Читать книгу Forming True Partnerships - Группа авторов - Страница 16

December 2010

My father was my hero. Actually, he still is, even though he passed away in November of 2005. He was a man of great character and integrity and had an incredible sense of humor, which he maintained right up to the very end of his life. Shortly before he died, when he was in the final stages of emphysema and struggling to breathe, my mother tried to comfort him. “Joe, we are so lucky,” she whispered (speaking of the 43 years of marriage they had shared). He just looked up and without missing a beat remarked, “Yeah, if I could breathe, I’d be whistling.”

That was my father, quick-witted and always with a smile on his face. He could make me laugh at the drop of a hat, and our daily phone calls always consisted of lots of funny stories and lots of love.

It wasn’t always that way. Growing up as the only girl with three younger brothers, I found plenty to complain about. Our family life revolved around sports, particularly hockey and baseball. My father would make sure he made every Little League game and hockey practice for each of “the boys” and it seemed like our lives revolved around tryouts, practices and games. The missed dinners, the countless weekend afternoons spent on baseball fields and hockey rinks made me very resentful and jealous. I felt like the odd girl out. As a rebellious teenager who knew it all, I staged my own personal baseball strike. I stopped going to the games and avoided family dinner time altogether.

Eventually, somewhere along the line, things between me and my dad improved. We began to get closer and even began talking, I mean really talking with each other. Growing up and maturing has a way of doing that. Or maybe it was when he stopped drinking—or when I did. I sort of think it was a combination of it all. One thing is for sure, the end of “our” drinking definitely played a huge role in this transformation.

As a young girl, my father’s drinking had an enormous affect on me. I hated Friday nights because he would head straight to the bar with his friends and not come home until 3 or 4 in the morning. All through the night, I would keep peeking out my bedroom window, to see if his car was in the driveway yet. The vision of the empty driveway still fills my heart with pain. Eventually, he would make his way home and I would then wake up to the sounds of him and my mother yelling at each other in the kitchen. Even though I would cover my head with my pillow to block out the tearful pleas of my mother, these arguments penetrated my soul.

I know it sounds terrible, but I was ashamed of my father’s drunken behavior. I grew up watching “The Brady Bunch,” and Mike Brady certainly never behaved this way. I was so embarrassed by this and could not share it with anyone, not even my best friend. She came from the perfect family. Her father was a lawyer and they lived on the nice side of town (actually, her father ended up representing my father on several of his DUIs—so I guess the secret was out anyway).

I did not like the person my dad became when he drank. He wasn’t violent or abusive, but he just wasn’t himself. I would cringe at family gatherings when he picked up that first drink. I knew that one always led to another, and another, and another. He was funny and entertaining for a short time, but then always became sloppy and I would get annoyed. Although I loved my father deeply, I didn’t like to be around him when he drank.

And then he stopped drinking. To be honest, I do not remember the exact date when my father decided to stop or what events led to it. What I do remember is that all of sudden he was not drinking anymore. There were no proclamations, no intervention, no rehab—he just stopped. I guess enough had become enough. Although his decision was evidently a private one, it had a tremendous impact on my entire family. The embarrassment and shame was replaced with deep love, respect and affection. As a sober man, he was all that I could ever hope a father would be (and put Mike Brady to shame!).

Unfortunately, things had not gotten completely better, because I had started drinking. At first, it was just because all my friends were doing it, but pretty quickly it became apparent that I drank differently from my friends. I now know that I was born with this genetic predisposition to alcoholism, but for years I believed that I was just a girl who liked to party hard. And, boy, did I ever. Over the next 20-something years, my drinking went from something I did socially, to loosen up and enjoy myself, to something I needed to do every night just to calm my nerves. It was no longer an option, it was a necessity.

In June of 2001 my father had a talk with me. He told me how concerned he was about my drinking and that I needed to stop. I felt numb. I couldn’t believe he had just addressed the elephant in the room. I thought I had hidden it so well from my family; obviously I hadn’t. And one of the most powerful moments during that conversation was the realization that here I was—the one who was so ashamed of him when he was a dopey drunk—having to face the reality that I was now the one filling that role. I was filled with shame and remorse.

About a month later I went to my first AA meeting. That date—July 15, 2001—has become one of the most important dates in my life. Immediately after that first meeting I called my father. I was crying, but I also felt like a huge weight was off my shoulders. His birthday had been the day before, and when I told him where I had just been he said, “You don’t have to give me another birthday present for the rest of my life.”

Sobriety brought us even closer. We talked almost every day and he was my biggest supporter in this new life. During my first 90 days he counted every day with me. He would constantly tell me how proud he was of me (something I never remember from my childhood) and I can’t even count the number of times he said, “You’ve come a long way, baby!” We were no longer hiding behind the alcohol; we were experiencing love, pure and simple—and it was because we were both sober.

Sobriety taught me many things. First and foremost, I learned that alcoholism was indeed a disease, not a moral weakness. I also learned about compassion, that you could “love the person and not the disease.” I eventually realized that all those times I was embarrassed by my father’s drinking and behavior (and my own, for that matter), it was actually the effects of the alcohol that I couldn’t stand. I had always loved the person underneath.

In the fall of 2005, while I was visiting my parents, my father told me that he’d had a dream about his funeral, and that he had written the eulogy. When I asked him for details, he didn’t want to talk about it (we were still dancing around the whole death conversation). A few minutes later he said, “OK, I’ll tell you part of it. My life has been like a baseball game—I had good innings, and bad innings, and I found God in the bottom of the ninth.”

I was floored by this spiritual revelation from a man who did not attend church and never really talked about God. It became apparent that as he moved closer to his own death, he had finally reached out and found what he needed to process this whole experience. Of course, what didn’t surprise me was the sports analogy—that was classic “Joe.”

My father passed away a few weeks later. Losing my hero was devastating, but I found great comfort and solace in the fact that he had made a spiritual connection prior to his death. This helped immensely during the days and weeks that followed. Knowing that he had come to terms with his own mortality helped me accept it as well. It also helped me stay sober. I had always thought that when my father died, I would have to get drunk. When that day did come I didn’t have the slightest desire to pick up a drink, which in itself was miraculous. I also knew that there wasn’t enough wine in California to take away the pain, and that drinking would just make it all worse.

It is coming up on three-and-a-half years since his death, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about my father. Often I find it hard to believe that he has been gone this long, but I have so many wonderful memories of him, and they always bring a smile to my face. I guess I have come to terms with his death, but I still miss him terribly. And while I know it sounds funny coming from a girl who grew up hating sports, what I wouldn’t give for extra innings with him.

Susan B.

Alexandria, Virginia