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THE BRIDGEWATER-SOMERVILLE CONNECTION
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T he Man Who Brought Her to the Party By: Ellyn Mantell My sister was whirling around the room with the man who brought her to the party! She had watched him dance with her sisters...I, the older one because he had taught me to dance. And Mindy, the youngest one, because nothing would stop her from get- ting the attention she craved! But it was HER party, and he finally acknowledged how lovely she had become! As she put her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder, he asked her if she “danced with all the men like this?” “No,” my beau- tiful sister responded, “no, Daddy, just you!” The party was for Michele’s high school graduation, which he had missed the night before, like so many milestones. The night was bittersweet. I was angry with him for not attending this most important night in my sister’s life, and I was equally angry at myself for expecting anything different. In fact, if the truth be told, I believe that most of our young lives were far more bitter than sweet...mental illness has a way of doing that to a family. While Michele was dancing with my father, an exquisite experience for her in its unique- ness, he picked up from the floor and handed her a “lucky dime.” They looked so happy, Michele adored being the star of the night, enjoyed being the one in his arms. Our father died that weekend, an unexpected death dealt him by a massive stroke or heart attack at only 45 years old...who could have anticipated that Michele’s high school graduation weekend would end with his funeral? We sobbed, and I put my arms around both of my younger sisters. Michele pulled the dime from the pocket of her black and white striped dress that had brought her so much happiness when she wore it just a few nights before. “This is all I have of him,” she quietly uttered. He lived with bipolar disorder and the fallout was our “normal.” Our dad slept away his days, nights and sometimes, weeks. If his car was in the driveway after school, we had to enter quietly, no friends allowed. Television had shown fathers who worked, came home, hugged their children, kissed their wives, sat at dinner and shared their lives; I assumed our lives weren’t really worth sharing! What we did learn was a script, and we were very skilled at playing our roles. We moved from one episode of depression, followed by a period of incredible energy, fol- lowed by another period of depression. We never knew exactly what would set off our dad, until it was too late. I remember my mom, sisters and I dressing for a family cir- cle meeting, so excited about seeing our relatives, waiting for dad to come down the stairs. My mom was stunning, and he had to be proud to be with her; we were in their orbit, glowing with the probability of a fun day. Daddy thought one of us said some- thing silly, told us to behave, we looked at each other with fear and admonish- ment...don’t say a word, eyes straight ahead. But it was too late. He had made his decision...we were not going for a festive day; he went to bed, for nearly a week. Yet when he was happy, and enthused, he was the most engaging, delightful and charismatic man! Everyone’s friend, he told a joke with panache and created relation- ships with the most discerning people. It was not unusual for him to make pancakes at 3:00 in the morning, blowing his trumpet to awaken us! He was incredible, and we loved, adored, and worshipped that man...until the next time when he could be that man no longer. Our dad had mood swings that cycled ever more frequently over the years. At the end of his young life, they were about two weeks apart, with him rising and falling con- sistently. In fact, the only consistent in our home was his cycle. There was no medica- tion or even a diagnosis at the time. In truth, who would have made the diagnosis? It was our secret, and we were trapped. I tell you this because Michele and I were talking about the dimes she has collected over the years since his death in 1969. We believe he is telling us he loves us. It was difficult to feel loved in his home, but if he was treated, if he was free to parent, to protect and guide us, he would not have missed Michele’s graduation, he would have taken us to that family meeting and enjoyed our childhood, and we would have lived a very “normal” life. Instead, we wept more tears than the dimes Michele will ever find, sought countless ways to survive our misery, felt alone and different...and yet, we had each other, and even mental illness could not steal that from us! Follow Us On Instagram to See Who’s Making Community “Connections”! @Connectionmag www.theconnectionsnj.com