Fulfilling A Promise to My Dad: “It doesn’t have to end this way.”
My dad was an exceptional human being. He was a musician, he was an exceptional athlete, and he pursued life wholeheartedly and without hesitation. He loved my mother more than he loved anything else in this world. One more thing about my dad that’s important to this story: he battled mental illness and alcoholism for the vast majority of his life.
When people used to ask me about my dad, I just told them I didn’t have one. That my mom was both of my parents, and that it didn’t matter where my dad was. Close friends would get a fraction of the real story; that my dad was an alcoholic and that he wasn’t well enough to be a part of my life. Which was true. My dad made my mom promise him that if he couldn’t get better, that she would take me away and give me a safe, healthy life. And she did. For that, my mom is the strongest human being I’ve ever met.
Now, fast forward to me at about ten years old. I finally met my dad for the first time (that I could remember). It was brief; we exchanged photos, stories, and he told me how sorry he was that he couldn’t be a bigger part of my life. We began writing letters back and forth to each other- letters that are now some of my most treasured possessions. We tried for a long time to keep some kind of relationship going, but his alcoholism was a jealous mistress- I became angry with him. Livid. You seriously STILL can’t pick me over alcohol? Am I not worth it? What’s wrong with me that I’m not worth it?? And that was it. That was the last time I spoke to my dad- at least for the next eleven/twelve years.
It was around that time in my life that my mom recognized the signs of mental illness in my behavior. Before you jump back and cringe thinking that I was what the media portrays the mentally ill to be- social pariahs, outcasts, people to be afraid of- let me be clear. Public perception of the mentally ill is wildly skewed. I have an anxiety disorder. And at the time, I suffered from severe depression. I was ashamed, scared, and unable to function. With the help and support of my family and doctors, I recovered. I still have trouble from time to time, but I treat my mental illness just as I would treat any type of legitimate illness- I go to the doctor, I take my medication, and life goes on as usual.
No one was there to recognize the signs for my dad. When he began to realize that something didn’t feel right, he sought an escape. That escape came in the form of alcohol. And by the time he figured out that he had any legitimate mental conditions, he was too addicted to his self-medicating solution to crawl back out to the light. Through my own experiences, I have seen the hell that turned my dad towards alcohol. Without treatment, mental illness can turn you into a desperate shell of who you once were. You will do anything to make the pain go away- even if that means turning to alcohol while your eleven year old pleads with you to be a part of her life.
Once I got older, I tried to find my dad. I called hospitals, institutions, assisted living facilities, all with no luck. I think part of me hoped that I didn’t find him, though, because I knew that with every day, month, year, and decade that passed, his body was shutting down. I prayed fervently that there was someone, anyone, out there looking out for him. I prayed for his salvation. I prayed that somehow, anyhow, I would get to be with him before he passed to pray with him for his entrance into Heaven. I lived my entire life without the true essence of who my father was- I did not want to spend eternity without him too. I kept these prayers to myself- I did not share them with my mother or any of my friends. I just kept a silent dialogue with God and hoped with all of my heart that He would honor my wishes, or send someone in my place. I needed to know that my dad would be saved.
On Friday, June 27, 2014, I was on my way home from Savannah, GA. Almost as soon as the car crossed back into Charlotte, my cell phone rang. On the other end of the line was a sweet young woman who identified herself as Sarah, a nurse with Hospice of Rutherford County. Being in her line of work, she knew how to get straight to the point about her patient’s condition (which I appreciated). I can still hear the words, “Yes, yes ma’am, he is going fast. I’d say no more than 48 hours. Your father has been brought here to die.” How had they found me? How did they have my phone number?? (I later found out that it had been found on my PR website). In a frenzied yet calm haze of events, I collected my mom from her office and we made our way to Rutherfordton. The whole time I silently called out to God with tears running down my face- please Lord, let me get to him in time.
Rounding the corner into the room that held my father’s frail six foot, four inch tall frame was the most shocking moment of my life. He’s only fifty seven, how is it possible that he looks ninety seven? How could a person’s body withstand so much abuse? His eyes were glazed over, his body bandaged, and his breaths more like infrequent gasps. The nurses assured me that he was not in pain. He was in a type of medically induced coma that is, from my understanding, how most Hospice patients live out the last hours of their lives with some semblance of comfort. I was assured that he could hear me- the nurses told me that even after your heart and lungs give out, your hearing is still the last thing to go. (I googled it because I thought they were just trying to comfort me; it turns out it’s true- who knew?). Regardless, I collapsed over the railing of his hospital bed onto my dad’s frame and wept. The hands down most difficult, world-rocking moment of my life was also the biggest answer to my most fervent prayers. The Lord provided me the opportunity to pray for my father and his salvation. He allowed me to say everything that I had come to understand since the last time I had spoken with my dad. He allowed me to sing our song. (‘In my life’ by The Beatles, which was also played at his funeral).
But this story isn’t about me. It’s about a promise I made while I sat at my dad’s side, watching him slip away with every ragged breath.
“Daddy. Daddy I hope you can hear me. I want you to know something. It’s over. It’s OVER. Alcoholism that has held its hand over this family for generations is GONE. And Daddy? I promise you something right now. You did not die for nothing. I promise you, that when I’m ready, I will share your story in as many forums and to as many ears as will listen to me; because it doesn’t have to end this way. And people need to know that. I promise you.”
Mental illness does not have to take lives. It is curable. And with the removal of the stigma we attach so easily to the words “mental illness,” we can urge those suffering in silence to seek help rather than to seek self-medication through substance abuse. I am a living, breathing example of how the story can end differently. Thanks to my parents, I am an example of breaking the cycle. I cannot stress enough the importance of recognizing the signs of a mental illness in yourself or a loved one. To learn more about mental illness and how you can be part of the cure, visit the National Alliance on Mental Illness at http://www.nami.org.
Because it doesn’t have to end that way, and I’m going to share that message for the rest of my life.
Richard Timothy Knowles
December 14, 1956 – June 27, 2014
