing work with other commitments. I know that is a lifelong process. I think that it is really neat that you stay so active at your age and still can take care of your wife and yourself. That is inspiration for me. Love, Janet”

  ***

  I forgot to mention that I was using the revolving door at the psychiatric hospital. I was receiving ECT treatments every month, called maintenance ECT, and every few months was involuntarily checked into the hospital for erratic, manic, or depressive behavior. Not only was I working on balance in my life, but I was still struggling with survival. I was extremely suicidal during this period and spent a great deal of time hiding that from my spouse, my supervisor, my children, and my therapist. Thank God, I was a mediocre actor and action was taken to keep me safe.

  ***

  Cognition is a tricky thing. With all the ECT treatments, not only was my memory affected, but I was having difficulty reading. I would read a paragraph and have no idea what I read and would have to reread several times to just grasp the message. My psychiatrist referred me to Johns Hopkins Hospital in Maryland to get a full work-up. The diagnosis: “You have a bipolar disorder and should continue the ECT on a monthly maintenance schedule, continue with the prescribed medications, and try to have less stress in your life.” A very tall order with no surprises. The day that I was discharged, we heard good news that my brain had not been fried. That was the conclusion of the visit. I went home depressed and seriously questioned my future. It was too bad
that I was still not talking the truth to anyone and worked so hard to hide my numbness and my lack of motivation to go forward.

  ***

  February 17, 1998

  “Dear Janet…. My wife died on Saturday morning and I am pretty devastated and will have a lot to do, so if you do not, repeat not, hear from me, do not be in Washington on the 4th, as my schedule is really upset at the moment. Regards, Matt”

  Now he was signing his letter with “Regards.” It was clear that my father was not going to be any support or help for me. There I go again, thinking the whole world revolved around me. Self-pity is really overrated. It is like a tick embedded in your skin. It can go unnoticed, but it eats at you and causes constant irritation. Despite self-absorption, I did plan a trip to visit my eldest son in Florida and did arrange a lunch with the Admiral to meet George.

  April 19, 1998

  “Dear Admiral… I hope your treatments are going OK. George and I had a wonderful lunch with you. Thank you for showing us Ponte Verde and the good company that we enjoyed. George was quite impressed with you. Not only in who you are and what you have done, but he told me on the drive back that you were the oldest person that he had ever talked to. I laughed and smiled on the inside. You are just so interesting and sharp for your age—it is refreshing. I hope I stay that way as I get older.

  Please write and let me know how you are doing. We are all thinking about you up here. Love, Janet”

  April 28, 1998

  “Dear Janet… I am gld (sic) to have seen George and listen to his ideas he is an impressive young manand (sic) I am sure he will enjoy Gainesville. It is quite an impressive place. I did a lot of engineering business in the nuclear area with them years ago. I amon (sic) chemotherapy now and it is not pleasant, have some critical dates ahead, the 24th and 27th of this month. I go to Pensacola to be inducted into an honorable position by the Navy. I will be flown over and then return here eearly (sic) the next day. The Doctor said I could go. You really looked fine and in ggood (sic) health and I hope the lupus has fled. I hope you will let me know when you do come down again to Florida. Best to George and Chris and yourself Love”