REVIEW FOR PUBLICATION: My Dad is Not A Well Man

Explaining how my father came to reside for several weeks in the county psychiatric lockup is just too big a project. And trying to figure out what’s going to happen now that he’s out is impossible. But I’m going to try to summarize and simplify my dad’s recent history — or at least what I know about it.

My father’s problems — at least the drastic, psychiatric ones — go back a couple of years. At that time, he started showing some bizarre behavior and delusional thinking. It’s way beyond my scope here to catalog them all, but just to name a few: he began driving around town butt-naked (he’s a big guy; not a pretty sight). He started believing that he was a hugely wealthy man, with more money than he could ever spend. Of course, he’s not. And he also started saying and believing that the Governor of California had appointed him head of all State Emergency Services. And a lot more. Just completely nutty stuff.

It isn’t now, nor has it ever been, totally clear what’s going on, so some of this is more conjecture than fact, but here’s what I think is happening: Dad drinks too much, and always has, which I suppose makes him an alcoholic. But that doesn’t completely account for his bizarre behavior under the influence. He’s a diagnosed temporal lobe epileptic (which causes behavioral and perceptual abnormalities and is exacerbated by alcohol), so that may be part of it. And his liver is shot, which means that his blood chemistry is a mess, so that may account for some of it.

None of this would be so bad, except there were some especially worrisome consequences and potential consequences. For one thing, his driving became highly erratic, rage-fueled and dangerous. He began purchasing a sizable arsenal of various kinds of weaponry (just his interest in war artifacts, he said). And his delusion that he was wealthy led him to start buying and mail ordering all kinds of stuff, not the least of which were five cars, a 35-foot power yacht, and a $200,000 madman’s remodeling of the modest home near downtown Berkeley where he’d lived most of his life.

Just when it seemed someone was going to have to step in and take control of the situation, my dad had a medical crisis stemming from the liver disease, and spent a few weeks in the hospital, restricted from drinking. Whatever the complex web of interactions between his medical status and alcohol is, when he doesn’t drink he does better. The delusions seemed to abate; he returned to his law practice; the remodeling plans for the house were scaled back a bit. And so we all relaxed.

But recently, the chickens have come home to roost again, this time with a vengeance. I didn’t find out about any of this until he’d been in the psych ward for over a month, but I’m told that his drinking gradually got worse, and with it the bizarre behavior and delusions began again. He fired the contractor working on his house one too many times, and all work ceased, with the gas turned off and a huge, gaping hole in the front of the house. Finally, the cops picked him up for the umpteenth time (in this case, I don’t know why), and this time they didn’t give him a pass as they often have. He was taken to the Herrick Hospital psychiatric lockup and held first for 72 hours, then for the 30-day period specified for crazies in California law.

While he was in the psych ward, things went from bad to worse back at the ranch, where my brother still lives taking care of my dad. Peter’s a great guy, but not too good with the details sometimes, and bills went unpaid, phone service was disconnected, etc.

To make matters worse, Dad’s money had finally run out. He actually did have enough for a comfortable retirement, but after buying everything within reach of an 800-number, he’s now totally cratered his retirement accounts. If they sell everything, including the boat (which, in his physical condition, he can’t even board, but which he refuses to sell), they won’t quite have enough money to finish the work on the house. My dad has no income, no practice, no assets, and no cash. My brother has been appointed his fiscal conservator (remember what I said about Pete and details?) and is taking care of the household bills as best he can on his line cook’s salary. But the situation is pretty dire.

So how do I feel about this? To understand that, you need to know three things. First, I have gradually come to see my father with perhaps clearer eyes than when I was younger. Those trying to picture him will have an advantage if they’ve seen Brian Dennehy’s titanic performance on Broadway and TV as Willy Loman in “Death of a Salesman.” Dennehy’s portrayal of a hulking, self-deluded, pathetic, loser is, sad to say, exactly how I see my dad. I sat sobbing in the eighth row of the theater, more from the shock of recognition than anything else.

The second thing that’s important to know is that when he first started having trouble two years ago, I tried to intervene. I flew to California to talk to him, I spoke with his doctor (whom he had recently fired at that point, for speaking the truth — that he had to quit drinking or die), I interviewed several of his close friends, and I developed a plan of action to stabilize the situation (I’m leaving this a little vague on purpose) that ultimately left me several thousand dollars poorer.

Finally, I’ve watched my brother — I know no other way to say this — ‘enable’ my father’s drinking and other behavior. God knows, I don’t blame Peter; it’s totally understandable. My father, at 6’2″ and 260-some pounds is an extremely intimidating presence; he’s a bully and my brother has simply decided his life is more livable if he just goes along with the madness.

But ultimately, I’ve decided that I can’t help someone who won’t help himself. It’s a cliché of the twelve-step movement, but it’s true. Try to save a ship from sinking, and you’ll just get pulled down with it. I realize Dad’s sick, that he has a bona fide medical and psychiatric condition. But it’s clear from the way that he’s cycled in and out of the madness that this will go on until he hits bottom, and that friends and family do him no favors by saving him from that.

So, as cold hearted as it may sound, until my dad shows a real desire and willingness to change; until he asks for (non-self-destructive) help; there’s nothing I can do and I’m going to stay as far away from the situation as I can. Of course, my own financial situation is so tough right now, it’s unclear what help I could provide. Even moral support may not really be helpful. So far, in almost 40 years, Dad and I have never really connected. I’m not sure we can.

But, at the moment, I kind of doubt that call will ever come. Instead it will be a different kind of call in the night. I fear he’ll slide all the way down, kill himself with the bottle, and ruin my brother’s life in the process. But I feel helpless to intervene in any way that offers a chance of success.