Living in a family falling apart
One cold day in April of 1974, I got a call from my brother Butch. He was on his way over with some “good news.” I watched him arrive in his old blue surfing van, jumping out, he excitedly told me something that altered the course of my life: “I am Jesus Christ.”
Butch explained that as Jesus, he would save us by going into politics. (Interestingly, a commonly held belief in the 21st century.) He planned to rent the convention center and run for state senator of Virginia. There was no need to worry about money, he assured me, as Linda Ronstadt would come and sing her famous song: “When Will I Be Loved.” He further explained that this would make him a ton of money, enough to finance his run for the Senate. And now he was going to rise as Jesus did. Yes, Butch had come to save us all.
He was talking nonsense. What could I say? What could I do?
For some time, Butch had been living far outside the traditional path. His passion for surfing gave his life meaning, direction, and purpose. Butch loved being a teacher and not just an east coast award-winning surfer. Golfing, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and loving women – this was his life. But during our mother’s illness and soon-to-be death, Butch completely changed from being a freedom-loving person to being the commander of our salvation.
Holy cow!
On that fine day in April, when Butch told me that he was a healer and was going to run for political office, it seemed like someone new was inhabiting Butch’s body and mind.
I tried to logically explain that he was not Jesus. He responded by saying, “What’s the matter with you that you don’t see Moses and the burning bush as I do?” Butch got increasingly mad at me as I didn’t agree with him and this scared me.
All of this was way over my head. I was recently divorced with two small children and had no way to understand or deal with someone I loved talking “crazy.” Yet, I too had been delusional, believing my 30-year-old brother was becoming an adult. Only recently, Butch had seemed ready to settle down and maybe marry his Australian girlfriend, Yvonne.
How much weight should I give to Butch falling into a psychotic state after only recently seeing his mother for the first time since he was seven? Was he just in shock? What was going on?
The transformation that Butch was living was such a big change as it forced everyone to deal with the fact that Butch was in big trouble. What was happening to him? How could I relate to him? I had no idea. But I knew that this was not just a bump in the road. This was the beginning of a new way of life.
Who could help me? I turned to Butch’s friends. I thought he would listen to Tommy Casey, a psychologist and the grandson of Edgar Casey, “a real psychic healer.” Butch was willing to talk to Tommy. But Butch wasn’t listening when Tommy said Butch had too much energy and he would not be able to heal people in the state he was in.
Tommy suggested I take Butch to the local psychiatric hospital. I was in shock, and it took a while before I could begin to understand what he was saying: Butch was having an acute psychotic attack.
Taking Butch to a hospital was worrisome because all I knew about psychiatric hospitals was from Ken Kesey’s One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. But there was no Nurse Rachet when we arrived at Tidewater Psychiatric Hospital. After Butch’s diagnosis, he had dinner, and then he easily walked out of the hospital, Against Medical Advice, AMA. They were not equipped to deal with him since they didn’t have a locked ward.
The psychiatrist called me to come in for a meeting, and he gave me a letter explaining that Butch was in a psychotic state and either schizophrenic or bipolar, and a danger to himself and others and needed to be hospitalized. However, the psychiatrist said that Butch could not be held against his will unless he broke a law. So now he was free to leave even though he was a danger to himself and others. What a double bind for me.
There was a disconnect between Butch and what he was doing and how it impacted others while telling us he knew everything! At this time, I felt helpless to do much about how he thought and acted. And now the hospital said I was fully responsible for my brother.
So, I went back to his friends, telling them that Butch had escaped in his blue van. Who knows where he was going but I was hoping he would call to tell us about his healing adventure. I gathered three of his friends and we concocted a plan. One of the guys had access to a drug called Haldol which could help reduce psychotic symptoms and put Butch to sleep.
Our simple plan was to find him, convince him we were coming to listen to his new knowledge, bring his favorite beer, Budweiser, and put the Haldol in it. Then, when he got groggy, we would put him in the car and take him to a hospital with a locked ward.
And sure enough, Butch called me to say that he was miles away from me in Virginia Beach and down in NC where the Good Lord told him he needed to be. Butch said, “If you don’t believe me, just listen to this miracle. The clerk, without knowing who I am, gave me room three, representing the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost!”
Well, I told him, three of his friends were with me, another miracle. His friends were ready to party and be saved. When we got there, Butch welcomed us with open arms and beer cans and we enacted out=r plan.
After a while, as predicted, Butch started getting sleepy from the drug. Two of the guys put him in the back seat of the car. One of the guys drove the blue van and the rest of us went to Norfolk General Hospital, where they were to keep a bed for Butch.
But of course, no such easy luck. By the time we got there, the beds were full. There was no choice. We had to drive him another hour to Bayberry Psychiatric Hospital in Newport News, Virginia. By this time, Butch was wide awake and mad as hell. His friends kept him as calm as possible.
We arrived at about 3:00 a.m., and I was exhausted. It was so dark and scary to drive into the hospital grounds. Maybe Butch had mercy on me as I told him, “If you’re Jesus there are a lot of people to heal in there. This is where you were meant to be to save us all.”
Butch agreed to go, and as I filled out the paperwork, they showed him to his room. On the way back home, I realized that it was not just Butch who was in trouble but all of us who cared about him.
Of course, I knew that Butch was not about to accept his fate in the locked ward of the hospital. And there would be more trouble to come.
As I expected, after he spent a few nights there, I received a not-very-surprising phone call: Butch had escaped. I am not sure how he got out, but the hospital personnel were more upset than I was, which was a good sign. Their feeling responsible to some degree freed me up from feeling so overly responsible.
I wasn’t too worried. I knew Butch would be in touch and tell me that he was on some new grand adventure.
Predictably, Butch called to tell me he had escaped the “kooky” psychiatric world and hitchhiked to his apartment in Virginia Beach where he found his blue van. Now, he was driving down to Florida, the last place we lived with our parents decades ago. Butch was going to have fun and then he would get back to healing the world.
A day later, I got a call from a guy who said, “My friend and I were hitchhiking to Florida and your brother picked us up and you know …. he is off the deep end. I was afraid for my life and his. You need to come and get him.”
I told Butch’s new friends, the helpful hitchhikers, that I would arrive soon. They were still with him. They must have really needed that ride to Daytona Beach. If they had trouble with Butch, I told them to give him a beer so they could drive with Butch more relaxed in the back. I explained to them, “One thing I’ve learned is don’t oppose him.” I told them I would figure out how to get to Florida.
I had no money, and I would have to get my grandfather to pay for the mission. However, when I approached him, he was unsure if it would do any good, as he was tired of “rescuing” people. He had been “rescuing” my mother for 20-plus years and many other family members. There was no way I could do much but beg him for understanding. Ultimately, he could not say no and leave Butch down there. So, he bought the plane tickets I needed, I found babysitters for my kids, and off I went.
The next day, I flew down to Daytona Beach and took a taxi to the Elbow Bar, where I met the two guys who, of course, were standing by the blue van. We talked about them driving the van back to Virginia Beach when they were ready to go home since I was planning to fly back with Butch. They were free to use it while on vacation. That was a good deal for all.
Then pointing to the bar, they looked at me and said, “Butch is in there.” As I walked into the packed club, Butch spied me. I was full of trepidation and fear. Butch was looking happy, not one bit mad. Relief, for a moment.
Butch walks over, beer in his hand, suntanned and kind of handsome in his surfing outfit. Giving me a big hug, he looks at me and says: “I am so glad to see you. I just didn’t know what to do with my last dollar. What should I do? Do you think I should spend it on my last pack of cigarettes? Or my last beer? Or should I flush the damn dollar down the toilet?”
At that moment, I knew NOT to tell him what to do. I told Butch, “You can decide. It’s your dollar.” He turned and walked into the crowd. A few minutes later, Butch came out smiling from ear to ear. “I decided to flush it,” he said.
Butch was not crazy about the idea that he would fly back to Virginia Beach, with his sister to boot. But the cold facts were that he had flushed his last dollar down the toilet, and I was the only person with money.
My brother and I: The plane ride, a velvet Jesus, and Motel 6 at midnight
The hitchhiking guys drove us to the airport and said, “Goodluck mate!” Sitting in the comfortable seat on the plane, I was reflecting on how this has not been too worrisome of an adventure. The only real problem arose around the interaction surrounding his last dollar, where Buch tried to get me to give him the answers or tell him what to do. I did not take the bait. Not bad for an over-responsible sister!
When I was just about relaxing on the plane, eyes shut, Butch leans over and says, “You are not taking me back to that hospital.”
What was I going to say?
I started with logic and my best reasoning: “Butch, no one knows what to do. The doctors say you need medication. And they need to look after you to ensure that the medicine you get is the right one.”
That was a mistake. And yes, we had a small fight. I cried. Well, you get the idea.
Meanwhile, our flight was getting ready to land in Atlanta and we had to go to a new gate and board another plane. This transfer from one plane to another posed a big risk, as he could escape again. “Lord, have mercy on me,” I thought. “OK, let’s see what happens.”
Butch was happy to leave the first plane. I had his ticket for the next one to Wilmington, North Carolina, and another for the journey to Norfolk, Virginia.
Butch would have none of it. He was not going to a hospital. “See you,” he says, as I saw Butch fade into the crowd. What would I do now? I decided there was nothing to do but carry on, so I went down to the next gate. As time ticked by, I got more upset as my brother had not reappeared. Seeing a policeman, I showed him the letter from the hospital that I mentioned earlier in this story, and I asked if he could please help me find Butch to get him on the plane.
Just as I was getting into telling this poor man about my problem, Butch jumped out from behind a pillar. “I am here, ha, ha, ha, I tricked you.”
Lucky me.
We boarded the plane, where once again Butch was telling me. “NO HOSPITAL!”
By the time the plane landed in North Carolina, I knew I was in trouble. Butch had gotten increasingly agitated. I showed the flight attendant the famous letter from the psychiatrist and asked if they could keep Butch on the plane. I knew there was a high possibility that he would not reboard for the final leg of the trip. She talked to the pilot, and he said, “no.” Back then, the possibility of trying to make others behave on planes was not allowed.
Butch was free and got off first and I ran to try to catch up with him when the security guard stopped me. “That man told me that you were chasing him, and he wants you to stop harassing him.” So, again, I pulled the letter out of my pocketbook. “Oh my gosh,” he says, “Let’s go find him.” And so, we both ran around looking everywhere.
The policeman returned to the front desk telling me that Butch had climbed out of the bathroom window. Just then, Butch comes wandering back into the airport lounge smiling. “The plane left,” he said. Now what? How was I to get Butch out of North Carolina? How was I to get him to the hospital? I was sure this was the answer to my problems. Possibly, I had begun to be resigned to the probability that this was a false hope. But how was I or anyone to know what to do with Butch?
I asked about another plane, but no other ones were scheduled for Norfolk that day. “How about renting a car?” Butch asked. I was a bit hesitant, as that would be four hours in the car with Butch, but there was no other option. So, I secured a rental, and we were on our way to the next adventure.
Butch was in the passenger seat talking about God. By this time, he had read several passages of the Bible and would repeat them to me. First thing you know; I had run the car up on the sidewalk by a 7-11. Clearly, I was a wreck, so Butch said “I am going to drive.” I gave in as he seemed more capable of driving than I was at this point.
Before we took off, Butch asked me for 5 dollars and went into the 7-11 and got some beer. I started to get upset. “Relax,” he said, Butch was happy and in charge. “The sun is shining. See”, he said, “that’s a sign that God loves me.” So I quickly realized that I needed to pray too – that my children would not miss their mother too much. But Butch reassured me that all was well.
After a couple of hours of driving, Butch stopped at a gas station. Besides gas and cokes there was a man selling paintings of Jesus on velvet. Butch insisted that I buy one for him. I gave up again, and once more Butch steamrolled over me. What harm would giving in do?
Maybe Jesus would help me get him to the hospital? We got back on the road with Jesus in the trunk. All was good. The afternoon sun was bright. When suddenly, Butch pulled the car over.
A hitchhiker was standing on the road with his backpack. The man ran over and jumped in the back seat. He said he wanted to go about 30 minutes down the road to his home. I was already feeling sorry for this guy who was getting into the Butch mix.
Butch asked, “Do you believe in God and Jesus Christ?” “Yes,” he responded to Butch. The hitchhiker said he was a Christian and carrying his Bible.
Well, Butch quoted his favorite Biblical passage and began to tell him a few secrets of the universe. But most of his thinking at the time, since he had no money, was to repeat this one verse on and on: “Philippians 4:19 says, ‘My God shall supply all your need according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus. God is our all-powerful, all-compassionate, all-wise, and all-loving heavenly Father.’” “You never have to worry about money or anything,” Butch said.” Look at me,” he said.
Butch pulled over and let him out near his home. I imagine that this was the longest 30-minute drive and he appeared to be eager to get out of the car.
In parting the guy says, “Please take my Bible with you.” He looked at me and said, “There are other passages in the Bible.” To Butch, this was even more proof that he was on the right path, and I, was a doubting Thomas.
As evening approached, we were in Chesapeake, Virginia, and I was driving while Butch was nodding off after finishing his last beer. I hoped he would not notice that I was taking the road to the psychiatric hospital in Newport News instead of Virginia Beach. But he could probably sense my apprehension.
Of course, he did notice, and when I took that fateful turn, he woke up and asked where we were. There was a moment of disbelief as he saw the sign for Newport News rush by. Butch was hopping mad. There was a short argument about my view and his view of the situation. For myself, I was too scared to go against the authority that wrote the letter claiming he was a danger to himself and others.
Butch got mad and took the keys out of the car while I was driving. Without the keys, the car had no power, but somehow, I managed to steer the car to the side of the road. Darkness had descended, but there to the east was the light of a motel. I told Butch I had had enough and would get the guy at the motel and tell the police that he was taking my velvet, Jesus. In the back of my mind, I was aware that I needed a witness to see Butch push me, as the police would not help me if it was just about his “acting crazy.” He had to break a law.
I walked towards the lights of Motel 6 where I explained to the night clerk what was happening. The fellow there looked skeptical, but I showed him the infamous letter. Finally, after reading it, he was willing to call the police.
When we returned to the car, Butch was very busy trying to get the picture of the Velvet Jesus out of the trunk. I said that it was my Velvet Jesus. I had paid for it after all. And of course, as predicted, Butch pushed me away from the Velvet Jesus. Then Butch grabbed the painting and headed out into the woods.
When the police came, they were very interested in what Butch did that was wrong. Pushing his sister bothered them more than the letter saying Butch was a danger to himself or others.
When they left the scene to find him, I looked around but could not locate the car keys. Had Butch taken them? I called the rental company, and according to them, I had insurance, and they would send a tow truck. They acted like this happened all the time. But my world had changed. Thinking as little as possible, I rode back to my house in the tow truck. The driver was kind and said nothing.
The next morning, the police called to say they had Butch in custody. They reported that he was running around naked in the woods when they found him. There was no sign of the Velvet Jesus. They also notified me that Butch would have a trial in two days. I asked if they could take him to a hospital. They said, “No, not without him appearing in court, and then a judge will decide. The question before the judge will be whether he needs jail time or a psychiatric hospital.”
Luckily, I had a good friend, Richard Glasser, who was a well-known lawyer in the community. I called him and he said not to worry. Richard usually dealt with asbestos cases, but he would do this as a favor, no charge. On that fateful day, Richard and I met at the courthouse and waited for the doors to open.
Walking down the hall, I saw Butch coming toward us. Butch saw my fear and he called out loudly, “There is Judas. Look what you have done, Judas!” He held his chained arms over his head. No one reacted. It was like the people in the courtroom had seen Jesus and Judas daily.
The judge was not impressed with Butch’s claim to be the Messiah. Putting on his glasses, he read the incriminating letter from the psychiatrist, saying that Butch was a danger to himself and others. Then the judge asked Butch a couple of questions, like where he would live and work. The answers were muddled, with the overall theme God takes care of his son. Moreover, his sister was Judas.
The judge took the gavel, and in the flash of an eye, he looks at Butch and said: “You, Mr. Maloney, will be confined to Bayberry Psychiatric Hospital, in a locked ward, for the next 30 days.”
Bam!
The gavel came down, and that same day our mother died.