a decade or so.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I realize your son’s condition is quite a shock, but there is some good news in all this. No patient has ever died or even experienced a heart attack or stroke from this condition.”
“So, where do we go from here?” asked Lauren.
“You understand, for the moment, that he has to be treated as if he is disabled? He cannot work. He needs regular counseling, initially with the two of you, eventually by himself. He needs medication and a predictable course of rehabilitation. In other words, he can be institutionalized, or we can attempt episodic home treatment.”
I bristled. “No son of mine needs institutionalization!”
“Calm down, honey.”
Sherry responded calmly, “I was going to suggest we start by treating him at home. Let’s see if the familiar surroundings help matters.”
~
After twelve months of intense treatment and a few hiccups, MJ made some progress. He was now able to drive about a quarter of a mile to the grocery store, buy food for himself, and make a meal.
During that time, his brother Bart tried everything he could think of — from playing Madden NFL video football to gentle conversations recalling fun times and pleasant memories to stern admonishments about MJ’s need to “get out of his funk.” Bart desperately wanted his childhood role model to snap out of his mental malaise. Nothing worked. In time, Bart just stopped trying.
At age 58, I found I was feeling quite sorry for myself. We were restricted geographically. MJ had given up his apartment in Darien and moved into Southport full time. It was like having a child return home. MJ was always on the phone checking our whereabouts to avoid having a relapse. I was utterly frustrated, and it showed. Dr. Sherry suggested we practice driving to the airport. I’ll never forget that first exercise. When MJ realized we were on the Throggs Neck Bridge across Long Island Sound, he completed wigged out, and then he cried all the way home.
At a subsequent session with Dr. Sherry, it became clear that MJ blamed much of his pain on my impatience, insensitivity, and overbearing personal expectations. He, the doctor, and Lauren all agreed Lauren should be MJ’s “safe person,” the person who would act as surrogate shrink when he experienced emotional duress, which was most of the time.
Effectively, I became a man without a family.
9.
The wisdom of Joanne Mathias.
While chaos and personal humiliation reigned supreme at home, the business couldn’t have been more fun and satisfying. My twenty-five-plus years of diverse business experience fit the needs of post-Pete AFA like a glove.
Strategic insights and pragmatic solutions poured out of my head. There was something for everybody: lead generation programs for field producers, personal branding campaigns for our business consultants, new consumer promotional programs, new safe-money products with stable returns, and principal protection for investors. There was even an award-winning corporate advertising campaign featuring our field advisors that increased AFA corporate awareness by 213 percent.
By the end of my second year, AFA had been named the fastest growing financial advisory in America, and our consultants and their licensed advisors were making a ton more money. Everybody, that is, except for a few stubborn consultants who refused to keep up with the changes— people like Alexandria Plummet.
For me, the incredible respect I was accorded every day at the office replaced the growing emotional void at home. For the first time in years, I looked forward to work every day — equity or no equity. No problem was too significant, no business dilemma too stressful. Before long, as one of the account managers characterized it, “Martin, you’re AFA’s poster child. Your stamp is all over the company.”
Lauren had decided to put her career on hold and focus on MJ; they created an impenetrable bond. Casual dinner conversation felt like a two-way affair between Lauren and MJ, with me an inconsequential bystander. Soon I was intentionally spending twelve- to fourteen-hour days at the office or on the road, searching for deals, visiting potential strategic partners, or stopping by to see top producers.
I felt I was about to explode. I needed someone to talk to, someone I thought I could trust. Enter Joanne Mathias, a red-haired firebrand and close friend whom I had recruited from the advertising industry. I figured she was a pro at marketing and building client relationships. She was a perfect fit, and in a short time, I promoted her to marketing director, reporting directly to me. We were riding home together one night, making small talk.
“Red,” as I called her, “would you mind if I ask you something very personal?”
“So long as you’re not going to ask me to leave John [her husband] and run away with you, I’m fine,” she laughed.
“I’ve heard you talk about your alcoholic dad, how he divided you and your mom. I think I’ve got a somewhat similar situation brewing.” As I described the current state of my home front and my feelings, she finished my sentences before they were formed.
“MJ is doing to you exactly what my father did to me as a teenager. He used his alcoholism as an excuse to shut me out. I was too independent, not what he expected in a daughter. He was constantly telling me I didn’t have the sensitivity to understand his problems. We had an impossible time communicating. He had a twisted way of highlighting my foibles every goddamn chance he could. He was particularly good at talking trash when I was within earshot or hinting things to my mother; it was so humiliating. I tried to keep my cool, but my anger was always just below the surface. Eventually, I decided I needed a confidant. My psychiatrist helped me understand and accept that there is no such thing as a three-way relationship with an irrational person. Someone must be the odd person out. That little piece of wisdom cost about $20,000 and two years of my life.”
All I could say was, “Holy shit!” I saw the parallels to my own situation.
She smiled her devilish smile. “My friend, that psychological insight is my gift to you, absolutely free, and unencumbered by a salary increase suggestion, although that would be appreciated!”
10.
Plummet starts to lay her foundation.
I was walking past Alexandria’s office when she flagged me down.
“Hey, you, we need to talk to you.” The administrative aides in the area chuckled.
I walked in with a big smile on my face. “You rang, madam?”
“I think I need some help.”
“You think?”
Alexandria started to explain her business problem, carefully providing her version of the truth. “I’ve always prided myself on my close relationships with my advisors. When they talk to Alexandria, they know they will get an objective case analysis and first-class product solutions with options.”
“So?” I chose not to divulge that I knew her income was down thirty-five percent versus a year ago, and that a management analysis suggested an even uglier trend line unless something was done. I just wasn’t close enough to know what that something should be. I also knew we had received
