Some people…

… just can’t be helped or saved. I’ve known this most of my life. I’ve seen good friends of mine go down the slippery slope of addiction and never come back from the abyss. My own mom was a lifelong addict of tranquilizers, painkillers, and pretty much whatever drug she can get her hands on. Her addiction did eventually kill her, even if it was indirectly. And no matter how much you want to help these kinds of people. At some point, the truth is inevitable, and you just have to let go.

This prevailing theme rose to the surface recently for Karen and me. About a year or so ago, we met an older guy at the hotel we were staying at in Panama City. His name was Mark. He was a recently retired US Army colonel, originally from a Scandinavian country, who was trying to make Panama his new retirement home. He seemed like an affable, easy going, nice guy. Over the next couple months, Karen and I befriended him, and offered to help him in various ways get settled in Panama over the past year.

A few months ago, he closed a deal on a condo in Panama City. And he was gracious enough to offer us a room at his place rent-free whenever we were in the city. We come into the city often between our various trips to take care of boat stuff, personal stuff, shop for groceries and gear, and to just sometimes take a breather from the boat. We considered the very generous offer and accepted. But only under the condition that he would let us pay our share of whatever expenses he would incur by having us over. It seemed like it would be a nice arrangement for all parties involved.

From then on, we had a nice little crash pad in a decent high-rise building a couple of blocks from the pacific ocean in Panama. Nice view. Convenient. It was a great arrangement considering we were only in the city a few short days every other week or so. Karen liked that she had a place to stash her city clothes and not have to lug tons of stuff back and forth from the boat. It also helped us in our logistics to get stuff sent to San Blas for our trips, and more. We can also tell that Mark enjoyed the company.

But, as usual, there’s always something that sours the milk.

In this case, it was Mark’s rapidly increasing drinking problem, and almost uncontrollable behavior. We already knew that Mark was a bit of a drinker. But he seemed to have it under some kind of control, at least within reason. But things were not going well for his transition into living in Panama. He experienced nothing but problems with the construction of a house he had purchased on the Caribbean coast, with his residency visa, with pretty much everything else. At first, we thought it was just because he was dealing with the wrong people. But it was soon clear that the problem was Mark’s increasingly bizarre alcoholic antics just got in the way of him being able to get things done. As the issues got worse, Mark’s condition deteriorated. Fast.

Karen and I tried to help whenever we can and when in town. We tried to act as intermediaries between him and the lawyers, brokers and other various parties he was dealing with. We felt it was the least we can do. Over the next few months, Mark’s drinking just got worse and worse, as did his overall condition. He’d go days without shaving or bathing it seemed. He never had food in the house, and probably went days without eating too. He had an ever-increasing chronic addiction to in-call prostitutes who would come to his apartment at all hours of the day or night. These hookers thought nothing of stealing from him after he passed out. One even stole one of his credit cards and tried to buy a new car with it. No kidding. In short, his behavior became bizarre and extreme, as he portrayed himself to be the victim more and more. Didn’t seem like there was much we can do, but we knew that we couldn’t handle much more of this.

Over the past few weeks, leading up to May, we were in Bocas del Toro. We had been gone about three weeks since last being in Panama City, and Mark’s condition had deteriorated pretty horrendously over that short of a time. Karen, being a medical professional, got VERY concerned. She tried to talk to Mark about his drinking, his increasingly poor health and hygiene, and getting out of Panama for awhile. Mark insisted everything was ok. A few days later, I came back to the apartment to find Mark in a vodka-addled depression. He was having crying fits and just plain unraveled at the seams. I had no idea what to do.

He asked me, no begged me, to “help him”. I asked him what he wanted me to do. How can I help him if he didn’t want to help himself? He answered that he wanted to go back to his home country and be with his brother and the rest of his family for awhile, and clean up. He wanted to know if we would be willing to take care of his apartment and other stuff while he was gone.

I told Mark that even though we were only in the city a few days at a time every week or two, we’d be willing to take care of his place if that’s what it took for him to help himself. He didn’t need to worry about that. He said ok, then he would book a ticket home for the next day.

When the next day came, he didn’t book a ticket. In fact, he lied about booking the ticket to Karen. Then he claimed that he was taking care of it, and he kept asking me if I’d take care of the apartment. It was as if his brain was working on a loop tape or something. The same questions, over and over. It didn’t help that he hit the vodka at 8 AM.

Later that evening, a couple of hookers showed up, and Karen was not happy. Mark started acting very un-gentlemanly right in front of Karen, and it just went downhill from there. She got very upset and felt that Mark was doing this as a way to push us away from him. It was working.

We left the apartment to go see a movie, hoping that the party would be over by the time we got back. It was, but we also noticed that at least one of the “girls” went through our room and Karen’s stuff while we were gone. Nothing was taken because I took our computers and valuables with us in my backpack when we left.

Next morning, I told Mark he had to book his ticket and get out of Panama, or we were going to have to leave and we wouldn’t be able to help him anymore. We wouldn’t even be able to have contact with him, because we’d worry too much. Mark began to plead with me not to leave and that he would book the ticket right then. After watching him pathetically try to book the ticket online while dealing with a nasty hangover, and chugging warm vodka and diet coke, I told him to just let me do it.

Ten minutes later, his ticket was booked. He would fly out at 7 AM the next morning. I told him Karen and I would get him packed and ready to go that night, and then take him to the airport. He agreed to everything. Karen and I had a dinner to go to, so we told him we’d be back around 9:30 to get him ready. We suggested he focus on getting on that plane and ease up on the drinking and not have any “visitors” over that night. He agreed.

When we got back, one of his “visitors” was there, and he was passed out on his bed. She insisted that he didn’t drink at all while we were gone. However, we were suspicious because there were empty beer cans all over the place. She claimed those were hers. Yeah right.

Karen asked her to leave so we can get Mark ready. It took us a few minutes to get him up. She politely left but only after having a “secret” conversation with Mark. Mark was elusive, but ultimately cooperated. After we had his bag packed, passport, cards, and money in order, we all went to bed.

Next morning, 4:15 AM, it’s time to get Mark up, dressed and to the airport. He is slow in getting up, but does. I noticed that he was up sometime during the night and did a load of laundry. He even moved his bags closer to the door. He kept telling us how much he appreciates what we’re doing for him. In fact, he said it about four or five times. Then, on the sixth time or so, he says the same thing, but adds a “but, there’s a problem…”. Karen and I look at each other and ask him what the problem is.

He keeps muttering that “there’s a problem, there’s a problem…”. We’re now getting a little frustrated. We ask again, “what is the problem?” He then says that he has to call the woman who was over the night before because he loves her and wants her to go with him. Karen and I tell Mark that he can’t be in love with a prostitute. She’s only interested in his money, because it surely isn’t his looks or personality. He’s drunk out of his mind, he has no idea what he’s talking about and he needs to catch the plane. I think I reiterated this about 10 times over the next 10 minutes.

Mark sadly reverted to the behavior of a five year old child. He’s half dressed, and we tell him to put on his pants and his shoes so we can get him to the airport. He refuses. Like a child. The taxi arrives, and we tell Mark that we all need to go downstairs and go.

The next 20 minutes or so were some of the most depressingly surreal I have ever witnessed. I watched a man, a man who had seen some serious action in three wars, including the invasion of Panama in 1989, a man who distinguished himself as an Army officer, Special Forces no less, disintegrate into a blathering, crying, weak, catastrophe of a human being. It was as if he had exploded into pieces all over the place. This can’t be fixed. There was nothing we can do. Nothing. This person did not want to be helped or saved. He just didn’t want to be alone while he disintegrated, that’s all.

With deep regrets, I told Mark that we were done, we were going to pack our things, and get into that taxi. We couldn’t help him anymore, nor we can we put ourselves at any further risk by being around him. Eventually one of those hookers was going to come to his apartment with a gun-toting cabron who was only going to be interested in a big payday. We were NOT going to be there when it happened.

While we packed, Mark kept saying we can keep our stuff there and come back later for it. But I wouldn’t hear of it. We would never come back. Ten minutes later, we were in the cab, we headed down the street to a hotel we knew. End of chapter.

Why do I tell this story? Because I know that someday, somewhere, everybody gets a “Mark” in their lives. Someone who they think they can help, bring them back from the edge. I do believe that there is a possibility, however slight, that it can be done. But usually, no. 99% of the time? No. You can’t. People who choose to let their lives deteriorate to such a state do not want to save themselves. It’s painful, it’s unpleasant, but it’s true.

It’s ok to try your best, as long as there’s an endpoint. A place where you can say, “Ok, I did my best to help you, but this is where I get off the crazy train”. At least then, you can get off that train knowing you did your best to save your friend or loved one.

I suspect that Mark will be dead by the end of the year either by the bottle, suicide or by someone’s gun. I hope I’m wrong, but I’ll never know the truth, unless someone tells me.

Some ties just have to stay severed.