Robin Williams

We were on vacation on Vancouver Island when I saw the headline about Robin Williams' suicide.  I almost missed the news.  We were in the minuscule town of Tofino, British Columbia.  The headline of the newspaper was vague, so I picked it up and read the article.  Using the extremely limited access to wifi on the island, I read the obituary in the New York Times on my phone.

I was sad when I heard the news.  I liked Robin Williams.  I read in "The Sun" magazine an interview with a social scientist who believes love is any positive interaction between two people.  While it may have been one sided, I loved Robin Williams.  Growing up, Mork and Mindy was a staple, just like my kids watch Parks and Recreation.  If Mork had been the only thing he had ever done, I'd still think Williams was a riot.  There was one time he embarrassed me out of a room.  A few years ago, my father and I were watching his stand-up show on HBO.  He was talking about sex and I had to leave.  Yes, it was funny, but not while my dad was in the room and laughing so hard I thought he'd get a hernia.

In Tofino, I read the story "Busy Working, Robin Williams Fought Demons" on William's death on the New York Times.  After I read it, I had Jack read it.

"He was a workaholic," Jack said.  My impression exactly.

"Given his well-publicized troubles with depression, addiction, alcoholism, and a significant heart surgery in 2009, Mr. Williams should have had a resume filled with mysterious gaps.  Instead, he worked nonstop.

"At the very least--if his life had followed the familiar script of troubled actors--there would have been whispers of on-set antics: lateness, forgotten lines, the occasional flared temper.

"Not so with Mr. Williams.  'He was ready to work, he was the first one on the set,' said Mr. Bailey...Robin was always 1,000 percent reliable."

I continued my google search of Robin Williams and there was listed a handful of movies he starred in: Good Will Hunting, Mrs. Doubtfire, Jumanji, Good Morning, Vietnam.

And 44 others.

Jack could relate.  The first one in.  Reliable.  In a good mood.  Taking on more and more.

This vacation was challenge for Jack.  It was his first double weekend vacation in perhaps ten years.  He brought his computer so we could potentially plan for our next trip.  I told him I'd throw his laptop in the ocean if I caught him working.  I kept the charger buried in one of my bags.  His computer was off for nine days.  He used his phone to make phone calls, check the Mariner's scores, and find where to go for dinner.  We stopped at Munro's Books (founded by Alice Munro's husband in the 1960's) in Victoria and I forced him to buy and read a novel.  He picked Canada by Richard Ford.  One morning, Jack slept until 8:30 a.m., an indoor record.

The Boy was alarmed when I connected workaholism and suicide.

"It won't happen to Daddy," I said confidently.  "We won't let it."

But I am not so sure.  I don't think Jack is the suicide type, but then who thought Robin Williams would be?

Williams had three kids and three wives.  I could leave Jack and the workaholism behind, but the kids cannot.  I could choose not to watch him self-destruct.  The Boy and the Big E don't have that luxury.

Since Robin Williams death, his diagnosis of Parkinson's has been made public.  The brain stops producing dopamine, and depression ensues.  I can't imagine that the Funniest Man in the World would want to live with a compromised brain.  As I watch my mother slip into Alzheimer's,  I can understand.  I could see living without my breasts or knees or watching my hands crumple with arthritis.  Losing my mind and my mood would be unthinkable.