MY DAD: FROM HERO TO HOMELESS

It’s the kind of anniversary no one really wants to talk about, but the day is burned into our very being: the day we lose the people we love the most. The people that can never be replaced. I pulled the plug on my father, a Vietnam Veteran, on October 23rd, 2015. I will carry that guilt with me always for a number of reasons. Besides the burden of signing your name to a document to end someone’s life, the issue was this: I never really knew my dad. I didn’t even recognize the man in the hospital bed, as he struggled for each breath. Never to open his eyes again. Wondering if he even knew I was there.

I knew this day would come at some point. And, as harsh as this sounds, the truth was this: I was confident I would not care. No one could change my mind. This man had chosen not to be in my life. He had chosen to drink. He had chosen to live on the streets. He had chosen to live his life the way he lived it. The reality is this, you will never know how you will react until you get that phone call that tells you your dad has been rushed to the hospital, the only thing keeping him alive is a ventilator, there is no hope of him waking up and that you need to get on a plane now. Before it really is too late.

For 8 years during my childhood, my father was homeless. I remember on one of the few occasions that I saw him, he’d talk about his homelessness as if it was a badge of honor. I remember him saying socks were like gold when you lived on the streets. He swore up and down a blonde haired-blue eyed man, dressed all in white, came out of a Salvation Army one day and simply said to him: “Don’t you think it’s time you got your life together?” And, that was all the motivation it took that got him off the streets.

When I was older, I traveled to Los Angeles to see him. He took me to Skid Row to show me where he had lived. I was a Virginia girl in Hollywood hearing these stories. It felt like I was in a movie. A movie he might have written. My dad loved to write. He even changed his name, so he would sound more “Hollywood.” But, the closest he got to writing a script was painting the sets of “Designing Women” & “Growing Pains.” I remembered all this, as I sat beside his hospital bed, waiting for him to disappear from my life again one last time.

I don’t think the doctors thought I would make it there in time when the respirator was in, so they were shocked when he hung on for as long as he did after it was pulled.  I panicked thinking I had done the wrong thing. That the doctors were all wrong. That he wasn’t ready to die. That he might just jump up at any minute and laugh and tell me it was all a joke. Then, I whispered it was OK to go and that I loved him, and then suddenly, he was gone.

I sat there for a long time after that. Thinking about every time I was so silently bitter and jealous every time I saw a little girl with her dad. Thinking about all the attempts at communication he made with me that I blew off, wondering if I’ll ever know if any of his stories were actually true. That was the thing. I never really believed anything he said. I sat there for so long, it felt like the hospital was closing, so I got up to leave, even walked out and turned back around and walked back in again to do something I don’t ever remember doing. Something I’ve seen other little girls do a million times and that’s kiss him on his forehead and say these simple words: “Goodbye, Daddy.”

The next day, I was told I needed to go to his condo. The first place he had ever really truly called his own. When I walked in, I felt like I was invading someone else’s space. Like I wasn’t meant to be there. Then, the first thing I saw from across the room was a picture of me and my son watching fireworks. I had to shake the shock off. My entire life I had always thought he had not given us much thought. But there we were. In a place of honor. On the mantle.

I immediately started going through drawers and closets to find clues. Any clues as to who my father was. And, then suddenly it hit me as I was in his kitchen.

Wait. A. Minute. There are no plates, no glasses, no silverware, no pots, no pans. And, he had been living here for a year?! A half a dozen oxygen tanks. Empty. I had no idea things were this bad. Did he know the end was near and just let it happen? He had strangely called me out of the blue a month or two before his death. The first thing he said to me was: “I was scared to call you.” I said, “Why?” It was a great conversation. I told him I had made something of myself. My son was amazing. And, life was good. That’s the last time I ever spoke to him.

Now, I was in his condo and he was dead. And, that’s when the first real conversation I’ve ever had with my dad started. In a drawer, I found this:

“My last two months in Vietnam I became very depressed, suicidal and homicidal. I was too embarrassed to seek help. When I returned to the United States, I became a transient. I could not be close to my family. I couldn’t allow myself to be close to anyone. My depression grew stronger and darker. I had no relationship with any of my family, including my daughter, who was born when I was in Vietnam. I didn’t see anyone I knew from 1972 to 1980. No contact with my daughter for eight years. I lived on the streets, frequently attempting suicide and trying to drink myself to death.”

I also found a DUI arrest report, even though he told everyone he hadn’t drank in decades. I felt like I was violating his privacy as I read the police report. I could almost hear him joking with the officer that he couldn’t pass the sobriety tests sober, much less drunk and I could hear his laughter. He was found at Buckroe Beach in Hampton, Virginia that night. In the sand. In his CAR in the sand, pointing straight into the direction of the Chesapeake Bay. After reading the police report, I felt so guilty about reading something I knew he would have never want me to know– that he had relapsed– that I threw the police report away.

There were more notes about where he served in Vietnam and where Agent Orange was used. There were his musings on suicide, VA diagnosis reports and the list of medications he was taking for anxiety, PTSD, panic attacks and even schizophrenia.

The day before at the hospital, I had mentioned to the nurse I had just recently talked to him for the first time in a very long time. She had responded by saying he was probably finally on the right combination of drugs to make that call. I didn’t know what she had meant, until I saw the list of prescriptions he was on. As I was going through his wallet, looking for the car keys he had apparently hid from himself after his DUI, I found not one, but TWO slits of paper. Both had my name, address and phone number on it. It was in that moment that I realized my dad knew I was here and that he knew I would be here, no matter what, and the biggest revelation of all: He WANTED me. A huge revelation for me, who had chosen up until this point to believe my dad didn’t love me.

I called the numbers on his phone, trying to figure out who he had been talking to. There were counselors, there were the oxygen tank delivery people. Every single one of them kept telling me what a great guy my dad was, that he was so funny and such a joy to see, and how lucky I must have been to have him for a dad…

Our choices shape us for better or for worse. I made a choice to hate my dad because of reasons I can’t even discuss here because they are not my stories to tell. But, I can tell you my dad was no saint. But, I was resolute in my thinking that those decisions were choices. It never occurred to me that those choices may have been made for him. Whether it’s addiction, abuse, depression, PTSD or mental illness, what I know now is this: Not everyone gets to choose their own path. My father loved me. In his own way from afar. And, maybe in some ways that was meant to protect me. Either way, somehow, someway, he had always been watching over me– and still is.

Live Science 2011 Report: Addiction is a chronic brain disorder and not simply a behavior problem. It is a chronic disease. Just like cardiovascular disease and diabetes, it must be treated, managed and monitored over a person’s lifetime. At its core, addiction isn’t just a social problem. It’s a brain problem. “The disease creates distortions in thinking, feelings and perceptions, which drive people to behave in ways that are not understandable to others around them. Simply put, addiction is not a choice.”  Dr. Raju Hajela, former president of the Canadian Society of Addiction Medicine.