I was probably 15 or 16 when I caught my father drinking. It was a school-day afternoon, I remember. The other details from the day fade now, almost 25 years later, but I remember it was sunny and the house was quiet. My dad had picked me up from high school, as was usual. When we got home, I settled on the couch to start my afternoon television binge of Saved by the Bell, Out of this World, and my other favorites.
I heard my dad quietly slip out of the front door. This is something he would do several times during the afternoon, and normally I ignored it. But for whatever reason, today I took notice. Yes, I had some certainty about what he was probably doing, but he was my dad. He told me and our family he was no longer drinking. My mom confronted him on it almost daily, from what she now tells me. She bought a breathalyzer, she’d taken his car keys away a dozen times, and she lived in a constant state of anxiety, fear and guilt… something any co-dependent of alcoholism knows only too well. And I trusted him still. Despite the past mistakes, and besides the obvious evidence, I really wanted to believe he put his family before the bottle. Why would anyone put alcohol before their family? But the suspicion was heavy, and it was hard not to watch dad out of the corner of my eye with every step, every breath, every sound.
This wasn’t a new phenomenon. It was only a year or so prior that my dad suffered a life-threatening stroke. At age 50, this was more than debilitating. He survived miraculously, but his speech was so severely impounded, there was question of any recovery. His body was wrecked. No one knew if or when he would recover. It was heart wrenching, for him and the family. Dad was the family energy for so long. A natural athlete and passionate about exercise and activity, he was lean and handsome and gloriously charming. I worshiped him. He was everything to me, and to see his fall from glory literally overnight would force me out of a somewhat protected adolescence like ripping off a band aid.
I decided to follow him just this once. I left the TV on and snuck around to the front door as my heart started to pound. I felt like a spy in the movies as I followed him outside and over to the side walk. Bobbing between trees and shrubs for cover, I stayed far enough back to remain hidden. I remember he didn’t turn back once.
The sidewalk across the street from the house veers around and a set of cement stairs leads down a narrow path to a lower street. I watched my dad walk down the stairs and out of sight. I waited, wondering what my next move should be. If I followed him down and he turned around, my cover would be shot. So I waited. It was only a minute or two before his head bobbed back up from the stair well and he started heading back to the house.
I crouched behind a car and waited for him to go back into the house. Then I slowly walked down the stair well. After just a few steps I found what I was looking for. A brown bag clumsily hidden next to a bush. I opened it silently with my hands shaking. A plastic bottle of gin, almost empty.
I was angry. I was scared. What happens now? For a teenager whose whole life was flipped upside down over the course of the past year, this felt like the end of the world. I’d have to tell mom. She’d be furious. But maybe I would talk to dad first; tell him I know his secret. Maybe he’d promise to stop if I talk to him. Maybe he doesn’t realize how much this hurts me?
He was sitting at the kitchen table sorting through the mail. I sat down.
“Dad, I know you’re drinking. I saw the brown bag on the stairs.”
My dad looked at me in surprise. This is not something we talked about. This was a family secret, something only the house walls could see with certainty, and mostly buried deep inside us.
My dad’s eyes welled up with tears. The shame was palpable. He groaned a little. Maybe he wanted to say something? Or maybe there was nothing to say.
He took his hand and make a gun gesture with his index finger and thumb. Then he pointed to his head and grunted “Pow!”
I started to cry. I didn’t know parents thought about suicide. I couldn’t imagine my parents wanting to die. Yet there he was, telling me with his body and eyes that was all he wanted in the world right now.
Later, when I told my mom what happened, she seemed unnerved. This was par for the course on a daily battle she largely hid from me and my siblings. Looking back, I can only imagine the things she’s seen and heard my dad do that would rattle me to the bone. I wish I could say this experience changed my dad but it did not. Nothing changed, and for years we watched my father slowly kill himself in secret. We rarely discussed it, with him… with each other… Alcoholism is a disease of secrets and shame.
I used to pray my dad would stop drinking. It’s funny how God answers our prayers. My dad is still here and kicking. 76 years old. He cannot walk and his speech is still extremely impaired. He has a live-in nurse to care for him and he spends his days switching between Judge Judy and UFC fighting. He is alert and sober, but not by choice. He lost body freedom many years ago and can no longer fuel his demons.
He’s a good man. He’s a loving man. He is my dad and I love him more than words. But I know without question that even today, with his children, wife and grand kids surrounding him with kindness and hugs and unconditional love, he would still choose the bottle. He would choose it over every single one of us. God is all-powerful but so is the devil. So I thank God for removing that choice from him. I thank God my kids have a grandfather who is sober. And I thank God that I’ve witnessed this emotional journey so I don’t make the same mistakes.
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