When the Laughter Fades

B.L. Ramsey

“Does Job fear God for nothing?” Satan replied. “Have you not put a hedge around him and his household and everything he has? You have blessed the work of his hands, so that his flocks and herds are spread throughout the land. - Job 1:9-10

I have this vivid memory of riding in the passenger seat of my father’s silver F-150 pickup truck when I was five years old. It had maroon cloth seats that matched the pinstripes running down both sides of the bed, but the upholstery had begun to deteriorate from years of wear, and that summer afternoon, the pilling fabric made my legs itch. My sun-bleached hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, one that my mother would not have let me wear anywhere other than to the fishing hole with my dad. The fishing poles bobbed up and down in the back of the truck with every bump or pothole we hit—the truck’s suspension needed some work—and a constant rattle, clink, jingle of jigs, hooks, spinners, bobbers, and weights permeated the cab as the radio played.

“Britt, it’s The Boss!”

My dad was obsessed with Bruce Springsteen in those days; actually, I don’t really know if that has changed, but on that day, he mustered his best gravelly baritone and sang:

“Born in the U.S.A.! I was. . .born in the U.S.A.! Hey, hey!”

The “hey, heys” weren’t part of the lyrics, but that’s still how I sing the song because that’s how my dad sang it to me as a little girl. I don’t remember how many fish we caught that day, or if we caught any at all, but I remember nodding my head to every drum beat of “Born in the U.S.A.” in the passenger side of my father’s pickup, imitating his inflection—drawing out booooorrnnn and shouting hey, hey with my fists pumping the air. This is one of the first memories I have of feeling pure, unadulterated joy. Most of my early memories of my father follow this same pattern—fun, happiness, laughter. He was one of the funniest people I knew back then; in fact, his humor would sometimes embarrass my mother who has forever been straight-laced and proper, but I didn’t really care what she thought when my dad was trying to be funny; I always laughed. My senior year in high school, though, the laughter began to fade.

“But now stretch out your hand and strike everything he has, and he will surely curse you to your face.” - Job 1:11

In the days and weeks leading up to the incident, my father had begun to sleep more often. Though he worked swing shift for a local coal company and my sister and I expected not to see our dad for two weeks at a time—he would be asleep when we left for school and would be underground by the time we returned home each afternoon—this sleep was different. He had begun to lie in bed for hours, even while on day shift. My mother tried to explain it away.

“Oh, your Dad’s just tired. His job is hard work—don’t worry too much about him. I’m sure things will get better soon.”

But what she didn’t know was that I had heard their hushed conversations, the ones they had late at night when they thought I was in bed, the ones that even a teenager should not have been privy to. On one such night, their conversation went something like this:

“I don’t know what to do!” I heard my father half-scream through sobs.

“Derek, we’ll get through this. You can handle this.”

“But you don’t understand! I can’t make them stop! They tell me I don’t want to live, that I should just end it. I’m afraid of what I’ll do—to myself, to you, to the girls. Oh, what am I going to do?” His voice trailed off, and I assume he buried his head in his hands because his sobs were muffled. I didn’t hear my mother’s reply.

It’s a strange feeling to be afraid of your protector, but at that point, I was afraid—afraid of what was happening to my father, afraid of how our lives were changing, afraid of what I would come home to each afternoon. One day I arrived home, and my grandfather was there; he was removing all the guns from our home. He explained that he was just going to “hold ‘em for Dad for a while.” I was relieved.

“Then Job arose, tore his robe, and shaved his head.” - Job 1:20

The day of the incident was typical in most respects. I came home from school, plopped on the couch, and tore into a bag of Lay’s potato chips. Dad actually seemed to be a bit better in the days leading up to that one; he wasn’t sleeping as often, and he smiled a little more, but he no longer told jokes or sang songs at the top of his lungs. I don’t know that I had talked to either of my parents that afternoon, but I knew they were home. I heard my mother typing on the computer in her office, and my parents’ bedroom door was closed, so I assumed Dad was resting or reading his Bible—it was something he did daily, even through his darkest periods. Although I was oblivious to it, my mother must have walked out of her office and into the bathroom that adjoined my parents’ bedroom. I did, however, hear her scream.

“Derek, what have you done?!”

Though I was afraid of what I might find, I ran. Stumbling over tennis shoes left on the floor, I ran. Worried that my father might be dead, I still ran. I stopped when I saw my mother’s face. Tears welled in her eyes as she escorted my father to their bedroom. A crisp, white towel covered his head, and I could barely make out the blood that had begun to soak through. It began to trickle down his face and mix with his tears as he stared blankly forward, not speaking to anyone even as my mother threw a barrage of questions in his direction.

My father had been devout in his faith for decades, and when he could no longer control the voices in his head, I think he truly believed that his only way out, the only way for God to heal him, was to approach his plight like Job.

I just stood there staring at my dad who continued to stare at the wall—a statue. What I would have given to be a statue in that moment, to spend the day in a beautiful park in the springtime with a warm wind blowing by and daffodils dancing at my feet. Instead, I was frozen in a nightmare, and I still didn’t even quite understand what had happened. My father broke his silence and interrupted my mother’s interrogation.

“I didn’t know what else to do! It’s what Job did!”

“But you think this—”

“Jamie, I’m dying inside. I can’t go on like this any longer.”

“But—”

“But what? This was my last resort, and if this doesn’t work, I don’t know what will.” I finally asked what happened because that interaction did not clear up my confusion. “Your dad took a straight razor to his head. I guess he believes that God will heal him now. I don’t know. What are we going to do?” My mom was looking at me now. Her words had pleading in them. Was she asking me or God what we were going to do? I still don’t know, but I didn’t answer her.

I sat down on the bed and held my dad’s hand.

“Then they [his friends] sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was.” - Job 2: 13

My mother spent the next several hours on the telephone. I only caught bits and pieces of her conversations. By that time, I had resumed my spot on the couch in the living room, and I pretended to watch television as every semblance of life as I once knew it disintegrated. I think my mother’s first call was to my grandmother.

“What am I going to do, Mom? He can’t even work at this point. He’s been talking crazy for weeks, and now this.”

I still don’t like that word—crazy. It was the late 90’s, and although mental health awareness had been prevalent for years, most people in our tiny town in Southern Illinois did consider individuals with mental illnesses just that, crazy. I knew that my father was not well, but I did not want the people in our community to look at him like a lunatic, like he was not who he had always been. I think my mother probably considered this as she spoke on the phone; in fact, I’m sure she did because she worried about keeping up appearances and what others thought of her constantly.

“But I just don’t know if I can do that. What will people think?”

I obviously couldn’t hear what my grandmother said on the other end of the line, but I assume she told her that she had exhausted all other options; I do know that when my mother called my aunt afterwards, she took the cordless phone to her office and shut the door.

I don’t remember where my dad was when all of this transpired. Maybe he continued to sit on his bed staring at the wall, or maybe he was with my mother as she spoke on the phone. I just can’t remember. I do remember my mother sitting my sister and me down later that night, though.

“Girls, I have to tell you something.” There was trepidation in her voice, and I knew she did not want to tell us what she was about to say. “You know your dad hasn’t been feeling too well lately. Um, he’s going to have to go somewhere for a little while, to a place that will help him get better.”

My sister was only twelve at the time, so my mother carefully chose her words—I don’t think she wanted to frighten her. I, however, knew exactly where my father was going. One of my friends told me the story of her aunt who had spent time in a treatment facility. She said that when she was released, the facility sent her home with 20 different medications and that afterwards, she spent her time sitting in a chair, rocking back and forth, rubbing her fingers together, as her eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. My friend no longer wanted to go near her.

I was terrified.

“You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by. Life will be brighter than noonday, and darkness will become like morning. You will be secure, because there is hope.” - Job 11:17-18

I rode with my parents to the treatment facility. During the hour-long drive, not one of us spoke, but I could hear sniffling from the front seat of the car. I assume it was my dad, but it could just as well have been my mom.

When we arrived, I sat in the car and peered at the rusty-hued brick facade of the building as my mother and father walked into the building. A large man in a white uniform met them at the door as they entered—my mother held onto my father’s arm as if he was injured, as if he couldn’t walk on his own, and maybe at that point he couldn’t.

After what seemed like hours, my mother opened the car door. She had been crying. She told me that the people there seemed nice, but they did not know how long Dad would have to stay there.

We drove home, once more in silence, and I wondered what was happening to my father. Was he in a room alone? Did he have a roommate? Was it a padded room like I had seen in movies? Was there a communal area where he could watch television? Did he miss me? I already missed him.

As we drove down the highway, the light of the full moon reflected off my father’s Bible lying in the passenger seat.

B.L. Ramsey resides in Southeastern Illinois with her husband, two sons, and a menagerie of cats. She has taught high school English for the past seventeen years, and although she has adored writing since she was an adolescent, "When the Laughter Fades" is her first published work.