Magnificent Desolation_ The Long Journey Home From the Moon - Buzz Aldrin [54]
That first afternoon the doctors put me through a series of mental aptitude and psychological tests. Ironically, they were the same types of exams I had taken when Dr. Flinn was testing me to ascertain my readiness to be an astronaut nearly a decade earlier.
The doctors at Brooks quickly ascertained that my problems more likely stemmed from mental and emotional stress than from any physical ailment. I stayed in my private room on the second floor for my neck treatments, but several times a day I slipped upstairs to the psychiatric ward. The real reason for my visit was kept a secret, although no doubt more people were aware of it than I realized at the time.
On Saturday morning I met Colonel John Sparks, chief of psychiatry at Wilford Hall, and the primary doctor handling my case. Sparks was an easygoing, friendly sort of man, and seemed more like a drinking buddy than a “talk and pills” psychiatrist. He informed me that my psychological tests had yielded almost the same results as when I had first applied to be an astronaut. Whatever was causing my mental trauma, it was not a change in mental acuity. Sparks said that they wanted to run me through some more tests. He and I would not begin working together in earnest until Monday.
I took that as a good sign. At least the doctors weren’t wringing their hands and saying, “We’ve got to get Aldrin fixed, now!”
That first weekend at Brooks, I grew restless at the prospect of a weekend of inactivity at the hospital, so I asked the nurse for a weekend pass. The nurse looked up my chart, and since I had not yet been diagnosed with any illness and had not been admitted as a psychiatric patient, she filled out a form and handed me a pass, signed by Dr. Sparks that allowed me to leave. A few days earlier I’d been so dazed and distressed I probably could not have found Wilford Hall, and now they were letting me out on my own recognizance!
I didn’t really have any place in particular to go, but since I was in Texas, I decided to call my friend and former neighbor in Houston, Merv Hughs. Merv invited me over to visit, so I hopped on a plane from San Antonio. Late Saturday night, liberally lubricated by Scotch, I confided to Merv the real reason why I was in Texas. Merv looked at me quizzically and seemed somewhat surprised. I enjoyed the weekend with Merv, and visited with other friends as well, including Dean Woodruff, the minister of the church my family and I had attended while I worked in the space program. I let Dean in on my clandestine hospital stay, and he, too, seemed nonplussed. “Depression? You’re the last guy I’d ever figure to be depressed,” Dean chortled. By midday Sunday, I returned to Wilford Hall and, for no apparent reason, once again found myself strangely in a down mood. Maybe being around “space stuff” had energized me, but then I had to walk away from it and head back to Wilford Hall. I was relieved to be away from Edwards, but I was frustrated that I had no future that I regarded worth pursuing.
Back at Wilford Hall, I had given no indication that I might also be concerned about alcoholism, and nobody suggested at the time that I had such a problem. In fact, I kept a bottle of Scotch with me in my duffel bag. Occasionally the colonel came around to visit, and almost instinctively I hid the bottle when I saw him.
Monday morning I began working with Dr. Sparks, attempting to verbalize what I was feeling. For those who know me now, it might be hard to imagine Buzz Aldrin as speechless, but expressing those deep, innermost thoughts, fears, and feelings did not come easily to me. Dr. Sparks sat at his desk, asking questions, making notes, and listening intently. I sat opposite him in a large, comfortable, padded green chair, rather than on the stereotypical psychiatrist’s couch. For the first few days we met in the mornings and afternoons, then, after