Because I Stayed

February 9, 1990, I walked into a room full of people sat down, and did my best not to cry.

It was my first AA meeting.

I was terrified but I stayed.

During the break I cried in the ladies room.

A lovely woman named Carol, stayed with me in the ladies room, talked me in off the ledge and promised to meet me at another meeting.

That was the day that changed the trajectory of my life.

Rather to succumbing to the horror that alcoholism has to offer, I put my faith in a room full of drunks and a power greater than myself that I truly did not understand.

All I knew was that I never again wanted to feel the way that I did that night.

I never wanted to spend another night with my face in a toilet.

I never wanted to spend another day having my friends recount my idiotic actions because I had drunk myself into a blackout.

These past three (plus) decades have not been without a desire to drink. I have had that many times...I just haven't given in.

Most days are really easy. I don't live a life that revolves around partying like I did back in the day, so not drinking is pretty easy. In fact, I rarely even think about it.

When things are rough and tough, when I have to fight for my life, when I am fighting for someone else's life, when things are difficult my 'sobriety shield' is raised high. I am ready, I am on the lookout, I am constantly making sure that I am aware of my weaknesses and I am on guard.

But, when things are going well and life has settled into an easy pattern with no drama or hysterics, that's when I want to drink.

My mind will begin to fantasize about "a" glass of wine or "a" beer. Neither of which did I ever have just one of.

The "ism" of alcoholism is always waiting for me to slip up and pick up a drink.

The "ism" is a thief. It's a devious little POS that waits for my guard to be down so it can convince me that a drink would bad situation better and a good situation great. Lies!

I am constantly aware that my thoughts can slip which would cause me to slip and I have no doubt that is a fall I would not survive.

In the early days of my sobriety I pretty much lived in meetings.

I did 30 in thirty days and even after that hit 3-5 per week, went on speaking engagements or drove friends, who had lost their licenses, to meetings.

I love the fellowship and I the atmosphere. Most people there had a common goal: sobriety.

While I rarely attend meetings now the lessons of those early days have stuck. Not the least of which were steps 1, 2, & 3.

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable. 
2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. 
3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

In the early days I didn't have a clear understanding of God. All I knew was I was not the one who created the moon and stars. I was not responsible for the sun rising and setting every day and the things that I had tried to do on my own had gotten me to where I was.

I quickly found a sponsor who was able to see through my outer shell, talk to me in terms that I could grasp and summed up the first three steps in a much less wordy way:

1. I can't.
2. He can.
3. I think I'll let Him.

As long a I was giving up control I would be alright.

Early on I resented the crap out of the fact that I am an alcoholic. I didn't like the label. I hated not being able to drink! Thirty-four years later and I can still tell you which cabinet the Tequila was in the day I decided to call the AA hotline.

Ask a "normal" person where the Tequila was in their liquor cabinet 34 years ago and I bet they'd look at you as if you're insane!

Over time the first three steps morphed into a much greater understanding of the Serenity Prayer.

Some days I practice it much better than others. I am not perfect but I really do try. And the best part of being sober this long is that my kids have never seen me drunk. God willing, they never will.

To this day my favorite meetings are the Newcomer meetings where I can hear that it's still the same crapshow out there that it was 34 years ago. Nothing has changed except the people sitting at the bar.

I have never hidden my sobriety or the fact that I am an alcoholic. I always make time to help those in need or lend an ear to those whose loved ones are still actively drinking.

If you, or someone you love, are struggling with alcoholism, please know that there are people out there who want to help. 

Helping others, helps us. All you have to do is ask.

Serenity, Courage and Wisdom. 

May God bless you with all three.

His Passion

Four years ago this morning I kissed my father goodbye for the last time.

He had been diagnosed with bladder cancer in September and took his final breath on December 3, 2010.

The world has not been the same since.

We all know that our parents are supposed to die before us. In fact, anytime someone loses a child the saying is, "You're not supposed to bury your children." It's a natural order of things to let the parents go first.

That being said, it doesn't make the loss any easier.

Dad was one of the healthiest guys I've ever known. He quit smoking in the '70s, rarely drank to excess, ate well and was not the least bit overweight. What he did suffer from was a genetic predisposition to cancer. Men in our family all get prostate cancer. Dad did but beat it with radioactive seeding. According to the oncologist, it probably wasn't even necessary but dad said that he didn't like living each day with the knowledge that he had cancer in him.

In the end it didn't matter.

Some people just draw a short straw the day they were conceived.  You can't argue with DNA.

After his biopsy confirmed the bladder cancer in September. He was scheduled for surgery in October to have his bladder removed and was trained on how to empty the "bag" that he would be wearing for the rest of his life.

Surgery came and went...the doctor opened him and closed him back up.

In the couple of weeks from the biopsy to surgery, the cancer had grown at lightning speed, breeching the bladder walls and taking over the lower part of his abdomen. There was nothing more that could be done.

He opted for palliative radiation in hopes that it would buy him a little more time but even that wouldn't do much to extend his life or the quality of what he had left.

The family and our friends rallied. We did everything we could to make what time he had left as good as it could be. From coordinating volunteer drivers to radiation and taking dad for his last sail.

Dad, who was a Quaker, turned to his friends and our pastor for spiritual guidance. His belief in God was deep but something he didn't force on others. Over the years we'd had some great conversations about God and spirituality and prior to passing he confided in me that he was concerned about the afterlife as he, "hadn't always been nice to people."

That was the most amazing thing about him.

Even as he lay in bed slowly surrendering to the cancer, his concern was not just about himself but about anyone he might have wronged.

I told him that I highly doubted that if God was willing to forgive those who had done something as heinous as murder, that He would be more than willing to forgive a man who would have yelled at someone because his passion ran high!

Dad was a passionate guy.

If he really believed in something you'd be best to just get out of his way or better yet give him a hand because he's going to draft you to help him anyway. He was instrumental in rescuing a yacht club from near bankruptcy. By the time he stepped down as Commodore the club was in the black, had expanded to put in an in-ground pool, started a sailing school and was holding regular regattas. Mom worked at his side and the club became the family annex. If you came to visit you could pretty much count on working.

Dad's passion easily translated to enthusiasm and you couldn't help but get involved. If you didn't believe in what he was doing he'd be the first to point out that you were wrong and he was known for having a temper and voice to go with it.

One of our friends loved the fact that he could get into a very spirited debate with my dad and when it was over, belly up to the bar and have a beer together. He was not a grudge holder.

He had a great sense of humor but a horrible memory. I could tell him the same joke every year and he'd laugh as if it were the first time he'd heard it.

I loved his laugh.

While he could be a really serious guy at times, he didn't take himself seriously.

Over the years we'd teased him about looking like Inspector Clouseau from the Pink Panther movies and referring to him as Chuckles. One Thanksgiving his sisters teased about attempting a comb-over because he hadn't had time to get his hair cut before the holidays.

He took all of it in stride and would even laugh with us (but did get his hair cut the next day.)

I think that's the thing I miss most...his laugh.

While my boys can look at his picture and know who he is, they will never know his laugh. He would have loved to play with them and I would have loved to have heard him laugh at their antics.

There is not a day that goes by that I do not miss him and I'm not alone. His impact on those around him was astounding! Which is both a blessing and a curse.

While we were all enriched by his presence but we all suffered when he passed. Fortunately, we were left with lots of great memories and stories to share.

While he is no longer here to laugh with us, I take solace in the fact that to this day I can still hear his laughter which makes me smile and warms my heart.