Magnificent Desolation

by Buzz Aldrin

  The intense emotion we felt in the room all evening long reached a peak when recovering alcoholics in the audience were invited to join those on the platform. Hundreds of men and women rose, as those of us on the platform gave them a standing ovation.

  Afterwards, in an impromptu news conference, I told the media how I had begun drinking more heavily during my bouts of depression. “Some people may look down their noses at an astronaut who admits he has suffered from depression or alcoholism,” I said, “but there are benefits and good feelings derived from standing up and being counted.” I talked briefly about how astronauts were often thought of as “supermen” by the public, and that NASA did its best to support that image. “No career field is immune from alcoholism,” I emphasized, much to the chagrin of some of my former colleagues in the military and in the space program.

  Operation Understanding was a signature event. More than thirty years later, Robert J. Lindsey, president of the National Council on Alcoholism and Drug Dependence, recalled it as a milestone in American history. “Without question, Operation Understanding was the most critically important public event in our field to reduce the public stigma and misunderstanding of the disease of alcoholism that stands in the way of people seeking help.”12

  With pleasant memories of Operation Understanding still running through my mind, a few days later, on May 14, Return to Earth aired and garnered strong ratings. Millions of people watched the movie and empathized with Cliff Robertson’s portrayal of me. Suddenly I was famous again—this time for completely different reasons. Many people were favorably impressed that an astronaut would admit to his personal struggle with depression, and would seek help. To me, that made it worthwhile. Producers Rupert Hitzig and Alan King received a special award for the film presented by First Lady Rosalyn Carter and the National Association of Mental Health.

  BUT WITHIN A few months of making a public statement in Washington, D.C., that I was a recovered alcoholic, I began drinking again.

  Eventually, Dr. Flinn recommended that I enter a twenty-eight-day period of detox and rehab at St. John’s Hospital, in Santa Monica, since there was no such program at the UCLA facility where Flinn practiced. While at St. John’s, I met Dr. Joe Takamine, a lean, sandy-haired doctor of internal medicine who later became an addiction specialist in California, well known for treating a number of Hollywood celebrities. Unfortunately, I didn’t take this program seriously, and after a few days, I simply walked out of the hospital and walked all the way home. The rooms were not locked, so I just left.

  After another round of low times, Dr. Flinn arranged for me to be admitted a second time to St. John’s to try the program again. This time I stuck it out. Although it was not a mandatory part of the program, I attended several weekly meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous that were held at St. John’s.

  While I was there, Dr. Takamine cautioned me, “You may not be responsible for your disease, but you sure should be responsible for your recovery—and that is your choice. There is only one real reason for relapse,” Dr. Takamine told me. “You want to … and you choose to do so.” I couldn’t disagree with him, but I also couldn’t find within myself the power to say no to a drink.

  Because of my military background, the St. John’s counselors recommended that I meet retired Navy admiral Bud Scoles, a leader in the West Los Angeles Alcoholics Anonymous group. I hit it off immediately with Bud, and he not only encouraged me to attend AA meetings, but offered to become my first Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor. The sponsor’s role could take many forms: friend, mentor, motivator, counselor, or simply someone to check up on you to make sure that you weren’t sprawled out alone in a drunken stupor. At one time or another, Bud served in all of those capacities for me.

  Bud got me going to more meetings than I could count. A typical week included a Wednesday noon stag meeting at Uncle John’s Deli in Santa Monica. Thursday nights found us at an AA workshop, followed by a speaker, at the Brentwood Presbyterian Church on San Vicente. Friday nights I attended an AA meeting at St. Augustine’s church on Fourth Street. Saturday nights I went to an AA meeting at the Senior Citizens’ Center on Ocean Avenue. A Sunday night stag meeting met after supper at a different person’s home each week. This meeting was not open to general attendance, but included Bud, Bob Palmer—who would later become my second sponsor—Dick Boolootian, a Ph.D. who taught at a local university two high-profile lawyers, and me. On Monday nights I attended meetings at Ohio Avenue in West LA. Bud’s plan, which I later learned is basic Alcoholics Anonymous procedure, was for me to attend ninety meetings in ninety days. At each meeting there were men and women (except at the stag meetings) who were somewhere along in the process of staying sober. Some had been sober for only a few days, others a few years, still others for decades. The striking characteristic at almost all of the meetings was the encouragement and positive reinforcement we all gave to each other. The Alcoholics Anonymous groups truly became like a church or a family for many people, myself included.

  I responded well to the AA programs, but I still struggled in my attempts to achieve and maintain sobriety Since my mentor Bud Scoles was a Navy guy, he also frequented the Navy facility in Long Beach, where Captain Joseph Pursch, the psychiatrist, served as director of the Naval Regional Medical Center. The Navy was quite involved in alcoholic recovery programs at that time, and Dr. Pursch was widely regarded as the foremost authority in the field of alcoholism who had never been an alcoholic himself. Admiral Scoles encouraged me to attend some of the Navy recovery programs, and I took his advice, sometimes attending three or four meetings on the same day, when I felt more desperate.

  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?”r />
  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 test pilot school instead of the Academy.

  I explained to Dr. Pursch that since I returned from the moon, I had felt taken advantage of, exploited as people wanted to use my fame for their own purposes.

  From then on, any time that I felt the “system” was taking unfair advantage of me and my fame–whether by individuals, companies, organizations, or the military—to deal with those growing resentments, I turned increasingly to alcohol. The demons in my mind tossed up questions such as, What did I get for serving my country all these years? I’m being relegated to playing the hero, and everyone wants a piece of me. But will they listen to my ideas? Will they value what I can offer for the future? Then, to keep my life afloat, I would often speak at their conventions and sign autographs, for very little if any honorarium. I felt totally degraded as a person.

  I recognized the inherent inconsistency; I didn’t want to feel that way, yet in all honesty I did. I knew that such thoughts were “unacceptable” to the public, to my family, and to myself, and I had a sensitive conscience, so there was no better remedy for putting my conscience to sleep for a while than with alcohol.

  I confessed to the psychiatrist that since I had retired, I sensed no purpose and no structure to my life. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Pursch listened intently, but he continued to emphasize that my top priority was to get sober and stay that way.

  One day early on in our treatment program, I asked the psychiatrist straight out, “Can alcoholics ever drink again?” I was hoping that he would respond positively, that yes, once a person went through treatment, he or she could handle alcohol. Pursch didn’t bite, but he did surprise me.

  “Of course an alcoholic can drink again. They do it all the time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some alcoholics can drink again, but you, Buzz Aldrin, cannot drink again without getting into problems.”

  “Well, I don’t lose control of my ability to function every time I drink.”

  “Maybe not, but you have become an unpredictable drinker, Buzz. Some people may have a drink and walk away from the bar. You have a hard time taking one drink without taking four or five more.”

  I met with Dr. Pursch for about an hour every week, then eventually once every couple of months. We talked about everything from my strict upbringing, always trying to please my father, to being the second man out of the lunar module after Neil Armstrong, and always being known as the second man to walk on the moon, and continually being reminded of that fact. At the conclusion of each meeting, Dr. Pursch asked, “Now, how would you summarize what we have talked about and what you need to do? Once you are out the door, you’re on your own.”

  At one point I had a bit of a falling-out with him. I wanted him to meet more frequently with me, to treat me in a psychoanalytic way, and to prescribe some medication for me. Pursch refused. “You will not get well that way,” he said bluntly.

  I could feel my hackles rising. “May I remind you, Captain, that I am a retired Air Force colonel, and that I am entitled to this care?”

  “Yes, I understand that you are retired military, and you are indeed entitled to treatment. And that means you receive the treatment I am prescribing for you, and my prescription for you right now is not pills or psychoanalysis. Right now you need to get sober.”

  I rose to leave, and walked briskly toward the door, but before I reached it, I stopped and snapped at him, “I won’t be coming back. Furthermore, I assure you that I will have no trouble finding another psychiatrist in Los Angeles to treat me.”

  Dr. Pursch held his ground. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble at all finding someone who will give you what you want. All you have to do is tell them who you are.”

  I left Dr. Pursch and found Dr. Sturdevant, and began going to him for treatment. Pursch was right; I could find treatment with pills and psychoanalysis, but that did not help me. I could handle the depression, but I needed someone to confront me and to help keep me accountable about the drinking. I did nothing but prolong the nightmare.

  Eventually I returned to Dr. Pursch again, seeking his help. This time the doctor surprised me. Rather than admitting me again to the naval hospital, he said, “I think you should meet Clancy Imislund. Clancy is a former alcoholic who has been sober for a long time. I think he can help you.”

  I was insulted and shocked. “You would rather send me to a recovering drunk than to a man of Dr. Sturdevant’s caliber?”

  “You don’t need academics, medication, or psychoanalysis. You are too bright, Buzz, too strong. Granted, your genetic disposition may tend to cause you to be depressed, and that same genetic makeup allows you to drink more than most people without always feeling its ill effects, but if you want to get well, you must seek help in getting sober and staying sober. Clancy can help you do that.”

  After a while, I met with Dr. Pursch only to maintain my pilot’s medical evaluation for the FAA. An Air Force dictum of some sort basically said, “If Buzz Aldrin applies for a medical certificate to fly an airplane again, he must have a psychiatric exam every year.” That irritated me because I was doing my best to remain sober, and the psychiatrists still had to verify my ability to fly an airplane. Although I thought it unfair at the time, I now see it as a wise rule, but I sure didn’t feel that way then.

  By the end of the year I had tired of Beverly telling me what to do—although, in her defense, she was probably simply trying to save my life—and after a loud disagreement, I told her I wanted a divorce. I was on a roll—two divorces in less than two years. In the process, the divorce with Beverly managed to clean out my bank accounts, or what was left of them. But it was worth it to be back on my own again. In retrospect, Beverly loved me as best she could until she could love me no longer. In many ways, however, I will always be grateful to her for encouraging me to seek help for alcoholism, not simply depression. That was worth far more than mere money.

  I moved out of Beverly’s place to a newly-built duplex on Barry Avenue. While living there, I got a job with the Hillcrest Cadillac dealership, which is a story in itself.

  12 Interview with Lisa Cannon, StarBuzz LLC, December 19, 2008.

  10

  TURNING

  POINT

  I’VE ALWAYS LIKED CARS, THE FASTER THE BETTER. BUT I never dreamed of selling cars, not until I got to the point of needing some form of gainful employment. I was ready to take almost any honest job. I’m not sure what prompted me to try it, other than sheer desperation, especially since I had never sold anything in my life.

  While attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings with Admiral Bud Scoles, I got to know some of the people who were regulars. A guy named Lynch showed up every week and was well thought of because he had a good job as a Cadill
ac salesman. I talked to him and asked him, “How did you get that job?”

  He said that he would recommend me to the owner and maybe I could get a job there, too. Selling cars is a noble profession for many people; for me it was a desperate step. I was trying to save my life, and I needed to be doing something besides sulking alone in my apartment. I had an interview with Mike Brown, the son of the owner, and the next thing I knew, in July 1977, I was going to work at the Hillcrest Cadillac dealership in Beverly Hills every day. I was a terrible salesman, though. People came onto the lot in search of a car, and as soon as I struck up a conversation with them, the subject immediately turned from the comfort and convenience of a new or used luxury automobile to space travel. I spent more time signing autographs than anything else. Worse yet, I was too honest. I was not a backslapping closer. I could inform the customer, but I could not glibly tell a prospective customer that our cars were his or her best choice, when I knew the weaknesses of our vehicles as well as the advantages. Nor could I sell an expensive Cadillac to somebody who I knew could not afford it, or sell the person a bunch of options that he didn’t need. When I told the truth, customers sometimes smiled broadly, shook my hand, and walked away. “Great to meet you, Buzz!” they’d say as they headed out of our lot, smiling, but without buying anything. Mike Brown just shook his head.