Admittedly, my eating has been less than stellar. It’s the opposite of binging at this point; my appetite cuts out a lot and I skip meals. But I haven’t binged and I haven’t had a drink. How I’ve gotten this far without those things happening is anyone’s guess. Call it luck. Call it will. Maybe a little of both.
I have been making an effort to keep it all under control.
For two Thursdays in a row I had two medical appointments on the calendar. This past Thursday, for example, I had a chiropractic appointment and a psychotherapy appointment. Work was busy and I wanted that time to keep working, but I kept my appointments.
That may be why I haven’t crashed and burned, even though my head feels like it’s on fire when I know there’s a lot of work to do.
It’s been said that people like me need to take things a day at a time. When you have OCD, one day at a time is an alien concept. But I’m trying it out.
In the day-at-a-time spirit, I’m doing fine today. Tomorrow? I only know that I’ll do my best when I get there.
I was anxious, jumpy, and panicky when I was younger, fear making me do the damnedest things. My sister loves to repeat the story of one of my more embarrassing freak-outs. It used to piss me off, but now I can sit back and laugh with everyone else.
To that end, let’s review the morning a hurricane was coming and I completely lost it.
Mood music:
https://youtu.be/sxdmw4tJJ1Y
First, some history.
Before I got my OCD under control, I was always full of fear and anxiety. It robbed me of a life that could have been better lived. I hid indoors a lot. I favored the fantasy of TV over the real world. And when the weather got hairy, I overreacted in ways that are more amusing in hindsight.
I blame the Blizzard of 1978 for my overreaction. When you’re eight years old and you watch the Atlantic Ocean rip apart a beach wall and head straight for your house, bad things go through your mind and they tend to stay there. Those things are helped along when the media compares every new storm to come along with that blizzard.
In August 1991, the news was full of reports about a military coup in Russia, which was scary because that meant the overthrow of Mikhail Gorbachev. He would be back in power before the week was out, but take the early hours of that crisis and mix it with reports that a hurricane called Bob was coming straight at us, and here’s what you get:
Me running around the house with duct tape, slathering reams of it on every window I could find.
I ran into my sister’s basement bedroom and proceeded to tape her window. One of her friends was sleeping over and got to see me in all my crazy glory.
“Get up, a hurricane is coming!” I bellowed. Stacey and her friend remained in the bed, not a care in the world.
“Come on, you idiots!” I yelled. “This ain’t no fucking Hurricane Gloria.”
Hurricane Gloria hit Massachusetts in 1985. It was supposed to be a devastating event, but it passed over us with more of a whimper than a bang. Hurricane Bob was going to be much worse, the weather people were telling us. And, of course, they started comparing the expected storm surge with that of the Blizzard of 1978.
Panic engulfed me.
Hurricane Bob turned out to be almost as anti-climactic as Gloria, but that Halloween a much more devastating storm hit and flooded out the neighborhood almost as badly as in 1978. Ironically, ours was one of the only houses not to get flooded.
A photo from the old days in Revere is sparking some flashbacks. It’s November 1991, and Dan Waters, Sean Marley, and I are in the basement of the old house I grew up in.
From left to right: Bill Brenner, Dan Waters, and Sean Marley
We partied a lot in that basement. It was the scene of many impressive and entertaining mood swings.
I could be mistaken, but I believe we were having a belated Halloween party in the photo, which is why Sean is dressed as a vampire.
On Halloween 1991, the No-Name Hurricane, immortalized in The Perfect Storm, had blown through, badly flooding out the neighborhood. My basement, Sean’s basement and that of the house in between ours were among the handful of homes that escaped the damage. I was gearing up for one last semester at North Shore Community College before transferring to Salem State College.
Update: The details below reflect a change in schedule and location for the candlelight vigil. The change is apparently due to another event happening at Haverhill Stadium at the time Mike’s vigil was originally scheduled.
A quick update on the passing of Mike Nicoloro: A candlelight vigil will be held for him Monday, 6-9 p.m. at Plugs Pond in Haverhill. This event is free. Folks are asked to bring candles and happy faces to remember him. Anyone with photos should bring them, also. *NO BALLOONS DUE TO LATEX ALLERGIES*
A family member of Mike’s told me his funeral service will be Tuesday at 11 a.m. at the Riverview Cemetery in Groveland.
The top news story last week was about the rioting and looting in Baltimore. The discussion has been full of anger over what many see as thuggery. The violence makes me angry, too.
But there have been many rays of sunshine in Baltimore as well. The good news is there, if you know where to look. Here are some examples.
Volunteers help clean up debris from a CVS pharmacy that was set on fire yesterday during rioting after the funeral of Freddie Gray, on April 28, 2015, in Baltimore, Maryland. (Photo by Andrew Burton/Getty Images)
I’m sad to report that the man known around Haverhill as “Crazy Mike” has died. He was found in some bushes along the Main Street side of Pentucket Bank’s Merrimack Street branch Monday morning.
Police aren’t confirming his identity pending an investigation, but yesterday I touched base with his brother, who confirmed it was him.
Mood music:
I connected with his brother on Facebook a couple years ago, after I wrote some posts criticizing some fellow Haverhill residents for making fun of a mentally ill man. People called him Crazy Mike because as he wandered the streets, he was given to outbursts. But few truly understood or knew him beyond that. Some jerks created a Facebook page dedicated to making fun of the man, whose real name was Michael Nicoloro.
Fortunately, it was taken down after a wave of complaints.
There’s been a lot of debate and speculation regarding Mike’s mental state and how he got that way. Some say it was from his experiences while serving in Vietnam. Others claimed that he’s not a veteran and that he simply chose to live the way he did.
His relatives have confirmed that he was in Vietnam and that he came back with the scars of war. I’m more inclined to believe his relatives than some of the jerks who have written me to dispute the history.
Mike was mentally ill. Regardless of how he got that way, it was sad to see people make fun of him.
In fairness, I think the jerks were a minority. I’ve gotten an avalanche of comments from readers since I started writing about him, and the vast majority of them defended Mike. This one is a good example:
RIP Michael… Thank you for your military service to our country. It’s a shame you were so misunderstood. It’s a shame so many ignorant people know nothing of mental illness. Walk a mile in his shoes folks. Yes he frightened some people but he could not help himself. He was ill. I hope none of you who judge him so harshly ever have to know the confusion, fear & scorn he must have felt all these years. He joined the military a handsome intelligent sane young man & returned a different man. Mental illness is thought to be a biochemical imbalance that causes structural & electrical changes in the brain. Extreme stress can trigger it or contribute to its severity. Why is it so hard for people to empathize?
In announcing Mike’s death, his brother posted a photo on Facebook that should put questions about the man’s military service to rest. It shows a young, strong man in uniform with a look of determination.
The Harry Chapin song “Cat’s in the Cradle” has been running through my head a lot. I’ve been taking my work to my father’s hospice room, which is a reversal of roles. It used to be that I hung out while my father worked.
Mood music:
My childhood doesn’t fit the song 100 percent. Truth is I was around my dad a lot. But we may as well been in separate places, because he was always on the phone with customers and employees. He loved us kids and did everything he could for us, but that meant the business was always with us–at the dinner table, on vacations, and so on.
My son turned ten just the other day
He said, “Thanks for the ball, Dad, come on let’s play
Can you teach me to throw?” I said, “Not today,
I got a lot to do.” He said, “That’s ok.”
And he walked away, but his smile never dimmed,
Said, “I’m gonna be like him, yeah.
You know I’m gonna be like him.”
There was a time when I resented it, but I don’t anymore. It was a different world when I was a boy. Many careers today can be carried out wherever there’s Internet access. I can work from home and get to my children’s school events. I can run them to their appointments. I can be home with them on snow days and still get all my work done.
It also means I can get work done from my father’s bedside, though there are a lot of interruptions.
For Dad, running a business meant he had to be there much of the time. If the building alarm went off in the middle of the night, he had to go check things out. If it was the weekend, he usually had to go work at shoe shows, much as I work security conferences today. As I entered my teens, he had to travel a lot more.
In recent years he’s been like the father in the song who, after retirement, wants to spend more time with his boy, who is by then an adult, busy with work and kids of his own.
I’ve long since retired, and my son’s moved away.
I called him up just the other day.
I said, “I’d like to see you if you don’t mind.”
He said, “I’d love to, Dad, if I can find the time.
You see, my new job’s a hassle, and the kid’s got the flu,
But it’s sure nice talking to you, Dad.
It’s been sure nice talking to you”
The difference is that Dad’s been sick for a while now, trapped in a failing body. I haven’t spent as much time with him as I would have liked because there are work hassles and kids to shuttle from one activity to the next.
I wonder if Dad’s ever had a moment like the dad in the song:
And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me,
He’d grown up just like me.
My boy was just like me.
Maybe I’ll ask him before his time is up.
My father and older brother visiting my grandfather in rehab. In recent years, my father has been the one in rehab and, now, hospice care.
I found something interesting in a box of art in my father’s office — an oil painting I did when I was 13, and some drawings I did when I was around 15.
I’m guessing 15, because all the drawings capture my love at the time for Motley Crue. Based on the costumes, I’d say these were done around the time of the band’s “Theater of Pain” album, which came out in 1985.
I’ve been spending a lot of time with my father, who is in hospice care. One of the twisted blessings of him being near the end of his life is that he’s opening up more than he ever has. One such conversation goes to show that things you see as a kid don’t always match up with what’s really going on.
Mood music:
Like a lot of families, we’ve hit our financial walls over the years and a few years ago I had to ask my father for help. That was a killer, because I’ve always taken pride in making things work without having to do that. It was humbling.
I’m a lot like the character Quint in JAWS in that I suffer from working-class hero syndrome. One of the many excellent lines in that movie was when Hooper told Quint to knock off the working-class hero crap, after Quint kept picking on Hooper for not getting his hands dirty enough.
In my case, I like to believe that adults should be able to make a living without any help from family and friends. In a financial rut? You figure it out and avoid asking your parents for help at all costs. I’ve looked down on people who have done that in the past. I described one case as someone using their father like a piggy bank.
To me, asking Dad for help always meant failure.
I think some of that attitude comes from the fact that I leaned on my father’s financial assistance a lot in my 20s. When my 1981 Mercury Marquis finally died a painful death at the hands of its abusive driver, I went to Dad and nagged for a new car. I got one — a 1985 Chevy Monte Carlo.
I look back on that sort of thing and realize what a burden that was on my father. When I got married and settled into my 30s, I vowed never to bother my father for money again. I would manage on my own at all costs.
For the most part, we have. I owe most of that fact to Erin, who is far smarter about finances than I am.
So in the room at hospice, Dad and I discussed the delicate balance of paying for the kids’ private school and keeping the mortgage up to date and food on the table. He floored me with this statement:
“I know what it’s like. There were a lot of those situations when you guys were kids,” he said.
What? I always assumed that he was always on top of the family finances and that paying for things was never a problem.
But thinking back on it all, it makes perfect sense. I just think of the medical bills alone the three of us kids wracked up in the 1970s and ’80s. It had to have been staggering, between my multiple hospital stays for Crohn’s Disease, Michael’s asthma treatment and Wendi’s hospitalizations for depression.
My father practically lived at his business, but I always assumed it was because he preferred to be there than at home. I still believe that to a point. But I think a lot of it also had to do with making ends meet in a world gone mad.
Since I always assumed we were well off when I was a kid, my father clearly did a good job of shielding us from the financial ugliness. So I thanked him.
“No problem. I love ya,” he said.
Love you too, Dad.
Me with Dad, Wendi and Michael, Christmas Eve 1982.
I’ve heard much about the blessings of hospice care, but I hadn’t seen it firsthand until now. After four years of illness, my father has decided he’s fought long enough and has chosen hospice care for the endgame.
Mood music:
https://youtu.be/DfStujGaf0E
We visited him Saturday, and he looked and sounded better than he has in a long, long time. He was alert, his talking was clear, and he was smiling the whole time. He’s made his decision and is at peace.
Now we wait for nature to take its course. It could be weeks or months.
I’ve decided to spend a couple days a week working from his bedside. I see no reason to put my work aside, and he would frown upon it. Since I spent much of my childhood hanging around him as he worked, the turnabout seems appropriate.
And while I’m there, I’m going to ask him for stories about the past. I was there for 45 years of it, but I want his unfiltered perspective. I also think he’ll enjoy it.
From left to right: Bill Brenner, Dan Waters, and Sean Marley
![IMG_1509[1]](https://theocddiaries.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/IMG_15091-e1430437346771.jpg)
Me with Dad, Wendi and Michael, Christmas Eve 1982.