A Brick in the Head

The phone rang late in the afternoon on a Friday; I answered it preoccupied with what my eight year old wanted to blow up. I could hear the shaking semi-hysterical voice of my mother
“You have to help I don’t know what to do. Daddy’s trying to kill himself, No Daddy stop that!"
I will continue to ignore the fact that my parents have always strangely called each other mother and daddy. Odd not to call 911, no, not really, suicide threats and half assed attempts were fairly routine in my family.
There are many ways a person can attempt to kill themselves and my father chose one of the more original and exceedingly more difficult.
“What is he doing?”
“He’s hitting himself in the head with a brick and his head is all bloody and he won’t stop.”

I would have to call my husband; my dad would never listen to an actual blood relative. My husband was leaving for his annual fishing trip. He was not happy, but the method concerned as much as intrigued him.
We rode in silence to my parents, what do I say?
“Sorry your fishing trip is delayed because my Dad is trying to obliterate his brain”.

I outwardly tensed as the car went up the long gravel driveway and my husband saw me
“I did not run over any cats so you can unclench your fists."

The house was in disarray as always. My mother looked beyond sick. We went in the bedroom. My dad was in bed naked, methodically hitting his head with a faded red brick. Blood ran down his face and on the brick. I was too tired to be shocked, too tired to cry, too tired to explain. My husband, in his alien sensible language convinced my dad to go to the hospital.
It was one of many trips to hell I would take, guarding the doors, so he wouldn’t jump. He chanted his desire to see his farm again before he died. I wanted to punch him, but we drove by all the farmland. We bypassed the local hospital as my dad had a bit of a reputation there. He had been fired by his doctor and my dad had good insurance.

The hospital glowed in the midnight hour. When asked by the information desk what was wrong they asked me to repeat it several times. I don’t think suicide by brick was a common occurrence, even in the big city. It was a Friday night and there were many more serious and sadder events than ours. The doctor came in made some rudimentary tests and said he would ask if a social worker was available.
The social worker, a twenty-something male came to see us who was really there to comfort the grieving family of a motorcycle accident victim and solicit the propagation of his organs. He talked to us anyway and became that light shining in the sky, the angel in the background, the music swelling in the finale of all good movies. He had finagled the best facility he could find in the area and if we went there now he could be admitted.
I don’t know why my Dad did it, but he went voluntarily. We were soon driving my father to a psychiatric hospital. It was late when we got there and doors had to open from the inside. He was told to leave his wallet, watch, any pens pencils, shoelaces, all potentially lethal objects behind. I watched him, his bib overalls falling off one shoulder, the wind burned face staring as the entry gate was lifted and immediately swallowed him.
I wanted to cry, knew I should cry, but didn’t cry. They tried all the traditional methods. My father was like a skipping record that couldn’t be fixed. He had designated me his power of attorney in all ways. A few weeks later they called me for permission to authorize shock treatments, a minimum of twelve. He would be monitored because of his heart condition and diabetes, but they had no other recommendation.

This was a man, who was beating his skull with a brick to stop the pain. I signed the paper.