From a Father’s Point of View

Guest Blog Post by Todd Henderson

Trigger warning: This blog contains content about suicide which some individuals may find distressing.

Prologue

My name is Todd Henderson. I am the father of two boys with mental health issues. Today I will be talking about “Tyler” (not his real name) only. I’ll discuss my other son at a later time, when he is ready. 

I grew up in a small town where my mom was born and raised. As such, there was virtually no access to psychiatrists and therapists. When I was 10 years old, my parents decided I needed therapy (to this day I can only speculate why) and my mom would drive me 60 minutes one way to the “big city.” That was our only option. 

Years later, while living in a large city with good access to mental healthcare, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. After years of determination, hard work and family support, I now live a good life. And that is also a story for a later time. 

As my children grew, their mom created the most loving tribute – albums which combined photos and journals from their early years through their teens. This morning I picked one up and revisited the happy past. So many smiles and birthday candles and splashes in the waves and silly hats. But behind all that, so much more was at work. Their little minds were developing, and we didn’t fully understand how generations of genes were shaping who they would become mentally.

 Joy

The most beautiful and joy-filled days of my life were when my Tyler was born. The magic of birth is overwhelming and the responsibility of being a father is profound. 

Then reality hit. Should I change his diaper now? Is the bottle too hot? But life goes on from there: birthdays with more and more candles, bubble beards in the tub, cowboy boots with pirate hats, red bike without training wheels, effortless smiles and Grammy kisses.

Of course, not all days were picture-postcard perfect: a spill off a skateboard, “D” on a report card, “Someone called me a name” and more tears. 

Family Genes

My mom taught me much about raising kids: being respectful and kind and loving and empathetic. But she didn’t tell me about our family’s history of mental illness. This was simply something one didn’t discuss in the 1960s and 1970s. 

Deep in my oldest memories is an incident with my granddaddy. I remember watching from the back seat of our yellow Pontiac station wagon (the kind with a nose on it) as he was put into a sheriff’s car. With no mental healthcare in our little town, he was in a straightjacket on his way to electroshock therapy in the “big city” like in the novel One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. As a 10-year-old boy, I did my best to delete this visual in my head. 

Mom lived with bipolar disorder. She still lived in the small town of her birth. Nearly 30 years after Granddaddy needed care and 20 years after I first needed care, our town still lacked adequate mental healthcare. She had to go to the “big city” for electroconvulsive therapy.

True Believer

At six years of age, Tyler was diagnosed with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), given stimulant medication and we started family therapy. I did not want to believe and accept that my son had mental health issues. As I travelled a lot at the time, I wasn’t around to see what Tyler’s mom observed daily: impulsiveness, difficulty with focusing, anxiety, forgetfulness, stubbornness and more.

Then one day at hockey practice, Tyler skated off the ice sobbing and shaking. Not because he fell. He told me, “I can’t concentrate.” Wow. Then I was a true believer. I begged to a higher power for Tyler to be “normal.” I wanted to hold him in a hug to make it all go away. Forever.

As the next 10 years went slowly by, there were few improvements. Despair and hopelessness and sorrow were frequent visitors to our home.

Self-Medicating

At 15 years of age, Tyler began self-medicating with marijuana and benzodiazepines. At 16, he was raped and his depression increased dramatically. At age 18, he attempted suicide by hanging in our garage. The garage became a symbol of his illness and reminded me daily of the horror. 

The next few years involved several inpatient mental hospital stays. Nothing changed. Tyler did not get better. He self-medicated more and more. He couldn’t keep a job for more than a few weeks. He began stealing to support his habit. He was arrested several times. 

Missing

During this time, he lived on the streets for weeks at a time (where his physical health also declined). He went missing twice. Those two months destroyed me. I didn’t know if I’d ever see his beautiful smile again. I didn’t know if he was lying dead in the streets or taken by a drug dealer. I flew to California where an angel found him and booked him into a motel.  

A few years later he went missing in Florida for a month. I appealed to a local television station to do a story about Tyler and drove city streets late at night fearing the worst. He was found within four weeks with a body ravished by drugs. He had lost several pounds. 

Schizoaffective Disorder

Several years later Tyler received a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder. Everything was crystal clear. We knew the “enemy” and we could prepare accordingly. This would begin different combinations of antipsychotics, antidepressants and mood stabilizers. Some worked for a while, others didn’t work at all, and finally some showed promise. To this day doctors struggle to find the perfect cocktail for Tyler.

Over time Tyler’s symptoms evolved, but consistently he has shown: 

• Depression.

• Delusions.

• Visual/audio hallucinations.

• Catatonic states.

• Paranoia.

Blue Feet

A couple of years ago I went to see him at a local hospital. I asked him why his feet were covered with blue paint. He said he lost his shoes, so he spray-painted new ones on. 

An important point here. I asked the nurses about the paint. They “didn’t see it.” You are the only advocate for your loved one. 

Perhaps I should also mention a major roadblock in helping an adult child (or adult parent). The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPPA) protects patients 18 years and older. So, patients have to specifically authorize someone to make decisions for them or receive health information about them. This includes scheduling a doctor’s appointment, picking up a prescription, getting a briefing from a doctor and making a hospital visit.

So, imagine this real situation. I can because it happened multiple times. I got a call from the hospital. My heart stops. They wanted me to pay for Tyler’s hospital stay. I didn’t even know he was in the hospital. I ask, “Is he okay?” They say, “I can’t tell you that.” I ask for “the location of the hospital.” They say, “I can’t tell you that.” I ask about medications, his condition physically and mentally. “No. No. No.”

If you’ve been through this before, you know that Tyler could have signed a form allowing you to visit or talk to the doctors.

But you would also know that Tyler was in a psychotic state and that he was incapable of rational thinking. In fact, he was declared “incompetent” by the hospital psychiatrist. So how could they expect him to make a rational decision? Also, he was paranoid and would not sign anything. There is simply no way around this unless you get really lucky, and a kind night shift nurse lets you in. And that can work only until her supervisor ushers you out.

I’ll leave one more thought on this subject – guardianship. If your situation is similar to mine, you may want to consider a guardianship. This is a long process – depending upon the state and your attorneys – but may be necessary.

Finally

As a father, I can’t even begin to tell you about the pain and anguish of watching your son deteriorate physically and mentally. Tyler is in his thirties now. These should be the best years of his life. But he has not been able to escape the shackles of mental illness and addictions. I should say that Tyler is, by default, street drug free, because he has zero access to street drugs while in the hospital.

Of course, Tyler’s pain is monumentally deeper than mine. So, I have no reason to complain. I am thankful he is alive and hope beyond hope he will conquer his illnesses and addictions.

Now in his thirties, Tyler has been hospitalized 965+ days of his life. He currently resides in a state hospital where he makes inconsistent progress.

But his smile returns occasionally.

About the author

Todd Henderson grew up in a small town in Indiana and believes he is the third generation in his family to be affected by mental illness. Generation after generation, Todd’s family struggled to access mental healthcare, traveling 60 miles to find therapists, psychologists and hospitals. Often, help came too little and too late. Todd shares his family's history in hopes of helping other individuals and families.

Todd is also the author of a novella – Shifting Sands: His Hell. Her Prison. – which is a fictional account of a young family struggling with the father's bipolar disorder, severe depression and substance abuse.