Moving forward, but not on.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot. Nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

— Dr. Seuss, The Lorax

According to recent statistics, almost half of adults in the United States (46.4 percent) will experience a mental illness during their lifetime. Almost half…

Reading this statistic was like a punch in my gut. Not because it’s staggering (because it is). Not because the US doesn’t have nearly the medical infrastructure or capacity to accommodate the millions who need help (because it doesn’t). Not because the pain inflicted on a once-healthy person battling a terrible disease brings a snowball of unnecessary shame, guilt and helplessness (because it does). But, because one person, my very own spirited, brilliant, wise, active, business-savvy, dedicated, and faith-filled Dad, became one of those hundreds of millions. And that one changed my life, forever.

Over the past year I’ve fought an inner struggle with conversation (something that, if you know me, I’ve certainly never battled with before). When the unthinkable happens you find yourself having to answer questions with unspeakable words. Shape politically-correct responses that smooth over the rough edges of a jagged and broken circumstance in a calloused and politically-correct world. It’s made me wonder how I had lived in such ignorant bliss with so much brokenness surrounding me. How I had let people pass me by without persistently extending a hand and a heart. It’s not that I had never done so… it’s that I hadn’t done so enough.

After spending 30 years learning from a man who fought fearlessly, cared deeply and gave me so much, yet asked for so little, I find myself asking how he would want my next 30 years to look. He spread his love so selflessly to those around him without abandon and taught me the true meaning of grit. “Flip the switch,” “It’s not the years in your life that count, but the life in your years,” “Never give up, never surrender (his favorite quote from Galaxy Quest),” “Most often, the hard thing is the right thing,” “Don’t store up treasures on earth…”… these quotes filled my childhood. They echo in my head and heart as surely as I feel his spirit here with me, reminding me that I must go on. Even though he no longer could. My unique and wonderful Dad spent the last year of his life in a deep pit of depression and painstaking mental illness, and died by suicide on January 10, 2019. In 30 years, it’s unrivaled as the most difficult day of my life.

In the past year I’ve read stories not unlike his. In fact, they’re frighteningly the same. A bright, contagiously spirited, relentlessly loving individual perhaps loves too much, cares too deeply and gives up so much of himself or herself that they pour themselves out completely. Perhaps it’s their job; tiresome, unending and unrelenting. Perhaps it’s a close family member; ailing and needing extended care that the system can’t offer, keeping the person from life’s daily demands. Perhaps it’s finances; we all are acutely aware that cost of living continues to rise, but there’s only so much time and resource to make up for it. Whatever the circumstance, something breaks the person… and there’s no system in place to properly help. None that can give the right care in the time-sensitive manner that’s necessary to provide real support, anyway.

During the final year of my Dad’s life, we fought to get him timely doctor’s appointments (they were always scheduled weeks out), the right diagnosis (his health declined astronomically in months — a 60-year-old man’s demeanor began to resemble that of an 80-year-old, his walk slowed significantly, his memory disappeared, his communication waned, his executive function all but disappeared), the right treatment plan (the hospital could do very little and the need to get other patients in the door left him with only days of care before he was expedited out with pill bottles in-hand), and the right daily food & supplements (how do you locate the proper regimen for an undetermined diagnosis?). In the end, like all the others, the system failed him. Miserably. His decision in the end was not of sound mind; perhaps very little of the decision was his, after all. Medical regulations put in place to safe-keep personal records kept his family from learning necessary truths. Care facilities ignored details that may have saved his life. Though the desire to end one’s life may universally be considered a choice, I’ve come to believe that many really have little choice (or even the ability to make one, at that). I hold no bitterness or resentment, although it’s taken me some time to wrestle it to the ground. I will always miss the joy-filled days on the water, the deep talks about life’s most difficult questions, business discussions on ethics and proper strategy, and passion-filled football game viewings with riveted critique. I’ll wish he was here when I have kids of my own… and at every meaningful family gathering and holiday, forevermore. But, in a whisper only he could speak, he’s asking me to do something more than wish-away my life and miss-away the big things. To help someone else navigate a broken system and elevate the conversation to a place where changes occur… so someone else can be there for holidays, professional accomplishments, football games, lake days and grandchildren. He would want to give that gift to another, of that I’m certain.

This blog is intended to be a reflection of his care, his concern and his dedication to a worthy cause. It’s time to address the mental illness crisis that exists in our society. It’s time to dig up the roots of stigmatization that have embedded themselves deep and leave so many without hope. When 43.8 million people experience mental illness in any one year, that’s a crisis. Depression is now the leading-cause of disability worldwide, and is a major contributor to the global burden of disease. What’s more? Nearly 60 percent of adults with mental illness didn’t receive mental health services in the previous year. This is not only a global crisis, it’s personal. Given the jarring statistics, it will deeply touch us all… either directly or indirectly. The sheer magnitude of those diagnosed could cripple a society and break down an economy. It’s the startling but very real truth. As a recent article discussing the expansion of mental health care suggests, there really are options:

1. PA’s with mental health training could bolster the workforce and enhance resources, as only 1.3 percent of the 125,000 certified PA’s practicing in the US work in psychiatry;
2. Integrate mental health care with primary care, adding front-line mental health practitioners in general practitioner settings to identify the diagnoses early and provide support under the “collaborative care” umbrella;
3. Add technologically-based tools to help with cognitive behavioral therapy. One estimate notes that untreated mental illness costs the US $225 billion dollars per year, and 217 million days of work per year are lost in the US to mental illness and substance abuse issues. While we may not have the workforce infrastructure, we’re an incredibly innovative society. It’s time we start utilizing our resources properly.

Had these resources been there a year ago, my Dad may still be here today.

I believe opening communication pathways, elevating the conversation and de-stigmatizing mental illness is perhaps an inconvenient, but real, call to us all. My Dad was a beautifully strong, vibrant man. At one time, he was the vice president of international sales and marketing for a widely successful company. He created multiple patents, some of which are still in-use today. He was a business owner. As in the case of any other well-known sickness, his end days were difficult, but they did not destroy the grand moments he shared and the spirited interactions he had through his life. Mental illness is a difficult journey (and one the medical profession still knows little about), but it was very, very real. It’s time we acknowledge it’s pervasiveness, stomp out the stigmatization and get serious about some tangible results.

I’ve grieved, denied, buried and resented my Dad’s death. But now, in honor of his heart, my unshakable experience and my health communication professional background, I believe it’s time to accept and grow. Time to do something. Time to more forward in pursuit of a solution — or series of them — for all those who are struggling here and now. It’s time to address this unending crisis and impending doom. It’s time to move forward out of love, but never move on. It’s in memory of those we love who have passed, that we make the world better for those who are still here… and who are to come. And I know he would want that, too.

I’ll write. I’ll fight. I’ll use whatever communication resources I have to open doors that should have been opened for my Dad nearly a year ago. Welcome to mentalhealthcommatters.com.