Henry sang tenor with the Krokodiloes of 2003 and was well known for his heartfelt singing and abilities in Krok dance routines. Always bright and energetic, he brought a delightful sense of humor and sincerity to this brotherhood. His passing is a great loss.
At this time, our thoughts and prayers are with his surviving family. Funeral services were held on Sunday, August 5, 2007, at the First Presbyterian Church of Sumter, South Carolina.
Rest in peace, Henry. May your voice carry on in the heavenly choirs.
2007 Aug. – Dunster Student Dies at 24 – The Harvard Crimson
2007 Oct. – Dunster’s Fienning Mourned – The Harvard Crimson
The Kroks lost a cherished friend to suicide on July 30, 2007. Henry was truly a member of the family, one of a handful of Krok brother pairs (along with older brother Ted ’01, K’00-’01). Ted recently submitted this open letter to the Krok community:
Dear Kroks,
When my little brother, Henry Fienning, committed suicide this July many people were shocked that a young man with so much going for him could do such a thing. My family was surprised, but not shocked completely, and I want to write and explain why. I’m also writing in hopes that a more open dialogue about mental illness might help improve or save lives among Kroks and families we know.
First of all, thank you, Kroks, for all of the kind letters, visits, notes, and calls—when it comes down to it, Kroks know how to take care of each other. You’ve given my brother, me, and my family an adventure and music that we could only dream about before knowing you, and we thank you.
The long letter below gives a lot of detail and background about Henry’s case. For those of you who want to read on and learn more about Henry and mental illness, it’s all there. Please don’t hesitate to call, write, or email me—my contact info is at the bottom of this email if the info below leaves any questions at all. I hope to see many of you soon.
Nunc,
Ted Fienning K’99, K’00
Okay, here’s the long read…’c9
It’s hard to remember exactly when Henry was diagnosed with Bipolar One, an illness marked with common signs that my family did not recognize because we had never heard or read about them. These illnesses are common among great, creative minds like those in the Kroks. In fact, Bipolar One is commonly known as the Artist’s Disease.
Everyone has mood swings, so one of the biggest problems in identifying illness is picking apart traits that are symptomatic of an illness from other traits that are a natural part of personality. My family drew the line and began learning more after Henry first attempted suicide in August 2004, three years ago. Henry spent his freshman year in the Kroks, loved the singing, camaraderie, and spring break in Bermuda. He was drinking and occasionally using drugs, but this wasn’t totally abnormal for a freshman. What was unusual was Henry’s terrible behavior on the Krok tour that summer.
We both grew up in a stable, loving home, so when he damaged a lot of property in a nice suburb of Texas (Dripping Springs, where Rex Baker’s family was hosting the Kroks), we were floored. A month later, after being put on probation by the Krok officers, he was kicked off the world tour for bedding a girl at an Italian boarding school (after everyone had been briefed on why this was absolutely unacceptable). I understand the decision to kick Henry off the tour was a tough one, but Henry’s behavior in general was unpredictable, unexplainable, and often unpleasant to be around. Just a few months later, Henry was deeply depressed — unable to unpack his belongings in Dunster House, completely unable to work, eat, sleep, or function — and my father drove up to bring him home.
Henry spent a full year in counseling while working for a minister in North Carolina who was a friend of the family. That fall, he broke the news that he was gay. We talked it over as a family, accepted Henry for who he was, chalked up his previous behavior as a byproduct of struggling to come out of the closet. My parents, thankfully, were wonderful about it. So was my extended family, all of our friends, even our church, which played a big part in both of our lives. Henry found bright therapists, started medication for depression, and seemed to be all right. That summer, during the week surrounding my older brother’s wedding, Henry tried to kill himself three times with carbon monoxide poisoning. The first time he couldn’t rig the tubing and another time the Jeep wouldn’t start. The third time, at 3 A.M. on a dark, back-road parking lot in our hometown, a policeman found him near death and saved his life. My family and I think this was divine intervention.
Henry was immediately forced into Three Rivers rehab center, met new doctors, started new meds, and seemed to fully understand that his family really did love him, regardless of sexual orientation. He really felt better, he said, and was ready to get back to school. My parents, though scared, agreed to let him go as long as he was meeting with doctors up there weekly and checking in by phone every night. It seemed a better alternative than quitting school and sitting at home, and I think it was. Henry had a relatively normal sophomore and junior year, had relationships with men and women, hated the final club system that had turned him away, loved Dunster House, and eventually got back in touch with the Kroks. In fact, we had the pleasure of attending the Sixtieth Reunion together, which we both loved. Over the summers Henry worked with Philips Brooks House, helping kids in Costa Rica and immigrants in Cambridge, and seemed to be headed in a generally good direction.
Then, at the beginning of his senior year, it all started coming apart. Henry quit his meds around Thanksgiving and was fully, uncontrollably manic by Christmas holidays. What I mean by this is that his behavior was noticeably strange — his normally tidy dorm room was a war zone, his language was vile, he rarely slept, often made no sense, and sustained unbelievably high energy levels. Instead of merely greeting people on the street (as he did normally), he started long conversations with total strangers. His spending habits were out of control, he was gaining weight at a rapid pace, and his normally straight-A average nearly dropped to all failing grades. By intercession, Henry had been kicked out of Dunster House both for smoking (after repeated warnings) and for making students uncomfortable in the dining hall.
Henry never went back to school — he went to UHS the day he was kicked out. The doctors who saw him could tell he was obviously out of control and they admitted him (voluntarily, though under strong suggestion) to McLean mental hospital in Belmont. Henry refused treatment there and the doctors took him to court in an attempt to forcibly inject him with suppressants and start treating him. Henry defended himself in court successfully and the judge released him. Henry struck a deal with my father to get rent money in exchange for doing whatever a doctor of his choice prescribed for him to do. Of course, manic Henry took the money and took no advice! In a matter of months, he was fighting with his landlord, quitting job after job, gaining weight, racking up debt, and still threatening to harm everyone who wanted to reach out to him. During this whole three-month period Henry repeatedly threatened to kill me, wished our father dead, and said things so explicit and horrible that it eventually helped me understand that something has taken over the mind of the person I loved. It wasn’t Henry talking, it was the illness talking.
Eventually, when the mania wore off late in the spring, Henry calmed down, assessed that he was in trouble, and moved home. My parents had spent a lot of time learning about mental health and attending meetings for parents of children with mental health problems and had learned a few things. First of all, they learned that parents really weren’t in control of their adult children’s lives and there was little or no way they could intervene medically. Secondly, they could take Henry in at home (despite the death threats) and try to give him a steady routine of work and a subtle offer for the best medical care available, an offer that Henry took. Over the last few months of Henry’s life, he reconciled with my father, was well loved in our home town, and seemed to be doing all right. We knew, statistically, because of his level of illness and previous suicide attempts, that Henry’s illness could eventually end in suicide. This is a hard scenario to swallow — that when you’re doing everything you can, it just might not be enough. And in Henry’s case it was not.
Henry hung himself, which is a very deliberate way to end your own life, if you ask me, on Monday, July 30th. It’s impossible for a healthy mind to understand what it must be like to feel there is absolutely no hope and absolutely no value left in life. It’s sad, it’s difficult to understand, and the only answer in my mind is to equate Henry’s illness with a terminal disease that eventually took his life.
When something goes wrong with your heart or you develop cancer, doctors know what to do. In these cases, everyone, especially the patient, is motivated to help the healing process. The brain is the most complex organ in the body and on top of that, when something goes haywire, the patient is often not only unaware, but in total disbelief that it could even be possible. If you think you know someone who is suffering from depression, bipolar disorders, schizophrenia, or anything else personality related, the best book my family has found is titled I’m Not Sick, I Don’t Need Help by Xavier Amador. It’s a quick read and infinitely helpful for understanding a loved one with a personality-disorder mental illness.
Every case of mental disorder is complicated and unique, but there are enough suicides, success stories, and cases in between that it honestly shocks me that people don’t talk about mental illness more or know more about it, especially among Harvard kids In the three years between Henry’s first attempt and his death, we had the joy of understanding Henry better, of loving him unconditionally, of trying everything to help. Many cases don’t end this way — some cases result in success stories that often include therapy and annual medication tune-ups. Other cases end up in the criminal justice system, homelessness, or awful unending family problems. We’re thankful that if this tragedy had to happen, it happened after Henry made peace with the family and happened at home. My mother found Henry and my father took him down. They said goodbye to his body before the paramedics arrived, but had already grieved and prepared to say goodbye to his spirit. My family has faith that there are great things at work in the world than we can never understand, including tragic events, and we now see it as part of our lives to honor my brother by making conversations about mental illness, especially manic- depression, easier for everyone who needs to talk about it. My family is doing fine and we’re at peace with Henry’s death. In the process, we asked ourselves two big questions: Could we have done anything more? And should I feel guilty that there’s a sense of relief in my family now? I’m satisfied that we did all we could, except maybe twenty-hour surveillance, which is no way to live at all. As for the second question, I don’t feel guilty that I’m relieved. I’m relieved for my parents, who have been through hell, but most of all I’m relieved for Henry, who suffered more than anyone else in this situation. He’s at peace now, I’m sure of it.
Please, Kroks, if you have any lingering questions — if any of this email speaks to you and you want to know more or just want to talk, call me or talk to other Kroks with experience in this area — they are out there, I promise. I don’t think there was anything more that could have been done for Henry, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t more that could be done for someone you know and love. At the very least, you’ll understand your loved one better if they’re seriously bipolar. Thanks, Kroks, for being there for me and each other. I’m here for you now if you need me.
Nunc,
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