Sisters Memories of Patrick

I don't want this to be about what was wrong with my brother.  It's true, it often seemed that something wasn't “right” with him. Patrick struggled to feel accepted, worthy, comfortable in his skin.  While most of the time he had a generous spirit, a naive zest, and a playful glee, he also seemed troubled and to ignore that would be a lie to his legacy.

 

Patrick Daniel was born April 28, 1959.  He was the fourth child; I recall my parents musing over the irony that their final child was conceived after some sort of Christian Family Planning meeting. Ha ha, a surprise. Our family of 6 lived in an old Victorian frame house at 325 Oak Street, in Park Ridge. Baby Patrick had three siblings: two older brothers, 5 and 6 years older and myself the only girl, 18-monthes his senior.   

I think we had a pretty normal early childhood. Our mother stayed home with us, our father commuted by train to work everyday, and summers held promise of vacations to the Northwoods.

One of my earliest recollections of Patrick was playing "deep sea divers”; we were pajama-clad toddlers propelling ourselves on our bellies across the slick vinyl floor in the bedroom at 325 Oak Street.   Thinking back to the early days on Oak Street I recall him daring to slide head first down the slide on the swing set. And he ate the little red berries from the shrub, when we knew it was forbidden. My fearless little brother mastered riding the 2-wheel bike faster than I did. Then there was the time he used my baton to bash in the aluminum roof on my dollhouse. Isn't it funny how my memories are cued into the “daring” characteristics of my sibling? He knew how to get my attention from an early age.

I always felt a simpatico for Patrick. I cried when he cried. I felt when he felt. I remember one summer evening when my father woke us telling us a tornado warning meant we must take shelter in the basement. Dad went to rouse Patrick from his room and Patrick's response was to cry in fear. I was the next stop, and I recall Dad's dismay when instead of comforting Patrick, I broke into tears with him. The family took pillows and headed for the basement for a long night around the black and white RCA Television “set” as the storms shook the elms in our yard.

The four siblings went to St Paul of the Cross grammar school. I recall walking the long way through town with Patrick while the older brothers “cut the tracks” taking a short cut over Chicago and Northwestern commuter tracks. My recollections were of the pesky little brother that chased girls, and “married” them with his ID bracelets. Patrick stood out in class on non-uniform days wearing trendy clothes, like a bright yellow button-down with orange polka dots. I was somewhat aware that Patrick was frequently “in trouble”, acting up in the class, not doing his work.

In 1966 my parents purchased a sliver of land at 512 North Prospect and hired an architect to plan a 5 bedroom home. We sold the old Victorian to the Cavanaughs before our new home was complete. Dad's friend John Carlson, a divorcee invited us to share his large house at 710 South Washington during the interim. I recall move-in day when the two older brothers were exploring our new quarters. The had to “test” Mr. Carlson's laundry chute… bigger than the one on Oak Street… by lowering 6 year old Patrick through it from the first floor to the basement.

Looking back, I now know that Patrick was a hyperactive child. My memories of living on South Washington include the invention of the “Super Ball”, a high bouncing rubber ball. Patrick would terrorize me inside the enclosed garage by slamming that Superball into a ricocheting frenzy. Who in their right mind would give a hyperactive kid a Superball?

In the mid 60's the parochial classrooms were crammed with students, a result of the baby boom. There were frequent parent teacher conferences over Patrick's “acting out” behaviors, so as soon as we were settled in the new house my parents move Patrick to the smaller classrooms that the Public Schools offered. He started at Field School in fourth grade. I was relieved, as my job had been walking with Patrick to St Paul and I felt he intruded on my friendships. By age ten I frequently felt suffocated by Patricks bold attention-grabbing antics. He seemed hell-bent on either shocking you with his bravado or impressing you with his possessions.

A couple of vivid memories of the late 60's come to mind. First, was Patrick's first allergic reaction. My parents were eating at the Country Club when Bill called in a panic… Patrick couldn't breath. An allergic reaction had caused him to swell up so much that his eyelashes turned in to scratch his eyes and his breathing passage was narrowing. The resulting testing proved allergies to Shellfish, Tylenol, and bee stings.

I also recall an incident one summer while swimming at the PRCC pool. We had an air mattress along the edge of the pool and were running and diving OVER it into the water. (Why the lifeguard allowed this, is a puzzle). I was exiting the pool when Patrick took his turn. His feet slipped on the wet pavement and he dove head first into the concrete “curb” at the edge of the pool. I recall it vividly, as I was a few feet from where his head hit. He sat up in a stupor, no tears, no cries and I watched in horror as his forehead swelled in an array of blues and purples.

I have always wondered about the repercussions of this head injury, a fairly severe blow.

His choice of a drum set again seems telling for a hyperactive child. He had a natural talent, took lessons but didn't have the discipline to practice. Still, he played well for his age. He was so happy when he was slamming away on the skins! He was proud of a used Rogers set my parents bought for him. Older brother Bill was a dedicated musician and our basement had become a haven for band practice and teenage hang out. Pre-pubescent Patrick was drawn like a moth to flames to this source of attention. He was a puppet to them, performing, daring, and amusing the older boys with his antics. I suspect this was his first experimentation with Alcohol and cigarettes.

As Patrick entered his teens his mischief making escalated. I don't believe he was involved in teasing or hurting others, not that kind of mischief. There was an incident where he and a neighbor broke into the gym at the PR School for Girls and made a mess. There were incidents of taking the car out before he was licensed, and underage drinking. And there were friends that he didn't bring by the house.

After public schools through Jr High he chose Loyola Academy for High School. I think he was attracted by the glamour of Loyola, it was fancier than Notre Dame where Stephen was going. But Loyola was not easy for Patrick. He was not happy there and I recall him telling me, “I don't want to go there anymore so I'm going to fail.” By the end of the semester he had flunked out.

At Notre Dame too he floundered with grades. I was astounded when he failed “Religion”; what is difficult about that? He had to re-take it in summer school. During that summer Patrick worked at Sunbeam Appliance Service Company, he had great skill in knowing how things worked and problem solving repairs.

An older friend, Kurt Weber tutored him through summer school. He asserted that Patrick was bright, but couldn't focus on reading. I often ponder where the disabilities lied. Psychiatric testing as an adult concurred that he had an attention deficit disorder; I think it is safe to add “with hyperactivity”. But was he also dyslexic? Could today's educators offer remediation that would have rescued his self-esteem?

I query whether his struggles with learning fostered a defense mechanism of being the “class clown” that snowballed into the full-blown depression that crippled him in later life.

I remember distinctly Mom asserting she would not allow him his drivers' license until he had passing grades. Then mid-summer she recanted, saying he needed was the responsibility. No doubt this inconsistency in discipline was a testament to how frustrating it was to reach Patrick.

Then there was his relationship with Dad. Patrick was the most athletic of the siblings, and Dad signed up to help coach the little league hockey, even sent him to some hockey camp in Ontario one summer. But natural talent only took him so far. He was difficult to coach, didn't follow directions. On the hockey team Patrick seemed to care most about hot dog shots and hogging the puck, no team play.

This nature irked our father to no end. They mixed like oil and vinegar, and soon Dad was on Patrick's case for his inconsiderate messes, his wastefulness and materialistic values. His values were so different than his siblings; he didn't want to discuss worldly thigns, didn't thirst to learn or travel. Patrick was turned on by what he believed meant status: how fast it goes, how much it costs, how cool it made him look. There were ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes, an opened soda with two sips gone then abandoned, the car radio left at full volume, the gas tank left on empty. Oh Patrick! And the more upset and distanced Dad became with him, the harder Mom dug in with protective and enabling behaviors.

Patrick was not college bound. That was obvious. I had moved to Texas in 1975 for college, and have maintained residency. When Mom and Dad split up in ‘76 Patrick wound up at Mom's condo at Windsor Mall. My homecomings were mixed with glee to see the brother I felt most close to, yet disdain that he seemed so goalless, so lost.

He floundered for a couple years, and took a couple classes at Oakton community college. For a brief time in early 1981 he decided to move in with me in Texas. I had a house with 2 other friends but there was a room in the garage where he'd stay, and he'd use my bike for transportation. He flew down and when we picked him up at the airport he was sloppy drunk. He claimed that he “lost” his money at the airport, and that the plane was delayed so there were free drinks. I suspect he was fleeing a drug debt in Chicago and I was his safe harbor. He did get a job at a printer in Garland, but he was a horrible house mate, left cigarette burns in furniture and kept horrible hours, coming home with girls at all hours. When I got married in April there was no question that he'd return to Chicago with the family that visited.

Then Pat worked as a junior lab technician for WW Grainger until 82. He called me, so proud that he was being respected for his skills. He was teaching things to peers who had college degrees. I think this is the job he was fired from for super gluing a telephone receiver to the cradle.

So, he painted houses with Gary Ryan for the next 5 years. There was always a tale of fantastically wealthy homes he had seen, and shenanigans he and Gary would get into. Patrick loved to tell the tale of gymnast Gary balancing himself on one hand from a parking meter. They worked hard together, and partied hard as well. In the meantime Patrick lived at home on the far end of Mom's condo where they both enabled each other and denied for each other.

Then came Kim. Kim was raised by an alcoholic mother and isn't it funny how they are attracted to like kind? She was beautiful, made an awesome homemade pizza, and her eyes lit up at all of Patrick's jokes. He was on top of the world. When she was by his side he had it all. They were married July 7, 1985(?) and moved into a condo Mom bought on Touhy Avenue with a Sheltie named Regal. He had a reason to live and to prove it he finally sobered up. I wish I could document his rehab experience, I believe there was a 30 day program that turned him around. It taught him the “tools” and started him on the 12 step program. It was indeed a rebirth. He was a regular at some Westpark AA meetings.

In April of 87 he got a “real job” again. MPC Products in Niles. This was another high tech job, which included testing brushless motors and linear actuators and Thermotron test chambers. The following January he went to work with Knight Protective Industries. It was sales and installation of alarm systems and he excelled making top regional salesman the month of August '88 and top national sales in September '88.

The following February he got another dream job as a lab technician for ITT Bell & Gossett in Morton Grove. When Mom died on '90 he bought a big house in Buffalo Grove. He had a “show vehicle” (help me here someone who paid attention)… some big oversized Blazer that he polished to a showroom shine and entered in competitions. When Patrick was sober he excelled. He was obsessively neat, fussed because Kim wouldn't put the coupons in the right kitchen drawer. He had huge pride in his lovely yard. At one family gathering we were entertained by lobbing water balloons over his house to the street in front with a three man gigantic sling shot.

As happy as Patrick seemed, Kim was not. When their marriage failed he was in despair. His drinking resumed, and he sold the house and squandered his money on a “cigarette” boat on the Fox River. There were several years that he lost in a stupor… his possessions went either to someone he owed in debt or were auctioned for unpaid storage fees. At some point he lost his driving privileges, I'm not sure when or what exact incident caused this. But it was necessary.

I may be losing the order here, but there was another major rehab. He lived in Des Plaines and worked at Dart Graphics and became a regular at the Des Plaines AA meetings. I've lost the names of the sponsors who meant life to him, but my gratitude is not lost. My conversations with Patrick were a chore. He was so self-focused and involved with his own struggle that he didn't know how to take interest in a sister and her family and her interests. My purpose in his life was to offer love and support, but sadly I could not expect him to reciprocate at the same level.

At the end of the 90's Patrick did yet another backslide. For some reason this was different. He went to Dad for help. I am happy they reconciled but it was so unfortunate that Dad took him in during such a treacherously devastating episode of his life. For 2 years there was a string of ER de-toxes and disgusting binges. How Dad fared this I don't know. Dad finally hired some expensive ex-army sergeant shrink in 1999 with whom Patrick met on a weekly basis. Dr. Jourdain called me looking for answers. He felt Patrick was harboring a great shame, a grotesque secret that crippled his psyche and was the cause for his depression. The only thing I could suggest was that there had been several accidents involving intoxicated driving. Could he have believed he had hurt someone? Dr. Jourdain made no progress, admitting Patrick was a hard nut to crack.

Then Dad decided to pull in the big guns. He was accepted at Hazeltden in Minnesota. They sent a list of Patricks medications for back pain (injury from a car wreck) but when Patrick arrived he left in a huff because they confiscated his meds.

A week later Dad had him enrolled in Sober Living in L.A. Patrick said this program was different in that its primary focus was the DEPRESSION not the alcohol use. He made rapid progress and was soon sounded the happiest I had heard him in years.

He learned to call me and ask about ME, about my kids, my life. He finally moved into a halfway house and got a job at an electrical plant. They gave him quick promotions when he showed his abilities. The guys loved him and called him “Chicago”. He was productive and happy. He'd call me from Oxnard where he was eating his lunch on a park bench over looking the Pacific Ocean. He'd rave about the beauty of the sun shining on this scenery. Patrick? Noticing beauty in something that didn't have a gearbox and price tag, this was a change!

He seemed happy as can be until something snapped. His back. He was on the job trying to loosen some giant bolt when he broke a lower vertebra.

The next two years of his life were a spiral of unfortunate blunders. He consulted an attorney who convinced him he had a case for worker's compensation (or something) against his employer, who had counter claimed that he had pre-existing back problems (which he did). He endured back surgery during which a titanium fixture placed in his spine. But the screws poked through and touched nerves and then pain management became an issue. He was sent to doctors for evaluations and different programs for the pain. He said Private Investigators from the insurance company spied on him to try to catch him “not disabled”. I still don't understand why there were no unemployment benefits for him. Dad was supporting him with monthly checks that he paid rent to Mark, his roommate who also bought their food. Patrick was fueled by hopeful banter from the attorneys in California. One day he'd win his suit and pay them, and repay Dad, and have enough left to buy a house and go back to school to retrain for a new job.

In June 02 Dad had a massive stroke following heart surgery and Patrick's goal was to get well enough to come home and be dad's caretaker. But he was sold on believing that he had to remain in California for the payoff to occur. He had Cortizone treatments when the pain became intense, took Vicadin for the pain in between.

In August 03 we had been called when Dad suffered a pulmonary embolism (blood clot to lung) and Kerry and I made the 20 hour drive from Houston. I don't think Patrick knew about this, we didn't upset Patrick when we knew it would frustrate him for not being able to act. Dad pulled through and we visited him in ICU. When we returned to his condo Bill had left several impatient messages for us to call at once.

Bills urgent news was that his roommate had found Patrick dead in his bed when he came home from work. He found Patrick with the TV was on, he had a bowl of ice cream melted in his lap and he was slumped over. There was a bottle of Vodka that allegedly he had hired a cab driver to purchase for him. And toxicology report from the autopsy found an overdose of Vicadin in his blood. His death was ruled accidental.

We never told Dad; we agreed that he was in no condition to mourn. He passed away 6 weeks later.

We gathered with friends and family the day after Dad's funeral and read the Serenity Prayer at Mom's grave in Park Ridge. We scattered his ashes there. And the rest of his cremains are buried next to Dad on Gross Point Road.

So that is my kid brother Patrick's story. Funny, I never stopped thinking of him as a child. They say that the disease of alcoholism does that to you, he stopped growing up.

I guess as a sister I will always be haunted as to whether somehow his story could have had a happier ending. I'll continue to grapple with the understanding of his disabling depression. How much of his life was his volition or his fate, I'll never sort out. I saw glimmers of a happy, productive man in his life. And those are the memories I cherish most… right up there with his infamous chain saw imitation!