The Closing of the Pub

The local pub closed this week. 

We were regulars.   Nobody would recommend this, but we  relied on the place, the people - and yes, the alcohol to some extent - as we became increasingly involved with Molly's doctors, therapist, medicines and hospital visits.   It was completely incomprehensible that our our smart, talented, beautiful daughter who had never had a bad grade in her life could be spiraling into a mental illness with the potential to kill her.  The pub, at least, we understood.

It fancied itself to be an Irish bar, but I've been to Ireland and this was definitely an American bar.   Sports on the big screen TV.  Plenty of room for the pool table and the darts board.  Codeword BIG - big servings of fish and chips, big drinks, big space.  But within that BIG was an intimacy that you could tap into, and once you did, the place became home.  Your drink would be poured before you even sat down.

It's the place we retreated to after hospital visits and associated (required) family therapy. 

I was not then and am not now a big fan of therapy, so I am not an ideal participant in required sessions.  But I tried.    One hospital session brought together me, Frances, Molly, Molly's therapist and a hospital social worker who never saw Molly before or after that session.  Molly was nervous.  Frances and I were too.   Frances and I did not want this to be true; I guess Molly knew it was.  The hospital social worker's standard of success seemed to be that we all weren't throwing chairs at each other - with that as a criteria, she deemed our session a great success.  Molly's therapist, and I am guessing here, sensed the futility in the session and - ultimately - the hospitalization. 

My approach was to be as cooperative as possible so that we could "pass" hospitalization and move on with our life.  Surely this was all one massive mistake.  Molly was a very high performing patient.  She had no police background or past use of illegal substances.  She was a good student; she had never been in trouble for anything. She was respectful and well loved.  This couldn't be happening.

Perhaps because we really didn't fit the mold, the hospital social worker (was her name Betty Boop?)  was willing to follow my lead.  While there was talk of "partial" hospitalization as follow up care, it was quickly discarded as an option since Molly attended a local private boarding school.  There were no other options.  Take your daughter home and love each other.  Worked for me.  Let's get out of here.

Molly stayed a few more days, because that is how things are done,  and Frances and I headed to the pub.  The bar was almost big enough to hold our total bewilderment.  Confusion.  Pain.  Shock.

Every chapter of our life has a page lived out at the pub.  I cried at the back booth in the week before Molly's funeral when my sister was trying to bring me back to some semblance of living.  We've comforted Molly's friends over dinner and accepted condolences as the word of Molly's death spread.  And we have celebrated too - Frances had her 50th birthday party around the pool table.

The pub has been an extension of our living room.  A really important extension.  And we will miss it.