“What airline were you on?”
“America West, I think.”
“Good; they fly directly to Phoenix.”
“Why Phoenix?”
“We are right there.”
“Oh.”
“Lookup. Do you see any airline signs?”
“Yes. American Eagle.”
“Good.”
“Do you see any gate signs?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Good. Just relax; someone will be there to help you in a few minutes. Just hold on and talk to Mom. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
I grabbed my cell phone, called American Eagle, and explained the situation. They couldn’t have been more helpful. We also had a little good fortune; there was a direct flight to Phoenix in less than twenty minutes. They booked a ticket, got him a wheelchair, picked him up, held the plane, and then placed him in an empty first-class seat near the front exit.
“Martin, I’m back.” I tried to explain what was happening. He freaked out, thinking I was having him committed.
“Dad, don’t do this to me,” he pleaded.
I became impatient. “God damn it, Martin, listen to me. We’re trying to help you.”
Lauren, alarmed that I was making a bad situation worse, grabbed the phone out of my hand. She softly repeated the critical parts again and again until he finally understood.
“Martin, we’re right here. We’re having a friend make sure you get on the right plane. The airports are hectic and confusing at this hour.”
“Yes, Mom, it is busy. But why?” asked Martin, like a befuddled ten-year-old.
“Let’s not worry about that, dear. When Mom’s friend picks you up and takes you to the plane, she is going to give you a little sleeping pill so that you can relax. Remember, Mom’s a nurse. When you wake up, we’ll be right on the other side of the plane’s door. Understand?”
There was a long pause.
Lauren broke the silence. “Martin, do you understand?”
“Mom, please don’t get mad at me. You know I hate taking medicine.”
“Martin, please take the pill they give you. Everything will be okay, darling. We love you very much.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
“Dad wants to say something.”
“Love you, Martin. Can’t wait to see you.”
Martin Jr. tried to respond but began sobbing instead. I just said calmly, “See you in a couple of hours.” At that moment, I realized my first son, the witty intellectual, the handsome scholar-athlete with the world at his feet, felt he was a miserable failure. Not with our family, not with Lauren, but in my eyes. Our relationship would never be the same.
8.
Enter Dr. James Sherry.
The next six months were quite painful.
MJ morphed into an entrenched agoraphobic as soon as we arrived home. He wouldn’t leave his bedroom for the first two weeks, which created the need for full-time help to cook for, wash, and feed him. Lauren took vacation leave in the middle of her busiest time of year to be near him. The psychiatrist MJ had identified refused to make house calls, which led Lauren on a professional search to find a suitable replacement, someone skilled at deeply entrenched cases.
Through a series of referrals at the hospital, Lauren was introduced to Minnesota-born Dr. James Sherry, a mid-forties psychiatrist with a gentle manner who had himself suffered from panic disorder during a particularly trying time in his life. After a few sessions in which MJ rarely spoke, Dr. Sherry declared privately, “Getting MJ back into the game of life is going to be a difficult challenge. He is intellectually brilliant but unbelievably stubborn. That’s not an easy combination to deal with.”
Guilt-ridden, we asked the obvious. “What did we do wrong as parents?”
Dr. Sherry’s response was less than comforting. “First of all, you need to understand you did nothing wrong. MJ is suffering from an extreme case of acute panic disorder. Until the last twenty years, psychiatry spun its wheels trying to identify the root cause of the individual patient’s affliction, using antidepressants as a crutch. Now we understand that cases like MJ are partially biochemical — something has changed in the fundamental makeup and order of his brain cells.
“Consequently, he reacts negatively to certain stimuli he feels he cannot control. Those stimuli vary by patient. For some, confined spaces cause anguish; for others, it’s loud noises at sporting events; and for others, it’s about suffocating crowds.”
“What exactly is MJ afraid of?”
“Unless you have had one of these attacks, it is hard to describe, much less empathize. The patient thinks he is going crazy, or he’s having a heart attack. They are unable to maintain control. Life becomes a distant haze. Their heart pounds; their skeletal structure becomes limp; they can’t even hold a glass of water. The actual attack may last only a few minutes, but when we are in the eye of the storm, it feels like forever.”
I wondered if Sherry’s description was a subconscious slip.
“Mr. Ruff, I can smell the wood burning,” smiled Dr. Sherry. “Yes, I have suffered from acute panic disorder. It became all-consuming. I had to take a sabbatical from my practice.”
“How long?”
“Four years.”
Looking around at the doctor’s family pictures, I couldn’t help but ask, “How did your wife and kids come to grips with your condition?”
“They didn’t; she divorced me and took the kids.”
“How did you get cured?”
“APD is like alcoholism,” Sherry responded. “Once inflicted, you have to stand guard for the rest of your life. Some days are better than others. But living with it is certainly better than the alternative. We’ve also learned that trying to discover what causes the change is a professional waste of time. Changes in brain chemistry are irreversible. The only known cure is to rebuild your self-confidence by slowly regaining control of the situations that caused the attacks in the first place.”
“How long does that process take?” asked Lauren, now fully realizing the gravity of the situation.
“Depends on the patient. Initially, some patients try to control their entire environment; eventually they realize that’s not possible.”
The more I listened, the more upset I became. “Can you at least give me a
