A few years ago, my dad, age 72, found himself in the deepest, darkest depression he’d ever experienced. A mostly happy-go-lucky extrovert was staring down demons and challenges he’d never encountered before.
He was a few years into a forced retirement, trying to find his new normal, when he lost his way. He was frail, shaky, and distant from those who loved him. He lost interest in all of the things he’d found joy in before. A man who craved company and attention was retreating into darkness right before our eyes.
We all noticed something wasn’t right. I was scared but also somewhat prepared, as mental illness runs in my family. I had also taken part in Mental Health First Aid, a national program that teaches participants the skills to respond to the signs of mental illness and substance abuse. This course is something I recommend for everyone, especially those working closely with people who are struggling.
For my dad, it started slowly, with little things that presented themselves as small red flags. He was ornery and impatient. If you’ve ever met my father, you wouldn’t believe the changes. This is a guy who thrives on being the center of attention, the life of the party.
Thankfully, my mom convinced my dad to check into the hospital. This is where things got worse. He was listless and completely checked out from the idea of living. It was hard to hear my dad say things like “I just want to die” or “What do I have to show for my life?” He wouldn’t shave or eat, and he started hearing audible hallucinations. I was concerned he was slipping deeper into the darkness. I would visit him and leave with zero hope.
Then the doctors presented an idea that could help my father if we thought he would go for it. We were open to anything at that point. Along with therapy and antidepressant medication, they recommended electroconvulsive therapy. Formerly known as electroshock therapy, ECT is a voluntary psychiatric treatment in which seizures are electrically induced in patients to provide relief from mental disorders.
It sounds radical, I know, but the improvement we saw after just one treatment was remarkable. My dad started to talk more, eat more, and he stopped having those oppressive feelings of self-doubt. He wanted company, whereas just a few weeks before he just wanted to die alone. It was a miracle.
Truth is, the pendulum has swung so far the other way. My dad has started acting like a person in their early 20s —the vigor to live life is back in full force. Dad is back. I can’t help but think some of his depression stemmed from the generation he came up in. A member of the “Forgotten Generation,” many folks in this group were taught to never ask for help and to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.
What I’ve learned is that everyone needs help. Depression knows no gender, religion, age, or race, and it can be deadly. I’m grateful for the return of my father. It’s made me more cognizant of my own mental health, and it’s also made me value family time more than ever.
It’s easy to kick the can down the road and hope everything will work out, but in situations like this, action is key. Every day is a gift with my father now. This is the way I look at my time with my kids, too. I want to create as many memories as I can with them while I’m able. God knows I won’t be around forever, so I better enjoy these younger years while my girls don’t mind hanging out with dear old dad.
Jeff Hulett is a freelance writer, musician, and PR consultant in Memphis. He lives in the Vollintine Evergreen neighborhood with his wife Annie, two girls Ella and Beatrice, and dog Chalupa.