The observant reader will notice that I have skipped chapter two reflecting on my father. That is intentional. Chapter three is the hardest one to right. It is 4:15 am and I meant to say "write" instead of "right" but that word seems more appropriate when I read it again. This is as difficult to write as it is for you to read. It is a part of the miracles sobriety creates and further solidification of my view that there is no such thing as coincidence.
On January 31, 2008 my father had a major stroke. He had a slight one a few years before but had limited physical effect from it. On that day in January of 2008 my dad was relatively healthy. He had sold his businesses and was semi-retired. He had taken a job driving a school bus for Special Needs children to stay busy and make a little extra coin. He was 72 and didn't look or act a day over 60. He still made the rounds to see his buddies. He took mom #2 out to dinner every Saturday night and was very active.
In the late afternoon he pulled over into a parking lot not feeling well. His vision was distorted and he was not sure where he was at. He had a hard time processing and conveying his thoughts. A stranger came to his aid and helped him phone my sister Rose. He was frightened and hysterical. My sister went to where the Good Samaritan had said my father could be found. She immediately took him to the hospital. Tests were done. He ran the gauntlet of EKGs, EEGs and LMNOPs.
The stroke had left him 80% blind but didn't affect his mental capacity or communication. He was free spirited, active, a live life to the fullest guy one moment and robbed of his independence the next. His license was revoked and his car sold. His car was his freedom and it was now gone. The next 2 years would be devastating on him and everyone in our family. He refused to be treated as a blind person and it sent him spiraling into a dark depression.
It was during this time that my dad came to see me perform comedy at Barrel O' laughs in Oak Lawn. I was sneaking drinks instead of treasuring the moment. My sister Christine had arranged to take my dad to the club and I was shocked and thrilled that he had made it. I never got drunk when doing comedy because there are so many sequences and transitions in material where a clear mind is required. The crowd was sparse that night but I was thrilled. I could hear the "yuck, yuck" of my dad's unique laugh as I did my set with him sitting just a few feet away. It was the only time he saw me perform and he told me he was proud of me. It was music to my ears.
I was drinking heavily at this time. I would be sober one year after his stroke. That is where coincidence got thrown out the door. During that year of drinking, while my Dad was trapped inside a body that wouldn't cooperate with him, I spoke to him often by phone and visited occasionally. For an addict the emotional pain we experience, and try to avoid thinking about, becomes more important than helping our loved ones with the physical reality of the pain they face. We usually run as fast as we can in the opposite direction. I just couldn't cope with thinking of him drifting away. To me, avoidance was easier than facing the reality that my hero had become a broken old man in the span of just a few months.
He was in and out of hospitals over that year but at home most of the time. I dreaded every conversation and visit we had. I didn't know what to say. He wanted it all to end and had thrown in the towel. There would be no rehabilitation or "I can make it through this" attitude. For the once fearless Southside tough guy, he had surrendered not only to his physical limitations, but to his physical existence here. When we would get together I would take him out for a pizza and a beer and listen to my indestructible idol talk of last plans and how he wanted things when he passed. I would leave him and return home to drink away the pain of his impending death. He was the one dying, not me. While I was with him my empathy was limited by my desire to leave him and use. I was going through the motions of the loyal son but dying to drop him off and check out of myself.
Before the first year anniversary of his devastating blindness I stopped drinking. There was no preplanned date or ceremonial days set in the future like a drunk usually does. I just said enough is enough. I couldn't take it one more day. That was January 17, 2009. I didn't realize at the time that it was God's time for me to quit because I had turned to him in desperation and completely surrendered to my alcoholism. I was powerless over alcohol. I finally came to understand that I could not stay sober by my will power alone. I needed God, other people in recovery and family to help me get a hold of my self again. I was 41 and had been using "something" since I was 17.
I always held a picture in my mind of my father in his mid-forties, even when he was getting older. It seems like we bookmark a specific age in our loved one's lives that gives us the fondest memories. I knew my dad was in his seventies but it wasn't until he went blind that the numerical birth date caught up to his physical being. It was at this time I began calling my mother more frequently. The fragility of life and need to mend fences was growing thick on my soul.
When I saw my dad sober our relationship took on a new dynamic. I could be there for him and called him regularly to see how he was doing. On a visit to Applebee's shortly after his 72nd birthday he gave me one of his prized pinkie rings and a bracelet. I accepted them graciously and it stung to hear all of his "the end" talk. He sipped his beer and asked if I could make him a promise. I, of course, said name it. He requested that I take his ashes back to Ireland to the Ring of Kerry and Sneem and that a bagpiper play "Danny Boy" at his memorial service. It was information overload. For some reason, even as a drunk or when sober, if there was a crisis I could kick into "I'll make it happen" mode. It was like the Don made a request and I shook my head in assurance that the job would be done to his satisfaction.
His mental health began to suffer from the torture of his blindness and the inability to be independent grated on him. Each day I could see him falling farther into an abyss of depression and darkness. Often he would stare at the ceiling, no doubt questioning God as to "Why me?" I asked God those same questions. My dad was an agnostic leaning on the edge of Atheism. I feared for his eternity. I understood the mind games of having no control of our actions and trying to get through life in one piece. We watched football and Cub Games and hours of FOX news. It was his favorite "fair and balanced" source of information.
My "udda mudda" and sisters took care of him at home as long as they possibly could. I am grateful for that. They probably kept him there too long. The 24 hour shifts between everyone in the house was a nonstop cattle call and room check to see how he was doing. Outside medical professionals made regular visits and I did what I could. My part of the care giving was showering and shaving Dad.
On the weekends the ladies of the house had shopping to do and activities to distract them from the overwhelming demands that home care puts on everyone involved. My dad was 73 but looked and acted 90. He was feeble and in and out mentally. While bathing him it struck me that this was my big strong idol and here I was bathing him and treating him like a child. I was grateful to be sober and been given the strength to handle the job. I would not dare take on the responsibility while drunk. Emotional responsibility was an impossibility for me when I was drinking. It would be easier to deny his death than have to watch it unfold in front of me.
While I was shaving him he would talk about memories of his childhood visits to Canada and his grandmother baking cakes and pastries. His grandfather was a Canadian Mountie and my dad's recall of detail was uncanny. But if you asked him what he ate 10 minutes ago he replied with a somber, "I don't know." While I was cutting nails, brushing teeth and hair he would tell me how proud he was of me and how much he loved me. He called me "little buddy." I was proud to be Gilligan to the Skipper.
When it became too much for the family to care for him at home any longer, he was moved into a permanent facility. I still visited him for his weekly shave and loved to make him laugh. I got my sense of humor from him and making him laugh while being sober was better than any drug I had ever tried. We talked of faith and took communion and his beliefs about the end began to change. To say he went religious would be an untruth. He did open his mind to the possibility and I am confident he made it to heaven.
After he passed I missed going to the home to give him his shave. I felt guilty for the days when I went begrudgingly. God had granted me the grace of sobriety at the exact moment. It was the time my father needed me most. I got the approval and love from my dad I had craved for 44 years. To those of you experiencing the challenges of family home care I feel ya! It is a tough ride for all involved. If I wouldn't have gotten sober when I did, I never would have had the honor of serving my father like he had helped me hundreds of times before that.
When he left this world for the next, I had no regrets. He was free from his pain and enjoying the splendor of paradise. I miss him and think of him daily, but I left all the cards and emotional baggage on the table. I said everything I had always wanted to say to him and heard all the things from him I wanted to hear. It hurt when he was gone but I feel him with me all of the time. There are moments that are still overwhelming. Since I was sober I can remember every minute and give thanks to God for getting me sober on that January day in 2009. It was no coincidence. It was God's plan in his time. God answers our prayers on his schedule, not ours. To the Skipper, I love you and I am proud I was your first mate.
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