Chapter 20: Attempted Suicide

Alcoholism was one of the forces molding and shaping my mother. Mental illness sculpted my stepmother’s personality. She was a classic manic-depressive; her bipolar mood swings were an unending emotional roller coaster ride.

Dory had been one of my father’s students when he was a professor at Ithaca College. She was a natural blonde who had once been a fashion model and she loved the theater as much as he did. She was a happy, loving, and caring person. However, Dory could never stay that way for very long. Within days or weeks, she would become sullen, withdrawn, and suicidal.

Dory and I tried to connect and get along together. I had no history with her and no animosity toward her. When she was in balance, she was an ideal mother. The problem was that she couldn’t stay balanced for long. Forces beyond her reach controlled her mind and her moods.

At the top of her manic-depressive cycle, everything was possible and the world was a bright, shining place. At the bottom of her cycle, nothing was possible and the world was a dark and sinister cavern of despair. She would withdraw to the bedroom and remain in seclusion for days and weeks at a time.

The kaleidoscope of shifting moods became too much for her. One day she gulped down a bottle of barbiturates and a fifth of Johnny Walker. Just before she passed out, she phoned a friend.

It was a blistering hot summer day, and I had sought sanctuary from the oppressive heat by retreating to our air-conditioned living room. I was sitting on the couch watching television when I was startled out of my wits by a tremendous pounding on the front door.

The wall shook as a voice commanded, “Los Angeles Police Department, open up!”

I ran to the door and paused, unsure if I should open it. I shouted through the door, “Who’s there?”

The voice again demanded, “Open up, this is a medical emergency.”

I unlocked the door and was stunned to see a phalanx of police officers and emergency medical technicians. A police sergeant asked, “Is there a woman named Dory living here?”

I nodded in the affirmative and the police sergeant demanded, “Where is she?”

I pointed down the hall to my father’s bedroom. A stream of blue uniforms swarmed into our apartment and disappeared into the bedroom.

The next half hour was a confusing blur of activity that ended when they wheeled Dory out on a gurney. Several EMTs were in attendance. One held an oxygen mask over her face.

As the wave of blue uniforms flowed out of the apartment, a middle-aged police matron edged her way toward me and took my hand. As she led me to the sofa, I could hear the sound of sirens screaming away and fading in the distance.

“Your mother has tried to kill herself,” she told me.

“She is my stepmother,” I corrected.

Then the phone rang. It was my dad checking in.

TRIGGER WARNING