Antidepressant

“The Real Big Al is back”

            A week ago, I invited my three brothers and my old friend Johnny over for a visit. Dennis and Larry came up from Pasadena; Johnny came down from Livingston; and Big Al drove across town. We all met for breakfast at the 105 Café, where the owner, Tom, always knows your name.

            After we were seated, Tom told me that I must not care much for my brothers, because I brought ‘em to the worst eating place in town. What a jokerman. The 105 Café has won more than few awards. It was so refreshing to find an owner to express self-deprecation, even in a joking manner.

            Breakfast was great, and the atmosphere was super for conversation about old times. The brothers hadn’t seen Johnny in a good while, so they had much to catch up on. At one point of the conversation, Dennis criticized Big Al about being a braggart in his childhood. I about tossed my breakfast. Was he out of his mind? I knew Al was out of his mind, but, Dennis? I carefully glanced over at Al to see if getting ready to head out. I was reaching for my wallet to pay his check for him..

            Turns out, Al had a questioned look. “Was I really that way?” he said. “I sure didn’t feel that way.” Then he just sluffed it off. I couldn’t believe it. Had the real Big Al returned? I had only prayed about it for years.

            At some point later in life, my kid brother turned angry, over-critical… down. Each of those traits is a symptom of depression. I was diagnosed way before Al. It’s one of those feelings that nothing is right. I couldn’t summon up a happy thought to save my life. I wasn’t suicidal, but I was sure ready for somebody to take me out.

            It was a clinical depression. Maybe all of ‘em are; each one just has a different trigger. When something good happens to you or to a loved one, there’s an electrical impulse in your brain that carries your happy thought to the portion of your brain that lets you know that you have reason to be happy. There’s a break in the line somewhere.

            I know most of us hate the thought of taking a pill, but it was a pill that saved me. Sure took me a while to find the right one. Depression runs in my family. My dad suffered from it as did my oldest sister, Lynda. Mine was diagnosed next, then Jill, Dennis and Al. Don’t tell him, but I’m pretty sure our oldest brother Larry has it too. He’s fun to be around, but happy thoughts too seldom visit him.

            Back to Big Al, during the visit it was a blessing to be around him. We tossed the softball and sat in a circle in the backyard and continued to talk. Johnny knows a little bit about a lot of stuff, and he is one good story teller. I think we’ve adopted him into the family. But, Al? Al was so good to be around. Usually, he’d only talk if you asked him a question. His answers were generally one or two words.

            But, last week? Last week, he was telling stories and laughing. And he stayed seated in the lawn chair. Normally, he gets up from the table, or couch or lawn chair and starts pacing. Doesn’t say anything. He just paces back and forth.

            Like I say, he didn’t pace last week. During one of the few pauses in conversation, Al said he had something tell us. He said that his psychiatrist had recently written him a prescription for a different anti-depressant*. Al didn’t have much hope, because he had already taking a slew of different pills. We’re always told that each pill is different and will take weeks or maybe a month or two before it does what it’s supposed to do.

            Problem is, if it doesn’t work, you have to wean off it, and then take the next pill on the list, and wait weeks to see if it works. His doctor told him that this drug had been known to work in a few days. Al said he felt good the very next day, and that now he feels like his old self again. He sure carried himself like the Al I remembered. We used to have the best of times. The brothers used to go on a canoe trip or hikes about every three years. We’d play golf once and year, and would laugh our buns off at some of things said and weird shots made. Of course, that parts not happening again, because I through with golf.

            About five this morning, I was lying in bed trying to decide if I wanted to get up. I do some of my best thinking during those moments. One of my thoughts was about Al and the medication that finally worked. I thought: What if they had something like that when Dad was around. Dad was a nice guy, well liked those at the refinery. He was a great father with a very short fuse. We loved him dearly, but always feared when a word might be said that somehow set him off.

            We didn’t know about antidepressants back then. We just knew about valium. Dad took about two of those over the years. They didn’t do anything for him, other than make him quit caring about… well, everything. So the question in my mind was: If there had been an effective antidepressant for Faris Hayter back in The Day, how might that have changed our childhood, and perhaps, changed our lives to this day? 

            It’s ridiculous to wonder about such a thing, but I do wish I could’ve known my “real” Dad. However, it will be enough to again see the real Al Hayter. I’m ashamed to say that I had about given up on ever meeting him again. I apparently counted my faith as cheap. I do that sometimes.

*The medication mentioned in the article is called "Pristiq" -- Generic name -- "Desvenlafaxine"

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