Buffalo City Official with Manic Depression

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NewsBank, inc. - The Buffalo News - 1999 - Article with Citation
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 Headline:  PRIVATE WORLD OF A PUBLIC FIGURE

 Date:        March 14, 1999
 Page:        A1                       Section:    NEWS
 Edition:     FINAL                    Word Count: 1690

 Author:      PAULA VOELL
              News Staff Reporter

 Index Terms: PROFILE

 Text:
 Walk into the City Hall office of Vincent J. LoVallo, Mayor Masiello's
 chief of staff, and you may hear LoVallo barking at a department head.
 
     "He'll tell the mayor, he'll tell anybody, what he thinks," said
 Peter Savage, LoVallo's longtime assistant,
 
 
     A colorful character who is widely respected, LoVallo gets away with
 saying things that would be considered rude or crude from others.
 
     "He's the last person you want to see at 8 a.m. when you have a
 slight hangover," said one local reporter.
 
     That's vintage LoVallo, though. Always has been, probably always will
 be.
 
     But behind that tough facade there's another LoVallo, a vulnerable
 guy who fights manic depression.
 
     While suffering periods of depression, LoVallo has skipped showering,
 felt too paralyzed to make a decision and folded himself into a fetal
 position on the basement floor.
 
     Manic, he flies. As streets commissioner (a position he held for four
 years), he went without sleep for days and nights. In his personal life,
 he once bought a house without consulting his wife and has purchased TV
 sets and a car during spending binges.
 
     "Enough is enough," said Lo-Vallo about his decision to tell his
 story.
 
     What he hopes is that the stigma of the illness will be lessened.
 That another person, ashamed to go to a doctor, might decide to seek
 help. That people will know that it's possible to function, even excel,
 in high-profile, stress-filled jobs.
 
     And, maybe, he figures it's time to say out loud what some must have
 guessed and others wondered about when they witness his mood swings.
 
     "I'm resigned to the fact that I'm going to take a beating for being
 public about this," said LoVallo.
 
     "You know what? I don't care. I feel good about doing it. It's been
 hidden too long."
 
     LoVallo -- son of the late Dominic LoVallo, once Buffalo's parks
 commissioner -- was interviewed in Room 201 of City Hall and later at his
 North Buffalo home with his family. It includes his wife, Sharon, an
 assistant district attorney, who, at 29, is 18 years his junior; their
 children Sarah, 3, and Dominic, 18 months; and Leah, 19, and Deana, 22,
 daughters from a previous marriage.
 
     "It kind of kick-started me to talk about it when I realized how
 ashamed people are," he said. "It's just an ailment, like cancer or
 diabetes. What are we supposed to do, call people freaks when they have
 illnesses?" asked LoVallo, a politico who is well familiar with the
 workings and intrigue of City Hall.
 
     He also knows a lot about his condition, which afflicts 1 percent of
 this country's population.
 
     He learned the hard way.
 
     While in his early 20s, LoVallo was driving a snowplow for the family
 business on the first day of the Blizzard of '77, exhausted after plowing
 for 30 days straight.
 
     "As I drove down Kenmore Avenue, I heard on the radio 'You haven't
 seen anything yet,' " he said. "I got out of my Jeep and just started
 crying."
 
     Dr. Richard E. Wolin, a psychiatrist, diagnosed the disorder, more
 recently called bipolar disease. What LoVallo found out was that it is a
 genetic condition, a neurobiological disorder caused by an imbalance in
 brain chemistry. (LoVallo signed a release to allow his doctor to talk to
 the media.) Starting then, 22 years ago, he began taking Lithium.
 
     "That's why my hands shake," he said holding them out to demonstrate
 a tremor. He's added the anti-depressant Prozac and Clonazepam, to allay
 anxiety.
 
     Early intervention helps, Wolin said, because while initial episodes
 are usually triggered by outside stress, "later ones can occur
 autonomously, as if the brain, biologically, has learned to have more
 episodes."
 
     LoVallo, "Corky" to his cronies, knows he's a lifer with Lithium.
 
     "If I go off, it's a whole 'nother life," he said.
 
     His illness follows a predictable cycle: worst at the beginning of
 fall, Christmas, Easter and July 4 -- all about three months apart. "Four
 times a year, I'm vulnerable," he said. "I have to be conscious of those
 and prepare myself in the best way I know how."
 
     Still, his exuberant mood can be replaced by gloom -- the way a sunny
 day in Buffalo is taken over by storm clouds, threatening and immovable.
 
     "You try to dig yourself out," he said, "but you just can't do it."
 He talks about how sadly ironic it is to feel joyless on Christmas
 morning, surrounded by all he wants -- a loving family, a good job, a
 "halfway decent reputation."
 
     "Everyone is opening presents and I don't care," he said. "It's like
 (I'm feeling) I don't need to be here."
 
     Before LoVallo accepted the streets commissioner job in 1993, he laid
 everything out to Masiello.
 
     "I just respect the heck out of the guy," said Masiello, who has
 known him for years but wasn't aware of his condition until then. "Not
 everyone has it in their hearts and minds to perform the way he does. I
 look at who he is and what he is, not at his problems.
 
     "Is he high strung? Yes. Is he moody? Yes. But I'm a bottom-line guy
 -- are you doing the job? And he is, in exemplary fashion."
 
     So it hurt LoVallo when he realized he had to abandon the streets
 because it took too much out of him. "Now I can go home and relax and not
 have to worry about snow," he said. "But I miss it because I feel I'm
 good at it. When I was commissioner, I think people got their money's
 worth."
 
     Now, as buffer between the mayor and the rest of the world, he's
 still in a hot seat. He gets to it by 7 a.m. and says he seldom misses a
 day of work.
 
     "I come in," he said. "There are people to see. Work to get done. A
 city to piece together. If you stay home, you just dwell on it," said
 LoVallo, who sometimes speaks about the problem as if it belongs to
 someone else.
 
     On days when he's in a fog, he knows he's slower at making decisions.
 
     "Even at half speed I'm better than most at full speed," he said.
 "I'm not bragging. It's what I feel is a fact."
 
     LoVallo admits that he feels cheated knowing that some jobs, mayor
 included, are out of his reach. "But I also feel fortunate to be in the
 position I'm in," he said.
 
     Most of his ranting and raving, veteran observers say, is about
 running a responsive government. Department heads called into Room 201,
 for one, are told to drop excuses about providing service and to "just do
 it -- now."
 
     LoVallo thinks his creativity gets fired up from being bipolar.
 
     "If I'm on a high, look out," said LoVallo, who has been known to
 stir up a barbershop gathering, a movie theater lobby or an audience. "It
 just keeps coming, whether it's work or pounding somebody into the ground
 verbally."
 
     Savage, LoVallo's assistant, says LoVallo is an impatient guy who is
 a quick take on issues.
 
     "He likes to get things done -- boom, boom, boom -- and go on," he
 said. "He's the quick hit and I fill in the pieces."
 
     Savage is often the brunt of LoVallo's zingers, including being
 called "Fatso." His favorite retort is to tell LoVallo, who has a paunch,
 that he's "the man who has no mirrors."
 
     LoVallo's worst episode -- the only time he was hospitalized -- came
 in 1995.
 
     While streets commissioner, he spiraled into a deep depression and
 ended up in Bry-Lin Hospital. He relates how other patients did a double
 take when he appeared on a television newscast.
 
     He assured them: "Yeah, that's me."
 
     As the LoVallos -- who appear to be a solid team -- look back, they
 understand the dynamics that put him there: skipping medication, job
 pressures and concern about Sharon, pregnant then with their first child.
 
     "We didn't do a lot we could have," said Mrs. LoVallo. "Maybe it was
 ignorance, maybe denial. We're more together now."
 
     During the pregnancy, she was diagnosed with a rare blood disorder
 which could potentially affect the baby. (Today, Sarah is a bright and
 charming 3-year-old.)
 
     "I went to 10 doctors, but Vinnie hadn't been to see his doctor in a
 year or two," she said. "Then, right after the baby was born, he came to
 the hospital and I knew he wasn't right."
 
     He was coming off a winter when Buffalo had gotten pounded with snow.
 
     "It was a war out there," he said. "That was my snow. Those were my
 streets."
 
     When he began pacing the floor at night and was sick, they knew they
 needed help. After LoVallo was hospitalized for two weeks, he understood
 that he had to make changes.
 
     "As you get older, you realize there's no fooling around," he said.
 "This is not a game. You will bring a lot of people down with you."
 
     Now, when he takes medication, gets enough sleep, eats well and sees
 his doctor, he keeps the worst symptoms at bay.
 
     "I would say that in the last few years he is doing well, very well,"
 said Wolin, his doctor.
 
     Before they were married six years ago, LoVallo presented his future
 wife with a book on manic depression.
 
     But it couldn't prepare her for his retreat to the "foxhole," a
 basement room with an easy chair, a television, a computer and a pantry.
 Or making decisions alone, as she once did.
 
     While she cuts him some slack, she won't let him slide as far as he
 did. He has to take his medicine.
 
     "We support him, but he has to do his part," said Mrs. LoVallo.
 
     He's down from five cups of coffee to two. He drinks bottled water
 instead of having a Diet Pepsi and Reese's peanut butter cups for lunch.
 
     He still smokes two to three packs of cigarettes a day, however. "My
 doctor wants me to give these up," he said, "but I told him he can't have
 everything."
 
     At the end of a long conversation, Mrs. LoVallo added: "I would hate
 for anyone to think this is all there is to Vinnie. It's just not.
 
     "He's a warm, funny, compassionate guy -- and sometimes he's a weenie
 -- but this disease isn't all there is to him. It's not everything you
 are as a person."

 Graphic:  
 Mayor Masiello
 BILL WIPPERT/Buffalo News
 Vincent J. LoVallo, chief of staff for Mayor Masiello, talking about his
 mental illness.

 Copyright (C) 1999,  The Buffalo News

 Accession Number: 9903140188
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