What be this?

In spring 2008, Reagan's dad, who always struck me as a distinctly nice gentleman, called Reagan's mom, his wife of over 60 years, into the room and before her fatally shot himself in the head with a .38 revolver.

He was well into his 80s and beset with cancer. I plenty liked him.

I find this likely the single most upsetting thing to happen in the history of our family. To this day it makes me cringe. The shock suffered by his poor, elderly wife, who I also quite liked. Poor Reagan, my dear friend. Neila runs nervous to start with...mercy...how awful. The horror of the phone call. The scene those left behind dealt with. Poor Tiffany, who stepped up and cleaned up the terrifying mess in her dad's parents' home. My heart will always bleed for them.

Never have I been so riveted by a conversation as when Tiffany recounted that day and the aftermath as we ran their fearsome "Bong Jovi" piece and some killer Maui Waui through the paces upstairs at the car lot. I thought my heart was going to cave in. Hers, too. It was brutal, yet still we had a pretty cool time.

OK, Over There, Mom, Let's Settle Down, Please
Soon after the shooting, Mom and I were talking about it, trying to understand. She said he did it because he was “evil.” Yes, that's a quote.

Mom, like all the Flozberks, had a flair for talking out her ass, bless her strange heart. And, to her, most any American who was not well-versed in the classics and fluent in several languages was trash, so no way was he gonna get a fair shake from her. No, not a chance - these people so zealously filter the world to spackle it into fitment with their agendas and neuroses that fair shakes are really not much of a thing with them.

Yes, it was a breathtakingly wrong act, but calling that man “evil” made me wince and grit my teeth. He was about as evil as the Easter Bunny's cute, fluffy tail, and that can't be any more than a two on a 1-10 scale. Three, tops.

No, “evil” ain't it. Not even close.

Of course, his illness loomed large, but dying of cancer is quite popular with our species, running tight with King Heart Disease. Many are felled by it, but the vast majority don't self-exterminate, and of those who do, very few summon another, much less their mate of almost two-thirds of a century, to bear witness. Such is among the most cruel and malicious acts imaginable.

And from a really, really nice fellow, too.

Of the many things I've experienced, plus heard from the many I know and their many circles and so on, this might be the wildest of them all (with a whole bunch of stuff tying for second place in an epic logjam). Such distinctions grab my curiosity even when not so close to home.

So, What Gives?
He had caretakers, resources, and security. He was able to muster the marbles to arm himself and carry out his plan. I saw him several weeks before and, while frail, his faculties appeared intact and our conversation was pleasant, as usual. Never a hint of viciousness or flakiness in the many days I spent in his company across about 30 years.

Seemed he'd have a hospice exit chock full o' dreamy narcotic goodness amid loving care to end a rough journey taken by multitudes of less kind souls under less supportive circumstances.

For sure, the basic details point squarely away from the realized outcome. This simply doesn't fit. So, we must look more closely at what his world was like.

Say No to Yes-Nonsense
His wife was a hoarder. It was rather bad and it seems she was our third hoarder, if not fourth. It was kept secret until after she died and I never saw the mess, but it was described to us in detail. It would seem that pleasantly saucy lady was something of a kook. I always liked her. But, I didn't have to live with her.

Funny thing - I kinda had her pegged as a neat freak and the household as running on practical. Nope. And, that's the second elderly hoard allowed to unfold amid a very tight relationship with Neila and Reagan - the Mutchie one was unforgettable. Things far too often go astray in their shadow.

The old fella never seemed like a yes-nonsense kinda guy. Pretty square, he was. In fact, when we had a little memorial for him at our lakeside camp, after all those years I couldn't think of a single amusing or compelling anecdote to relate other than that he was especially calm and friendly at all times I saw him. He wasn't a cutup, joker, or fringe thinker.

I'd guess that kook stuff didn't go over all that grand with him, and, like pretty much every other poor guy in our family, there was a good chance he harbored gnawing discontent from being manacled to a lady who was not functioning properly.

It's not a good feeling and can get real old after a mere weekend, much less a lifetime, see.

So, exceptionally ill and probably frustrated. But, again, we have a very gentle, stable man calling his wife into the room and killing himself before her, a profoundly exceptional act. Anything else potentially afoul?

I need to know that someone sees that
There's nothing left, I simply am not here
Porcupine Tree - "Fear of a Blank Planet" - Fear of a Blank Planet - 2007

I've little knowledge of the man's medical care, but I do know this:

- Neila is big on administering drugs to people.
- Neila has a nauseating history of dismal outcomes with the elderly, children, and dogs.
- Neila and her crony "Dr. Flozberk" had Dad tragically drugged for years while exploiting him to float her family's lunatic existence.
- Neila was heavily involved with her father-in-law's care while exploiting him to float her family's lunatic existence.
- Neila's perspicacity and ethics have often been, well, sketchy.

I've long beat the drum about the tragic overmedication of our people, especially dependent children and elderly. We grew interested in odd behavior caused by pharms after Lyrica, taken in desperation to fight severe CRPS/RSD in my esteemed partner, came close to destroying our household while offering zero relief.

Indeed, a large percentage of prescription drugs do either no good or actually cause harm. Doing no good is itself harm, as anyone who has stood in line for a half hour to pick up a costly drug that did not help well knows.

Poor Charlie Revisited
All prescriptions, especially for the elderly, MUST be regularly and mindfully scrutinized. Dad was drugged daily for years with multiple strong and unnecessary substances at odds with clinical standards. He complained for months to Neila that his brain felt "smothered," but she brushed him off.

He then came to me. I assessed the matter, picked my jaw off the floor, cried in disgust, then carefully detoxed him off the benzos and tried to get him off some other nasty stuff, resulting in more power struggles and perhaps premature death.

I'm thankful to have regained for Dad a bunch of his marbles for the last year-and-a-half of his long life, but I failed badly in not being more involved with his medical care sooner. Instead, I trusted the ever-shabby Flozberks, a dreadful error by an only son who should have known better and cared more.

I owe him at least a couple of years of duly lucid life but can never make good on the debt :(

Calling Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Flozberk
It is reasonable to speculate that needy, troubled, dense Camp Flozberk and perhaps their crony strip mall sawbones hard dope pusher hack "Dr. Flozberk" had one or both of Reagan's parents zonked out on goofballs or such as they were milked for some serious dough.

That fills in a huge hole as one struggles to grasp how on Earth a memorably nice and mild gentleman and his loved ones found themselves in such a superlatively remarkable and tragic situation.

Interviewing self-exterminatees is challenging, but plenty have tried and failed or were seized with inexplicable, compulsive suicidal urges when taking certain drugs or combos. They often describe being in quiet, hammering despair laced with detached feelings that things are not quite real.

Such can slip by quick "yes/no" screening administered by an overworked medical assistant or, uh, brain dead relative, but thoughtful engagement tends to discern. Evidence suggests thoughtful engagement was lacking in this matter.

Why did he do that and why do it as such? The foundation was obviously age mixed with a miserable, hopeless cancer beatdown.

The ever-present shadow of living in a hoard, other pitfalls found with having a mate afflicted with mental pathology, and the detachment from reality that often accompanies heavy medication may have knocked this one tragically out of the park. I'd give real money to know all details of his medication.

Brass Tacks
Either he was so embittered toward his wife that he brought out the big time hardball kit OR he was off his nut OR both. And, if he was off his nut, given his history as a sane gentleman and Neila's history of skulldruggery, overmedication must be considered.

The Flozberks were heavily involved in the management of at least four camps of their elders as they declined and perished, gaining a literal fortune in the process. All four ended very badly and in a way, this one is the worst.

Some will not be surprised to learn that, yes, there's more:

Mom Does it Again
When this happened, we were traveling in East Texas chasing spawning bass. I called home to check in. It went rather like this:

Me: Hey hey! (My standard, upbeat Krusty opener so people immediately know it's me).
Mom: Hey. (That was sullen, more like Buckley, may he rest in peace).
Me: Whassup? How ya doin'?
Mom: I'm very upset.
Me: Oh, no. What happened?
Mom: John is dead.

My head spun, standing in the parking lot of Family Dollar in Zavalla, TX with flip phone jammed in my ear. My idiot half-brother is dead? I mean, I really couldn't stand the guy, but still, how awful...at least in theory. Poor Mom. He was her favorite, by far. And Dad. And Tony. Damn!I imagined John on a slab in the morgue.

Me: OH MY GOD! That's terrible. What happ...?
Mom: Reagan is devastated.

Say WHAT? Reagan and John had never been fond of one another. John was short of gracious toward them and pretty much hated his sister Neila. Never did I hear him utter a good word about either. And, their insane, lives-shattering, epic battle over senile Aydin and his money was just getting rolling, so there's that.

So Many Slabs
I imagined John on a slab in the morgue....with Reagan, giggling, taking a leak on his corpse. This just wasn't computing.

Mom: He shot himself in the head.
Me: WHAT?!?!? On purpose?
Mom: Yes.

I imagined John on a slab in the morgue....with Reagan taking a leak straight into a bullet hole on or about the head. Wowzers. That's quite the picture.

John had recently married this stupid flight attendant woman and they were often (and loudly) said to be joyously happy. He's far too much of an egomaniac and coward to just up and self-exterminate. I did later learn that he threatened such with his first wife, but that was just bad faith manipulation that failed.

What in the hell is going on here? Surely it's a dream, and quite the strange one. I knew I shouldn't have eaten those last, uh, 5 slices of pizza after I was full, damn it. I gots the mozzarella psychosis, I do, an' I gots it bad. Gettin' dizzy...

Oh, wait...wait...wait.....

Me: Yer talkin' 'bout Reagan's dad and not your very-much-alive idiot malignant narcissist of a son, right?

That made for a long pause. See, one was not allowed to criticize John for decades, but at that point his luster was tarnished by the parasiteering and family drama engaged at length on this site. So, for the first time ever, I was able to rag on The Golden Psycho's goofy ass absent hard pushback from Mom. Sucks that the circumstances were so forlorn.

Mom: Yes. (long pause) Why would my John kill himself?

I had many viable answers for that one, but t'was not at all the time for such.

Mom and I always called John “John” and Reagan's dad “Reagan's dad.” And there we were. Good thing I'd not yet quit smoking, for that was a three cigarette headspinner.

Would ya believe that was not the first time such a misunderstanding visited Mom and I in relation to a chap on that family tree getting shot?

Mom Pre-Does it Pre-Again
Twenty-seven years prior on March 30, 1981, Dad and I pulled in front of the house after school to grab some paperwork before we went to physical therapy. I was still on crutches after...um...getting shot (!!!) through the knee in a hunting accident four months prior. Small world, right?

Mom walked briskly out to the car with a strange look about her. Clearly, she had news. Awww hell, what did I do now? Wait...no, I'm clean. She gots nothin' on me. Straight As and no recent mischief. Hell, I was crippled and owned by rehab and school.

Mom: Reagan just got shot.Reagan was pretty close to being my best friend at the time. I was mortified.
Me: Who shot him? Is he alive?
Mom: Some guy. They took him to the hospital. He was leaving the hotel.

Say WHAT? Leaving the hotel? He quit working there years ago.

She was a little hard to read, a bit smirky, yet also a bit disturbed and strangely flat of affect.

Mom hated Reagan then. Yes, she was cordial to him and called him “Honey” and "Dear" and whatnot, but behind his back both she and Mutchie gave him the whipping boy treatment with aplomb. That often caused friction between us. Regardless, what I was seeing and hearing didn't make sense.

Always With the Damn Slabs
I imagined Reagan on a slab. Why, oh, why did I see that infernal slab movie?

And, why is Mom sort of glib? Shock? Yep, I'm dreaming, right? Oh yeah, for sure. Yep - dream.

Nope, and just 12, I unfortunately had not started smoking yet, so I had to deal with the matter using my default chemistry.

Me: We gotta go to the damn hospital! Cancel therapy!

Mom tilted her head like a dog that just heard a squeaky fart that swept up and down in pitch about seven times (and please don't ask me how I know precisely what that looks n' sounds n' smells like). She was flat-out baffled. OK...OK...light bulb!

Me: You're talking about Ronald Reagan, aren't you?
Mom: Of course. Who do you think I was talking about?
Me: Your son-in-law.
Mom: Why would anybody shoot Reagan?

I was still trembling when we got to therapy. Too bad it wasn't psychotherapy.

One More Shot
No, thems STILL ain't all our shooting-related misunderstandings.

When Dad called Mom to tell her I had been shot four months earlier, that's exactly what he told her - I had been shot.

Then he stopped.

And waited.

For a few seconds, she was sure I was dead. That's what I would have thought in her slippers. Not Dad's best moment, for damn sure, in what surely had to be among the 144 or so most important phone calls of his life.

So, that's 0-3. And, the details of how I got shot became badly corrupted, so that's 0-4. Early on, we really should have had a meeting or something.

The next time I got shot, a decade later, I didn't tell a soul, not even a doctor, and now my household takes great pains to communicate clearly and thoroughly.

Here's to future shootings going more squarely! Hear, hear!

Final Words
This was hard to write, taking years of snippets. I was fond of him and his. I don't want to condemn, dishonor, or exploit this man who met such a difficult end. Things like nicknames and cussin' were minimized. This ain't the place.

That doesn't mean the matter is not fascinating. We were forbidden by Mom from mentioning it to Reagan or Neila, so all I know outside the basics came from partyin' with Tiffany. My aim is to understand this enormous event in my really weird family history and see how it fits in with other things and the big picture.

Interestingly, his deed was not even necessarily contemptible. If his old lady earned that game of hardball and he was truly ready to check out, then more power to ya, ol' fellow, and too bad about the mess, y'all. Many richly earn their game of hardball, but I'm not seeing it here and never heard a shred of gossip suggesting she could earn such ill will from her partner. She seemed pretty cool, outside of the whole kook thing. But, there's also no tellin'...

Life: Not Scared
I'm staunch pro-suicide. Assisted, unassisted, whatever. If one no longer wishes to live, then bon voyage, and being under duress to continue to live when it's unwanted is among the worst experiences one could have. A gentle, clean, pleasant exit should freely available at zero cost to the hopeless. Never should a poodle have better options in critical matters than you and I.

In fact, when recently faced with the interesting question, “What do you think your most likely official cause of death will be?” my carefully considered answer was “Suicide.”

If life contracts to a point at which I lack the resources or faculties to have a worthwhile go of it, I shall tie up any loose ends and settle lingering matters, then check out in orderly, thoughtful fashion without fear, regret, or leaving a daunting indoor mess.

The languishing seen with Mom and Grandpa Theo and slowly-eaten-alive suffering to death forced on Reagan's dad and most of our dogs will never befall me, for damn sure.

R.I.P. to both of Reagan's nice parents.

Heed this very slashy advice: Be very careful with drugs/supplements and subpar/sketchy doctors/family.

Return to A Parade of Kooks

1922 - 2008