THIS IS YOUR DAD'S BRAIN ON DRUGS

A COUPLE OF years back, I wrote about how my dad had suddenly stopped
knowing how to make coffee or date the letters he wrote. He had
started pacing the halls at night.

He finally landed in a nursing home, diapered and in a wheelchair, and
was trying to light his cigarette with his shoes. He was 74, and his
chart said ``senile dementia, uncomplicated type.'' But he had been
sent off his rocker not by senility but by a baby tranquilizer called
Tranzene prescribed to him by his doctor, a tranquilizer that had
built up in his system and was turning him into a statue.

When it wore off, he was fine -- angry, scared, still old, but fine.
He went home to his apartment -- an apartment I had started to clear
of lamps and boxer shorts, guitars and cans of rolling tobacco,
thinking he would never need it again.

People who work with the elderly are saints. They work hard, they're
often underpaid, they toil in obscurity to help a part of the
population nobody else has much interest in.

But too few questions are asked. When a 40-year-old comes into a
hospital not knowing how he got there, people try to find out why he's
confused.

When the person who comes in confused is older than 70, they think, oh
- -- senile. Drugs are not the problem, they're the solution. When my
dad awoke, furious to find himself locked in a nursing home, offering
to take on all comers with a piece of metal he'd torn off his
wheelchair, they wanted to give him Haldol to quiet him back down.

MARTY SOHL HAD a similar experience. Her dad is Jerry Sohl, a
science-fiction writer who also wrote many ``Star Trek'' and
``Twilight Zone'' episodes. He's now 84 years old, and in pretty good
health. Recently, though, he had begun to behave oddly. Suddenly he
didn't always recognize Marty's mother. He even thought he saw his own
mother walking around the house. He was not convinced that Marty's mom
was really his wife, although they've been married for more than 50
years. He could not write or remember how to work his computer. He was
often dizzy. His doctors were very concerned about him, setting up a
CT scan and all kinds of other tests.

``But they were doubtful that anything could be done,'' Marty told me.
``They were pretty sure that he was on his way out, suffering from
mini-strokes that were causing dementia.''

Marty wasn't so sure. She gave a pharmacist friend of hers a list of
all the drugs her dad was taking. He looked them up and found that one
of the eye drops prescribed by his ophthalmologist could cause her
dad's very symptoms, in fewer than 2 percent of those taking them.

``My father, of course, being a good patient, refused to stop taking
them,'' said Marty.

She called the ophthalmologist. He was positive that the eye drops
weren't the cause. Only a tiny percentage of people react that way,
after all. And Jerry's ocular pressure could build to a dangerous
level without the drops. But he agreed to have him lay off them for a
few weeks.

THAT was on a monday. By Wednesday Jerry recognized Marty's mom every
time he saw her. By Saturday, his mother had left the house. He is
writing again.

As is my dad, long since back living on his own. Not long ago, after
reading the obituary page, he remarked, ``All the newspaper knows
about these oldsters they feature on the obituary page is that their
hearts were still quivering at 90. They have no way of knowing the
actual day of their deaths. There is more to life than clouding a mirror.''

My dad is not as sharp as he was. Neither is Marty's dad. But they are
back in their own lives, doing more than clouding a mirror.

Don't say no to drugs. Just ask questions.