Elephant in the Sky (24 page)

59

We invited my father to visit us, starting on New Year's Day. Pete called him at home in Florida, and my father eagerly accepted our invitation to come to Toronto. He found a last-minute flight and booked a room for three nights at a hotel close to our house. Even though we had the space, we both knew it would be far too uncomfortable to have him stay with us.

“Do I look okay?” I asked Pete nervously. The kids were upstairs cleaning up their rooms, and Pete and I were getting out cheese and crackers to offer my father when he arrived. I looked down, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from my winter grey dress. “Maybe I should have worn jeans. Do you think I should have worn jeans?”

“Honey, it's okay. Your father won't care how you're dressed. He's so excited to be coming here. Anything other than that won't matter to him.”

“Yes, well, it will be good for him to see the kids,” I said, checking my lip gloss again in the mirror.

“That's true. But he also wants to see
you
, Ash. You're his only child, sweetie. And I happen to know that he loves you very much.”

At that moment, the doorbell rang. I froze where I was standing, a brick of old cheddar dangling from my right hand.

“It's okay. I'll get it. You stay here.” Pete gave me a hug and walked towards the door.

“No!” I said, almost too forcefully. “I mean, no, thanks, honey. I will get it. I can let him in.”

I held my head high and walked towards the door. When I opened it, I found my father standing on the step, looking as nervous as I felt.

He had lost a considerable amount of weight, and was far too skinny for his frame. His face was gaunt, filled with wrinkles that were new to me, and he looked much older than the man in my mind.

“Hi Ashley,” my father said. He extended his arms to offer the big bouquet of purple freesia he was holding. I was touched that he'd brought them, that he'd even remembered they were my favourite. I accepted the flowers, inhaling deeply, and was instantly transported back to happy times with my mother. I loved purple freesia so much because they reminded me of her. They were her favourite too.

“Uh, hi. Thank you for the flowers. Please, come in.” I held the door open for him. He awkwardly stepped in, and took off his shoes.

Pete shook my father's hand and offered to take his coat. My father's frail body became more exposed, and I realized just how emaciated and undernourished he looked. I couldn't even guess how much weight he'd lost.

“
Grandpa!
” Nate shrieked, interrupting my thoughts. He ran into the front hallway and ploughed into my father, giving him a giant hug. It was the happiest I'd seen Nate in a long time.

“Well, hello, young fellow,” my father chuckled, returning Nate's hug. “Look how big you've gotten. You're huge! Practically a man yourself —”

“I've missed you!” Nate squirmed out of my father's grip and peeled off his sweatshirt to reveal his faded, orange shirt that read
Grandpa Loves Me.
It was about four sizes too small. “Look! I've still got the T-shirt you gave me. And I still love it! I haven't thrown it out, even though Mom wants me to.”

My mind immediately flew back to the Christmas Eve when my father passed out the shirts, and I found myself getting flustered at the memory. I forced myself to focus on the present.

“Where's Grace?” my father asked.

“I'm here,” Grace responded, walking into the hall and giving her grandfather a shy hug. “Hi Grandpa.”

“I really can't believe this. You kids … you're … you're so
big
!” my father said, his eyes growing misty. The tear he wiped quickly from his right eye did not go unnoticed by me.

“Why don't we let Grandpa come in? We can go and sit in the family room. We've got some snacks we can put out, and then we can have a visit. Does that sound okay?”

We made our way into the family room, and settled into the couches. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked my father.

“Just a water, thank you,” he replied quickly. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful for the non-alcoholic drink order. I had been so worried he was going to ask for his beloved single-malt Scotch.

I handed my father his water, and put out the cheese and crackers, noticing as I put the tray down that my hands were shaking. I wondered if everyone else felt as uncomfortable as I did. Stealing a quick glance at my father sitting awkwardly on the couch, I suspected that he did as well.

As I sat next to Pete on the couch opposite my father, who was sitting with a grandchild on either side of him, I realized it was only the adults who felt any sense of angst. Grace had launched into stories about all of her friends at school, and Nate was eagerly showing his grandpa all of the new toys he had gotten for Christmas. My father was nodding happily, alternating his attention between the kids. It was as if they had never been apart from each other.

I cleared my throat uneasily, trying to figure out a way to participate in the conversation. “How was your flight? Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“No, no. It was fine, actually. I'd been a bit worried about it because I haven't flown in a long time, but everything turned out okay. And it was worth it to be able to come here.” My father smiled at me across the table, his new wrinkles deepening as his grin widened.

I was shocked to hear him say that he hadn't been on a plane. “You haven't flown in a while? But you love to travel.” My father had been a consummate world traveller, continually hopping from continent to continent, visiting friends in each place. He was
the
global jetsetter whose bags were always packed for the next big adventure. I wondered what had happened to change things.

“I just … haven't. Things are different now.” My father took a deep breath and looked straight at me. “A lot of things have changed in the last three years, Ashley. I'm not the same father you used to know.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say next.

“Mom, can I have some chocolate milk?” Grace asked, standing from the couch and starting towards the kitchen.

“Oh! Me too!” Nate was quick on his sister's heels, leaving Pete and me alone with my father.

“Where do you live now?” I asked my dad, realizing I didn't even know where in Florida his house was.

“On the coast. A little town called Melbourne Beach. It's about a hundred miles from Orlando.”

“Do you live in a condo?” After I said the sentence out loud, I realized how sad I was to have had to ask. It hurt my heart to fully realize that I had no idea where my own father lived, or anything about him. We had become completely estranged.

“A little house actually. It's very small. But it's right on the ocean. I love to go for walks up and down the beach. Early in the morning, and often again when the sun is setting. When I went through my uh … I mean … when I stopped to really learn a few things about myself a year or so ago, I realized that my favourite place to be is on the water. But I had to get out of Miami, which is where I'd lived previously. The place wasn't good for me. So I moved to Melbourne Beach.”

“It sounds lovely,” I responded. “Do you live with anyone there?”

“No. Just me. I have a few friends that I sometimes get together with to play afternoon bridge. And we always go for Sunday brunch after church. But it's just me in the house.”

“You go to
churc
h
?” We had gone all the time when my mother was alive, but after she died, my father claimed to have become an atheist and turned his back on the church. He had vowed to never return again.

“Yes. Every Sunday, in fact.”

“When did you start going again?”

“About a year or so, I guess. It's a small little community chapel. It's Christian based, but non-denominational.”

“I see.”

An awkward pause took over the room, and I wished the kids would come back. “The kids are certainly happy to see you,” I said, hoping they'd hear me from the kitchen and take it as a cue.

“And I'm so happy to see them. They really are wonderful kids, Ashley. You both should be very proud.”

“We are,” Pete said. He took my hand and gave me a squeeze, as if to say everything would be okay.

“When are we eating?” Grace called from the kitchen. “I'm
starving
!”

“Soon. Why don't you come out here and have more cheese and crackers if you're hungry?” I stood from my chair. “I'll go grab the kids and check on dinner. It's lasagna. Is that okay with you, Dad? I remembered how much you used to like it.”

“It's great, thank you.” My father looked pleased.

“Mom?” Grace whispered when I walked into the kitchen. “Why's he so
skinny
?”

“I don't know, sweetie. I guess he lost some weight.” I brought my kids in for a hug. “It's so nice to have him here. We haven't seen him in a long time. Why don't you go and visit with him some more, and I'll finish getting dinner ready?”

I used dinner preparation as an excuse to escape, and puttered about the kitchen while my father talked to Pete and the kids. When we finally sat down to eat, the awkwardness I'd felt earlier followed us to the dining room table.

“Can you please pass the salad?” I asked, pointing to the big wooden bowl filled with Caesar-covered romaine and croutons.

My father lifted the bowl and passed it down the table. It looked heavy for him, almost as though he was struggling to lift it. He smiled sheepishly, realizing that I had noticed.

“How long are you on Christmas break for?” my father asked the kids. He took a sip of his milk, which he'd requested with his meal once we'd sat down.

“Twelve more days!” Grace replied gleefully. I raised an eyebrow at my daughter, finding it interesting that she was suddenly excited about being off. Just two days before she had begged to go back so she could see her friends.

“I go to a new school now,” Nate said between bites of pie. I'd made lemon meringue, as it was another one of my father's favourites. “It's awesome there. And my best friend Adam likes all the same things that I do. Especially superheroes!”

“That's wonderful. I'm glad you found a friend you like so well,” my dad said. From across the table, I watched his response carefully, and tried to gauge whether or not he previously knew about Nate's new school. After Pete's confession in the hospital, he'd promised to not have any more contact with my father. Other than calling my dad to invite him to come, which I'd asked him to do, my husband had sworn up and down that he hadn't talked to my father again.

“What's your school called?” my father asked. The look in his eyes was so genuine that I knew wholeheartedly that he'd had no more contact with Pete. Which meant he also didn't know about what Nate had been through. Or that his grandson had followed in his bipolar footsteps.

“It's called the Henry Lewis School Hospital,” Nate answered simply. “And I love it!”

“Hospital? I think you've got your words mixed up,” my dad said, grinning at Nate before he took another bite of pie.

Nate shook his head. “Nope. I meant hospital, silly grandpa. Didn't Mommy tell you? I've got bipoly disease … just like you.”

60

After dinner, my father and I stood side by side in silence while we finished the dishes. He washed the pots while I dried. Neither of us spoke.

I'd managed to quickly change the subject after Nate's confession about him being bipolar, but I knew neither my father nor I had stopped thinking about it since. And I was certain he had many questions for me, just as I had for him.

Pete had made a quick exit after helping clear the table, offering to help Nate with his new helicopter Lego set that he'd gotten in his stocking. Grace was upstairs talking on the phone.

“Ash,” my father started, just as I cleared my throat to say something to him.

“You go first,” I offered. I wasn't sure what I was going to say anyway.

“Is it true? What Nate said tonight … is he really bipolar?”

“We think so,” I replied honestly. “He's been officially diagnosed with Psychosis NOS, which stands for —”

“Not otherwise specified,” my father interrupted gently. “I know what it means.”

“Yeah … sorry. I sometimes forget that you know a lot about all of this, too.”

“Ashley,” my father started. “Can we sit down? I've got some things I'd like to explain to you.”

I nodded and pointed to the kitchen table. We sat across from each other in silence. His breathing became rapid, almost as though he couldn't get enough air. He was more nervous than I'd ever seen him.

Then, finally, after a breath so big I thought he wasn't going to exhale, my father began to talk.

After he'd left our house that Christmas Eve three years prior, it had been a fast and fierce downward spiral into the wild pit of uncontrollable blunder. He started drinking earlier and earlier, sometimes barely making it past breakfast before he poured his first Scotch, and didn't stop pouring until he'd passed out.

Most often, somewhere around the tenth or eleventh drink in my father's day, rage would slowly seep into his body, quite often metastasizing into vicious attacks on whoever happened to be with him. He alienated every acquaintance he had in one way or another, ultimately driving them all out of his life. Before long, he had no one left.

“So I moved to Miami,” my father continued, fidgeting with his fingers. “Thought I'd start over and make new friends. But it turns out I got mixed up with the wrong crowd there, too … which I know sounds funny for a guy who's almost seventy years old.” He chuckled lightly at his own expense, but I remained fixated on everything he was telling me. I was absorbing every word. It was the first time my father had been completely engaged. The first time since I was seven years old that we'd had an honest conversation filled with meaning.

“Pretty soon the booze wasn't enough. I have no idea when I got into the drugs … I actually don't even remember my first time … but I somehow got mixed up in cocaine. I was spiralling more and more out of control. I knew where I was headed, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.”

“Why didn't you call someone? Didn't you want help?” I asked gently, trying to shake the guilt that suddenly overwhelmed me. If I had been a better daughter, and not kicked him out the way I had, he might have found the strength to call me.

“I don't know. I knew I
should
have wanted to get help, but for some reason I didn't. Or I couldn't. I'm not really sure which one it was.” My father sighed, pain from long-ago days clouding his sober eyes. “It's tough to explain. You know that scene in
Titanic
… the one where they know the iceberg is right in front of them … and they
know
that they need to steer the ship. They even
know
exactly what they have to do to avoid smashing into that iceberg, yet …”

“Yet they just can't seem to get the ship to turn?” I finished. “No matter what they try.”

“Exactly.” My father looked down at his hands, which he was wringing together tightly. I could see how hard this conversation was for him. “I knew I was going to smash into the iceberg. And I knew what I needed to do in order to avoid it. But for some reason, I just couldn't manage to do it.”

I nodded. After seeing what Nate went through — how he had so little control over what he did — I could understand what my father was saying.

“And then that fateful night came. Too much blow. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the drugs. I don't know for sure, although my doctor is convinced the drugs were a trigger. The hypomania I'd been experiencing for years intensified, leading to extreme mania with psychosis. I turned into a full loony that night, thinking Russian spies were out to get me and a whole bunch of other crazy stuff.”

“Yeah,” I said gently. “Pete filled me in on what happened that night. I'm so sorry that you went through it.”
Especiall
y with me not being there
for you
, I thought to myself.

“I was admitted into the psych ward. Stayed in the hospital for three months before they let me out. Can you believe that? I was locked up in a psych ward for three
months
.”

“Why so long?”

“It took a while to diagnose. At first, they thought I might be schizophrenic. And then I had a hell of a time with meds. It seemed every side effect known to man had a thing for me. Nausea, rashes, hand tremors … you name it, I had it. So then they had to give me more drugs to help with the side effects. I wasn't suffering from psychosis any longer, but I was a walking zombie. It was awful.” My father shuddered in his chair, remembering his hell on earth.

“I know how hard it can be. Nate … he, uh, he had trouble with his medication as well. He experienced wicked side effects. Thankfully, his psychiatrist quickly switched him to Aripiprazole and, well, so far it seems to be working well for him.”

“That's good. I've heard good things about Aripiprazole. I tried it, but it didn't work so well for me, I'm afraid. I'm on Quetiapine. Seems to be working so far.”

“Have you … have you had an episode since your first?”

My father shook his head. “No, after I got clean and finally found the right meds for me, I've been okay. And I count each day that I'm episode-free right along with my sobriety. My psychiatrist assures me that for every day I go without an episode, the less chance there is for a second or a third.”

“That's great. I'm glad you're better.”

“Yeah. It's been a long road, but I finally feel like I can at least see down the one I'm walking on now.” My father smiled deeply, and I was immediately taken back to a time when I was a child. It was the last time I remembered seeing him genuinely laugh, and I forgot how good it made me feel to be with him when he was happy.

“Can you tell me what happened to Nate?” My father gently invited me to bring Nate into the conversation. And I knew what he was asking. Every bipolar person has a story.

So I started at the beginning, just as I had done with Nate himself, telling my father everything that had happened over the past year. Other than Tay, it was the first time I'd told someone absolutely everything, and it felt as though a pound of weight was being lifted from my shoulders with every word I said. My father did not take his eyes off me as I explained everything, and I watched them repeatedly fill with tears as I recounted the ride Nate had been on.

“Ashley … I'm so very, very sorry. About everything.” The tears that had dampened his eyes while I was telling him Nate's story finally fell, coursing down his cheeks. “I was an awful father to you. I know that now. And I should have been there for you while you were dealing with all of this.”

“But you didn't know! You didn't know what was causing you to act the way you were.”

“The disease is not a complete excuse. After your mom died, you needed me. You were
seven years old
, for goodness' sake. I can't imagine dealing with losing a mother at that age. And you should have had me there to help you through it. But I wasn't. I wasn't there for you. And you will never know how sorry I am about it, or how much I regret it.”

“This disease … it makes you do funny things,” I said. “It takes over rational thinking. And judgement. You couldn't have known that at the time. You didn't know.”

“You're right. I didn't. But the six-week bout of depression I went through after your mother died wasn't normal. Even for a man who had just lost the love of his life. Deep down inside, I knew it. Even then. And if I had just listened to what my gut was telling me, maybe I could have gotten help sooner. So that you wouldn't have had to spend your childhood parentless.”

“What was it like to go through? When you were so depressed, I mean.” I'd wondered about it for years, and felt the closeness of our current conversation had opened the door to ask. As a child, I'd caught glimpses of my father in his darkened room. Never sleeping or talking or eating. Always staring, never seeing. A breathing corpse.

“It's tough to describe. To be honest, I don't know that anyone can fully understand it unless they've been through it. To call it depression is an understatement because, on the surface, it simply implies sadness. And that part is there, for sure. But it barely scratches the surface of what it's truly like. It's very different from sadness. Bipolar depression is much, much more than that. I mean, if you even step outside, the sun
p
hysically
hurts your entire body. Which is why I kept the room so dark. You can't even see the sun or a light. The pain hurts too much. You just want to be dead. Because, in that moment, there is no reason to live.”

I took my father's hand in my own. It felt like ice, and I realized as soon as I touched him that he was shaking like a leaf. “Are you cold?” I asked him. “I could get you a sweater. Or we could go by the fire?”

“No, no … I'm alright. It's the tremors. From the meds. It's the one side effect I haven't been able to shake. It gets worse when I'm nervous or upset.” My father shrugged apologetically.

I squeezed my father's hand. The tremors seemed to lighten up a tiny bit, although I couldn't be sure if it was just my imagination.

“Can I ask you something? Do you … do you think Nate's going to be okay? I'm so afraid of the future. Every day when I wake up, I'm scared that Nate will slip back into an episode and I'll lose my son all over again. Do you think it will happen?” I'd wanted to ask someone since Nate had come home, but I'd been too frightened.

“I don't know,” my father responded honestly. “But I do know that you are doing all of the right things for your son. He's very lucky to have you.”

“But what if he has another episode? What if he goes crazy again?”

“Ashley, listen to me. This is an awful disease when it's at its worst. There's no doubt about that. But when it's properly treated, a person can be a fully functioning member of society. And Nate will continue to get stronger with each day that passes. The longer he goes without an episode, the less likely he is to have another. And there's no reason why Nate can't live a normal life. There are so many people walking around with bipolar disorder. Probably more than anyone knows.”

“There are?” I asked, sniffling into the sleeve of my dress. I wanted to hear more about the success stories. About the people who had figured out a way to properly treat bipolar disorder and were living normal lives as a result. I was deathly afraid that Nate wouldn't be healthy. I was scared my whole family was going to spend a lifetime in fear of another horrific episode.

“Yes. I'm very sure about that. There are a ton of people out there who are leading healthy, happy lives. They're not scared of it … they've embraced it. They've accepted everything about it, and have created thriving lives for themselves. For example, one person in my support group is an absolutely amazing teacher. He teaches the fourth grade. And he's going to get married this summer to a fantastic woman who loves him wholeheartedly and unconditionally. And another person in my support group is a judge. He's been on the bench for twenty-five years.”

“A judge? Really?”

“Yes.” My father patted the top of my hand as if to comfort me. A sprinkle of warmth shot straight to my heart. It was the first time in over thirty years that I felt I had a parent guiding me.

“These people that I'm telling you about … they aren't afraid. And they aren't ashamed. Because it is who they are and, in many cases, it has shaped who they've become. My very own ER doctor who admitted me when I first went into the hospital? She is also bipolar … and she's a
wonderful
doctor because of it. When I talked to her again about a year after I'd been diagnosed, she told me that it's the reason she went into medicine. That having the disease has made her more empathetic to her patients.”

“So you really think Nate could be okay?”

“I believe bipolar disorder can be properly treated. If Nate stays on his meds, and continues any form of therapy that proves helpful for him, then he's got more than a fighting chance. Add in his tenacity and courage, and I have no doubt. My grandson has a long life ahead of him. One he should be looking forward to.”

I nodded, thinking about the irony all around me. Bipolar disorder was a complicated disease that had taken my father away from me for too many years, and yet it was also what had brought him back to me.

“Ashley, listen to your father,” he said, taking both of my hands in his. He was still trembling. “This tragedy that you've been through in the past few months? I know it's felt like hell … but, if you look harder, I think you'll see that it's actually been a blessing. It's really what gave Nate his life back.”

“How so?”

“The greatest power we have in this world is knowledge. And we have that now. We know what we're dealing with. Which means a treatment plan with the ultimate goal of a healthy life. Without that, Nate would have been stuck in a dark box, struggling to come to terms with why he couldn't cope with life the way he was supposed to.” My father sighed, looking straight into my eyes. “I know how this sounds, but unless you've been there, you can't fully understand how difficult that is. But I assure you, now that Nate is on the road to recovery, he's been given his life back. And that's a gift. If Nate hadn't gone through his first episode, he wouldn't have been diagnosed. And he would have been trapped in what feels like never-ending purgatory.”