Magnificent Desolation_ The Long Journey Home From the Moon - Buzz Aldrin [81]
In September 1976, Beverly and I set up an appointment to see Dr. Pursch ostensibly for possible treatment as a couple, but Beverly doubtless went along only to get me into treatment. That quickly became evident when the doctor questioned Beverly and me about our drinking. “I suppose I could eventually become an alcoholic,” she said, “but we’re not here for me. We’re here for Buzz.”
Dr. Pursch nodded in understanding and let the matter drop. He agreed to evaluate and work with us on an outpatient basis. I wanted medication for depression, but the doctor wanted me to get sober. I didn’t see how that was going to work, and I let the doctor know it. “Thanks, but no thanks,” I said.
On Monday evening, September 20, 1976, I spoke to a full house at the Lompoc, California, Civic Auditorium, sponsored by the Mental Health Association. In the course of my speech I described how I had overcome depression and had been treated for alcoholism. “I’ve been involved in all kinds of races,” I told the audience, “but running for happiness is the most important one I’ve been in.” I admitted to the crowd that although I had served as chairman of the National Association of Mental Health, my problems were not solved, and when depression returned, to escape, I turned to alcohol. “I could accept mental health as an illness,” I said, “but not alcoholism as an illness.”
My speech inspired the audience, and my words must have inspired me, too, because two days later I went back to Pursch, this time practically begging him to take me on as a patient.
On September 22, 1976, Dr. Pursch admitted me to the Navy Regional Medical Center for a full six weeks so he could work more closely with me. While at the Naval hospital, as part of their alcohol treatment program, we boarded Navy vans and drove to attend local Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, such as the one in Bellflower. Attendance was not optional.
In counseling, Dr. Pursch began by trying to build a relationship with me. He spoke with a distinct Hungarian accent. “Tell me why you are here,” he began, as if he didn’t know, “and by the way, whatever you tell me, I will never tell anyone else without your permission.” The doctor stopped and, in an almost whimsical manner, added, “Unless you put me on the spot. If you tell me that you’re going to shoot someone, I’ll have you arrested.”
Pursch and I both smiled. “So tell me,” he continued, “what is it that brings you to me? I have to be here, but why are you here?”
I relaxed and tried to answer the doctor’s questions as best I could. As we talked, I felt confident that I could trust him. Maybe this can help, I thought. I began to spill my insides to him. I told him about the discipline and rigidity I had lived with all my life, reinforced by my attending West Point, Air Force flight training, becoming a combat fighter pilot, earning my doctorate at MIT, and culminating in the NASA program, and then back to the Air Force. All along the way, the expected levels of performance grew higher and higher. Then, upon coming back from the moon, I was a news item, going from city to city, riding in parades all around the world, receiving the keys to the city— and anything else I wanted. When I went back to the Air Force, life didn’t turn out the way I thought it should. I was passed over for promotion to brigadier general and an assignment that I truly wanted, to be commandant to the cadets at the Air Force Academy. Instead, I was given command of the test pilot program at Edwards Air Force base in California. That sounds like a plum position, but not for me. I was one of the few astronauts in the program at that time who had never been a test pilot. Neil was a former test pilot. So was Mike, but not me. And now, after nearly twenty years in the Air Force, including three and a half at MIT, and seven and a half at NASA, they wanted me to command the