So Busy You Forget Your Own Memories....

There is an old adage hung on young baseball players who are entering their second year in the bigs. It's called the Sophomore Slump. It is a reference to players having career setbacks in their second season. Some go through it, some do not. Most of them have some growth, and a few setbacks.

July 21, 2012 marked the second anniversary of my father's death. Ironically the official release of my book SOUL PAROLE is this weekend the 28th. I didn't plan for it to work out that way. The day was based on the publishing date and hall availability. The exact time of Dads' death was 7:27pm.

I decided to write about how I'm feeling a few days before the weekend. I was thinking that his passing was this weekend at 7:21 pm. Thinking of dad, and my mental mix-up is eye opening. My melancholy has been replaced with shock that I had dropped the ball.. I could cry on a dime. When I think about the friends who are coming out to support the book launch, I could cry on that same dime. The first is born from a loss. The second a mark of accomplishment. The reconciliation and personal success was a direct result of teamwork. For this whole week I've been thinking his death was on 7-27-10 at 7:21pm. I was scheduled to do an interview on the 27th. I made a mental note that it was ironic to be honoring his memory on that date. I thought Pop would think it was pretty cool.

I wrote about my Pop in Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself quite a bit. It was a natural. Although we only lived under the same roof for the first two years of my life we were together quite a bit as I grew up. I yearn to hear his unmistakable laugh. I have been so busy, I flipped the date with the time of his passing.

I often write about starting over. We can do it any day, or moment, we choose. Before the Big Bopper moved on to the Isle of Green in the heavens I was given the gift ofgrace before his passing. My despair would be doubly compounded if I had not squared the wreckage of my past with him before he moved on. I am glad he is at peace. I am grateful the book was closed free of regrets.

It is easy to conjure up smells that please us, and some we would love to forget. When you read the words buttered popcorn and burning leaves, the aroma immediately wafts into your mind and nose. They are permanently burned into our honkers. The same can be said for dead skunk. Our snouts have uncanny recall.

My Dad had a smell that was unique to him. I'm recalling it now. They say we are dirty Irish but that refers to mixed blood lines, not personal hygiene. It seems our clan got an extra chromosome of oily hair and skin. With it comes it's own. The smell our hyper oil output creates is not foul. It is just one of those smells I can recall like popcorn and leaves. I have the same condition sans the unique smell. If the day comes that I do, I will know I have lived a rich life, and be reminded of my Pop daily.


When I received the initial shipment of books from the publisher I ripped open the first one like a kid at Christmas. The smell of cardboard, and new book surrounded me. I bathed in it. I felt contentment as I gazed upon the piles of my creation. It was burned into the "never forget" smell file.


There was a time when I thought I had written a book. I now see that my Dad and friends wrote it with me. I just held the pen. There are at least 100 of my friends nestled in the pages. Each one of them should be listed as contributors. I do mention several of them in the  Special Thanks section. If I listed all the people who have touched and enriched my life, it would read like the family trees from the Old Testament.

Last weekend I was relaxing in my garage after work and was enjoying the sights and smells of a mid summer night evening. I could hear the calls of frogs and cicadas. The wind was whispering and a few of the neighborhood dogs were taking claim of the night. Their howls were like challenges between canine warriors. I was just taking it all in.

For a moment THAT smell wafted around me. I turned quickly to see if he was standing behind me. I called Squeaky into the garage. She said she didn't notice. I would like to think he was there. It lingered for about a minute or so. I called out and told him I missed him. I could imagine his pride in how far I have come in recovery and life. The smells I longed for disappeared as quickly as they had befallen me. It was the 21st.

We all have goals we want to achieve. There are people whom reside in the dark places in our hearts. This is called the human experience. How we approach them is unique to the individual. Fear can paralyze us from even attempting to catch our dreams. Difficult, and often deeply seeded pains can keep us from trying to reconcile with loved ones. We get busy, and say we'll get to it.

Nothing compares to the liberation you feel when you reach out for a goal or mend a relationships broken fences. I'd rather live at peace with the world than fight to be right. I would rather try and fail, than never try at all. Regrets are living through the retching of daily self poisoning, without death...ad infinitum.

I don't think anyone would say that facing the pink elephants trapped in our souls is easy. It is rewarding, or creates closure on the poison drinking. I know I have a better day when I'm free of the anxiety of fear and resentment. My moods are directly proportionate to how much good or bad energy I'm adding to the cosmos.

It's never to late to become a new you. The Beatles nailed it in Tomorrow Never Knows. This weekend will  be filled with mixed feelings and conflicting emotions. No matter how I feel I will be contented by the fact that I am reaching for the stars and mending life's fences. There will forward progress and some failures. In either case, I am cleaning up my side of the street. My Dad would laugh at the fact that I flipped the date and times. I say good night to him every time my head hits the pillow.

Learning to say "Never Say Never," is an attitude. I like keeping my mind open. I also know that "missing the bus" is a reality.  I hit the sophomore slump with my revised calendar. It's time to get back to the fundamentals, and start over. In the past I have said  that I would give anything to hear my Dad repeat the things I ignored as a kid. If he could talk to me again I know he would say, "Good job kid." I would look back and say, "Thanks Dad. I gave it my best. I couldn't have done it without you." I think about you every day...



SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW at Amazon.com and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com by clicking the link at the top of the page. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

I had Amnesia...What was I Just Saying?

When I share a post about day to day life, I try to keep it real. I have done a fairly good job of that to date. I have been candid about my journey to today. I report my triumphs and tragedies, as well as the silly and the insane. In every entry I try to give a piece of myself to my readers to identify with.

When addiction is active in a household, roles are formed and the family adapts around the sick. Mom or Dad steps in and makes decisions on their own to cover for the user. Enablers are confused when the user gets sober because they no longer have a codependent partner. Kids who were pushed into becoming  grown ups prematurely, are suddenly given their chance to be kids again. The whole family dynamic is thrown into flux. Roles are redefined, and there are growing pains that go with that.

Early in my recovery I had the emotional I.Q. of a young adult. I will turn 47 shortly. Thirteen years ago I began a relationship with a woman who came equipped with three beautiful children. I instantly became a stepfather, a word I loathe. I dove in to my new position head first. For the first few years, there was no water in the pool. It was as if I decided to become a brain surgeon and started doing operations the next day. I was suffering from untreated alcoholism and had lots of issues to work through. I did not handle my new role very well. I have done my best with the job, but quite frankly, I don't really know what I'm doing sometimes.

When it comes to being a good husband and father consistently, I often slip into old thinking. That is an honest assessment of myself. I didn't have a traditional upbringing. I grew up in a single parent home. My mother worked very hard. My father had a family of his own. My sister went her way. I went mine. My grandparents were our neighbors. They were caught in the middle.From my late teens on, we were pretty much on our own. That's not a knock on anyone. That's just the way it was.

My first 3 marriages were not even marriages. I was so far gone. I was barely human. The loss of two children made the relationships impossible to mend. The losses fueled my anger at God and the world. My addictions deepened.  Now I AM a husband and stepfather. I love my kids as though they were my own. Some days I am a champ and on others am clueless, jealous, thoughtless and selfish. I sometimes wonder if I'm fit for either job at all. I am just learning what I am all about, and I seem to make mistake after mistake in the "other people" category. I don't do it intentionally. It just happens.

I have grown in my relationship skills over the last 45 months of recovery.  I still have gaping holes in my "big boy" abilities and skills. There are moments when I see my wife with the kids and feel left out. I understand they are her babies. They will always be held in a different light, as they should. When they disrespect me because "I'm not their Dad," it burns me up when she says nothing. I am her husband. I feel she should demand my respect from them. Now, I understand that respect is earned, not an entitlement. She says it's me. I say it's me against them. Our lives can move from, "A deluxe apartment in the sky", to "Funky Town," in a flash. Not knowing where my youngest daughter Mouse is, makes it all the worse.

We both have expectations. Sometimes we don't meet each others. Sometimes others don't meet both of ours'. I know I have a big mouth. I am learning to keep it closed more often. It shrinks with each day in recovery. It doesn't open as wide as it used to.  I have said, and done, many stupid things as a husband and stepfather. I will again. This is still new to me. Each day I learn positive and negative things about myself and the world around me. Getting sober is truly like being reborn. It is like I had amnesia and am being reintroduced to my life. I really don't know how I feel or which way is up. The old me says run. Just run. The new me says go ahead and run. You can help yourself unpack when you get there.


SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself is on sale NOW  on Amazon and Amazon Europe. Personalized copies can be purchased through PAYPAL at tommyconnolly.com. 


Proceeds benefit Chicago Area addiction, homeless and mental health programs.

"Listen To What The Man Said" - McCartney

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. I extend those well wishes to the mothers, who have to wear both hats, due to circumstance or happenstance. This past Father's Day was one filled with mixed emotions for me. If the tone of this entry seems rife with self pity, it is not. I am grateful for where I am at on my journey.

Over the last few years, Squeaky and I have made it a tradition to visit Montana Charlie's on Father's Day. Charlie's could be called a flea market. It is different than most, because there are more new items for sale, than used.

Steamy weather has made our visits a tradition as well. Over the last couple of years it has been scorching hot as we walk the aisles of the fair grounds. We search out our favorite spots, haggle over a few items all the while wilting away. Soon after, one of us calls it quits. Then we high tail it to the car for the chilled  breeze of  the air conditioned car.

I started the day burdened by a melancholy that hung around my neck like an albatross. It is the second Father's Day without my Pop. It wasn't easier than last year. My feelings of loss and longing for his company sets itself deeper within me on each passing day.

I was taken back to Father's Day 2010. It was 6 weeks before his death. On that day, as we visited, I knew it was going to be our last together. He would enter hospice just a few weeks later. I don't know if the sudden loss of someone you care about hurts worse than knowing that the end is imminent. It was my  second sober holiday, and the clarity of the situation was hard to process. I was, and am, grateful that I felt all of it. Going to any length to avoid feelings was my M.O. for years.

While we scanned the aisles of Charlie's for spices and jewelry I had another moment of clarity. A couple of years earlier we ran into my Dad, and my Second Mom. He was decked out in a Bears shirt with goofy shorts, and white tube socks that went halfway up to his knees. My Pop was not a fashionista. I guess I'm not either.

On that particular day we weren't talking on a regular basis. We had a disagreement a few months earlier and he had put the freeze on me. My dad was always right, even when he wasn't. He never let the facts get in the way of his opinions. We made small talk, for a moment or two, and went our separate ways. I remember vividly looking down the aisles for him as we worked our way through the maze of people.

I had forgotten about that until yesterday. It fell on me like bricks. The heat of the sun mixed with the flashback sent me reeling with anxiety. Squeaky looked at me as if she was reading my mind. She held me as tears dripped from my burning eyes.

When I sprinkled part of his ashes at Soldier Field shortly after his death, I bought a Bears hat from the 1963 Championship Team. I told Squeaky it was to be my last Bears hat. I never wanted her to buy another one for me again. It sits in my office next to the two Bears hats my dad wore the most.

Squeaky knows me like no one else ever has. I suppose it's because I let her in to my heart. She can read me like flashcards for a third grader. We are connected. As we broke our embrace I looked left and spotted a Chicago Bears mug, not less than five feet away. We gave each other the look and I bought it on the spot. We dispensed of the ritual haggling and simply bought the mug. It was to remember my pop.

Being a step dad on Father's Day is an experience in itself. Even though I live with Bro, see Sunny often and hear from Hemingway regularly I am not DAD. Throughout the day I waited for them to call or text. I reflected on their younger days when I was an angry insecure jerk. I wished I could take every moment back and have a "do over," like when we were kids playing baseball in the school yard.

I tried to shake the darkness from me on such a bright day but it clung to me like plastic wrap on a bologna sandwich. As I pulled free from one side, the other flipped back to cling on again. I knew I had to think my way out of the situation. My feelings were getting the best of me. I took my mug and we headed for home.

When I returned home and switched on my computer there was a message from Hemingway. She said she loved me and I fell apart like a two dollar watch. Out of all the kids, I wish I could have the years of her late teens back to give it another approach. I was unbearable. She is an amazing woman. Later in the day I got texts from Bro and Sunny. My day was almost complete.

Mouse, my youngest daughter, is still AWOL from my life. She is twelve. I am not sure where her mother has taken her to. I have to be patient. I know in GOD'S time it will work out. Maybe it won't. I will endure whatever outcome I face sober. I am ready to take her back into my arms in a minute. My years of alcohol abuse has left her mother angry and I'm sure few positive remarks are made about me to her.

In recovery I have encountered many people trying to repair the damage of their past. I am troubled by those who say, "I will NEVER apologize or FORGIVE them!" Those are hard words to swallow after being so easily spit out. I would pay a million bucks to have my dad repeat all the things I ignored as a kid. I long for his laughter. I miss his stories that he repeated ad infinitum.

Life is short. Wounds can be difficult to heal. Scars remain. I plan on leaving this earth with a few scars and no open wounds. Anger and resentment is too overwhelming. Being right doesn't have to be the end game. I have said it a million times, like my dad would. Don't leave any regrets on the table. Swallowing your pride is easier than choking on your tears. I have learned that facing problems is easier than living with the ones you'll never have the chance to fix....

Soul Parole: Making Peace With My Mind, GOD And Myself, with Foreword by Tom Dreesen and Epilogue by David Brenner, will be available July 7, 2012. Look for it on Amazon, Amazon Europe and Kindle. Personalized copies will be available at soulparole.com.


         Proceeds will benefit Chicago Area Addiction, Homeless and Mental Health facilities

"The Quiet Man" and My Dad....

I woke up at exactly midnight today. It is the one year anniversary of my dad's death. Before you read on please understand that I am sad inside but glad that he is at peace. My life has changed dramatically in the year since his passing. Some of it good, some of it bad but all of it sobering and real.

I've heard it said that time heals all wounds. I didn't take the time to look up who said it. I disagree with the quote at this point. It seems harder now than when he went to meet his maker. He was in pain then and I prayed for him to be relieved of his human suffering. At 7:27pm July 21, 2010 God answered my prayers and brought him home.

I was watching "The Quiet Man," the John Wayne/Catherine O'Hara classic, set in Ireland, when I got the call from my sister at the hospital that he was gone. It was his favorite movie. Squeaky and I were watching the movie at the time because she had never seen it. I wanted to share Dad's favorite with her. It was kind of befitting that we were in the middle of THAT film when he passed on to paradise. Pop was big on making grand entrances and exits.

Tonight when I woke up at the stroke of midnight I actually called out his name hoping he would answer. I wanted him to give me a sign that he was here and safe up there. I wanted so desperately to know that he woke me up. Maybe he would knock a book off my night stand or rustle the blinds in an acknowledgement from the other side. He is here. I need only look in the mirror and see him. I resemble him more and more each day.

I am grateful that I was a good son in the final year and a half of his life. I was humbled to shower and shave him and help my second mom and sisters look after him whenever I could. I didn't do much but I did what I could. I can say that I was able to tell him all the things I wanted to say to him and heard all the things I wanted to hear from him in that last year and a half. I know he was proud of me. I know God got me sober when He did to be there for those days he needed me most.

At his memorial I did what amounted to a stand-up routine about him and his life. That is what he would have wanted. It was a celebration of his life. We laughed through tears and stories about his mannerisms and quirks. It was my best gig ever. I owe my sense of humor to him more than anyone. My Pop could tell a joke about darned near any subject. His laugh was a blend of Curly from "The Stooges" and Arnold Horshak from "Welcome back Kotter". It was infectious.

2 months later, in the first week of October, we had most of his ashes interred at Abraham Lincoln National Cemetery. The service was grand and patriotic. The twenty one gun salute was deafening. Each shot rattled me to my core. I broke down. All the emotion and stoicism I tried to display the previous 18 months collapsed and I imploded. My eyes flowed like rivers. I crawled around on the ground frantically searching for each of the ejected shells from the rifles that were fired in salute to SGT. Joseph Robert Connolly.

The remaining part of his ashes are to be returned to Ireland just as soon as I can get there. It will complete the wishes of two things my father was passionate about. He loved America and being a Vet and he loved Ireland. A bagpiper played Danny Boy and Amazing Grace as the tribute was ending. Danny Boy was his favorite Irish song.

The military service was held on a Friday. My second sister Chris Jaksy had been telling me for years to try acting to compliment my comedy. My feelings about mortality were sensitive and raw. I didn't want to leave any regrets on the table. She gave me some names of Chicago casting agents. I sent out my stats and thin resume to a few on Saturday. On Sunday I was contacted by Darlene Hunt, CEO and president of Extraordinary Casting in Chicago She wanted me to play a featured extra role in "Ride Along." It would later be renamed "The Chicago Code" the following day.

My head was still spinning the next day as I sat a few feet from Jennifer Beals and Jason Clarke on my first day in show business. I thought about my dad and was bitten by the acting bug BAD! I loved everything about it. I wear my Dad's cross and carry a memento from him on every movie or TV project I do. I figure we are going to Hollywood together. I was not nervous about working with celebrities. My father's death showed me that mortality is for everybody. Some jobs are just more glamorous than others. That takes us back to now.

Since that day I have appeared as an extra in 5 TV series and 2 films. I have had speaking roles in 5 films and have done 2 commercials and an industrial film. That's a busy 9 months. I have been blessed and driven. My comedy career has put me on stages around Chicago and at Statesville Prison as a part of Comics for Convicts Faith Outreach. Saturday I leave for Northern California for a week to do a project on a reality show. It is my first Hollywood gig on the west coast.

I miss the Big Bopper more each day. Not less. I owe so much to him. He never gave up on me but did lay some tough love on me at the right times. I do not mourn his death. I mourn for his life and wish we could talk about the Bears just one more time. I feel him sometimes. I see him every time I shave. I thank God for my sobriety and his timing for it. My dad gave me so many gifts and bailed me out of jam after jam. I will make it through today moment by moment. I will watch the Duke and I will listen to Danny Boy endlessly and give thanks over a tear or three for having known Bob Connolly. I am proud to be his son. Thanks God for your grace, mercy and my dad.

When I Lose My Balance...Everyone falls....Today I get Back Up!

When you have a condition you learn to live with it or in denial of it. For years I lived in denial that I was an alcoholic or, more specifically, that I had some underlying depression issues that were impacting my life. Part of the reason I used was to slow my racing mind down to a level so that I could sit comfortably in my own skin. Most addicts and alcoholics don't realize they are self-medicating to relieve the underlying condition. I know I didn't.

Being a funny guy, I knew I sometimes had the "blues" and other times got a little too wound up. I really didn't think that I had an actual neurological condition or malfunctioning mind. The round pegs were trying to slam themselves into square holes in my melon and I did what I had to do to relieve myself of the discomfort. That was to seek distraction through a variety of addictions some chemical, others human, pornographic, culinary, animated. The list goes on ad infinitum. All of them were to relieve the chaos of my thinking mind with different chaos.

Being a well read, fairly intelligent guy the proposal that there was somehow something "not right" with my "thinker" was horrifying. I was diagnosed as having some manic characteristics and depression in 1999. I was prescribed Lithium which made me angry. I wasn't drinking, but smoking pot and the depression was soon replaced with irritation and short temperateness. The fact that I wasn't drinking allowed me to overlook the horrible side effects that the medication had on me. It never dawned on me that not all medications work on all people, or react differently in each patient. When the discomfort became too much I eliminated the drug and I added booze into the mix with my weed and speed.

On Father's Day I woke up anxious. It was my first without my dad. I was off to a racing start emotionally. Squeaky, Hem and I went to the flea market and it was crowded. I was doing my best to please them both. People pleasing is another part of my personality profile. I was quick with the tongue, sharp with the wit, some of it stinging. I was in a mildly manic state, plain and simple.

The confusing paradox of mania is that it can be quite useful at some times. At moments, when managed and organized, I can get quite a bit done. It is also difficult at times for me to recognize it because I am a high functioning person. I am not classic manic. I am actually 2 levels below that. I have more depression issues than manic ones. I have never had a true manic episode. However, I have had full blown depression. That I think is in the family bloodline.

I tended to the girls and scurried about and was quiet or short in my responses. I cooked on the grill and rambled at dinner. I was taken aback when I went up to kiss my wife and tell her that I was going to a recovery meeting that she snapped and said I had been a f***ing pr**k all day. I was genuinely blind sided by her comment. Being in an irritable state I got pouty and left for the meeting, tail firmly lodged between my legs, bemoaning my father's death and nurturing the martyrdom of MY Father's Day being ruined by her comments.

The meeting made me feel better and I thought about my behavior and that of the days prior. Had I been short tempered? Aloof? Isolating? A victim? Critical? Selfish? The honest answer was yes. I have enough sobriety and insight into my disease, healthy and unhealthy behaviors to assess my actions and go from there. I returned home and my daughter said, "Daddy, you were a bit manic today." Those words were much more productive and useful for me to work with than my wife's but I held no grudge. She is recovering from surgery and was venting.

I called my doctor in the morning and we reviewed my prior day's behavior and medication regiment. I had missed my last appointment and we had moved to a new med since our meeting 4 months prior. I didn't realize that the medication was meant to be slowly increased to reach the optimal therapeutic level. I was just glad that my depression was gone and I was active again. The meds were adjusted and one was removed permanently. I felt better. The family felt better and today I feel great. I feel like me.

I have come to realize that I am not nuts, just a little wacky. I am cool with that. I prefer it actually. That is my gift and my identity. God made me this way. The round pegs are going in the round holes. I do need to stay on top of my moods and behaviors. Medications lose their effectiveness after awhile. That is an unfortunate reality of my condition. I plead with you to educate yourself on depression and mental disorders.

Aside from the heart, the brain does the most work but gets such little respect. A friend of mine who suffers from depression said a person recently asked him if he heard voices. That is funny and sad at the same time. The way our society looks at a person with a brain that is not dialed right as defective baffles me.

Here are a few folks you may know who suffered or suffer from Manic Depression. Would you call them Nuts? The list includes Mozart, Winston Churchill, Ted Turner, Jim Carrey, Tom Waits, Isaac Newton, Walt Whitman, Cary Grant, Abe Lincoln, Vincent Van Gogh, Francis Ford Coppola, Drew Carey, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Ralph Waldo Emerson, T.S. Elliot, Robert E. Lee. I'll hang with that crowd any day.

We fear what we do not understand. Educate yourself and free yourself from fear. God Bless.

Me, My Dad and Michelangelo...

Between approximately 1508 and 1512 Michelangelo created one of the world's most magnificent, awe inspiring works of art in his painting of the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Much to the chagrin of Pope Julius
II, the artist worked tirelessly, on his back, candle in mouth to create a complete telling of the Bible from "The Creation of Adam" to the death and resurrection of Christ. "The Creation of Adam" or more specifically, the two hands reaching towards each other, is one of my favorite art pieces of all time. We have it hanging in our home. I never tire of the work, staring at it as I sip my coffee. I am always drawn to some new wrinkle or detail that the artist painstakingly included to complete his vision. It says so much in just that tiny corner of the massive cathedral mural. I am absolutely convinced the work was that of divine intervention or vision.

Tomorrow is Father's Day. It will be the first one I experience without my dad, affectionately known as the Big Bopper or Pops. He's with the Bears and Papa Bear at ethereal training camp. Knowing my dad I am quite sure that he has offered his services to the Creator to help out in showing the new camp arrivals around and introducing them to his friends. He loved doing that here. Why would he stop in paradise?

I can say that it is strange and painful not knowing he is "here." I am grateful he is "there" and free of the pain and anxiety that wore at his mind and body at the end of his journey on Earth. That being said, there were some Father's Days when he was here and I wasn't all there. Thus I didn't share those moments with him. Addiction doesn't care about holidays. They are licenses to use as far as I was concerned. If I wasn't on good terms with my Pop it was a reason to feel shame and get extra lit to bury that uncomfortable emotion.

As a father myself, this Father's Day is bittersweet. Last night 3 of my 4 kids slept at home. Hemi is in from Germany. Amanda is doing better and slept on our couch. Bro is always here. The 4 have not been assembled together in months. Tomorrow 2 of the 3 will go to their biological father's house for the "Big Day", as it should be. I will spend the day with my wife and Hemi going to Montana Charlie's flea market. I collect antique book and CD's out of print. I love the smell of an old book like burning leaves or freshly popped movie popcorn. Finding a rare blues CD or out of print album from my youth is like finding a lost treasure. Then I will come home and sacrifice some poor creature on the grill for all of our culinary pleasure and fall asleep to a White Sox game. I look very much forward to both or all three.

I do not know where my youngest daughter Kelly is. I know she is safe and I know her Mother treats her well. It troubles me that I have purposely had the same phone number since she was 3, yet she still doesn't call. I pray for her to, but if she does is beyond my control. I have accepted that. As I am older and my sobriety deepens I can see how the Big Bopper must have felt on those days when I lived on the street not knowing if I would call, if I was hungry, alive or worse.

I have been lucky to be with her on 2 of her last 3 birthdays. She knows her daddy has never used in front
of her. She has never seen me drunk. Unfortunately she is hearing one side of the story right now about her mother and me. My time will come. I will be sober and she can draw her own conclusions.

I don't think God is an evil god but I do think He teaches me through things I've done. He usually uses my mistakes more than my successes. Kelly will call in her time. I will work that out with God and Kelly at the time or if it never happens at all I will deal with it also. This is life.

The photo you see posted at the top of this chapter was taken a few days before my dad passed. I took it with my camera phone. I did not do it to be morbid or saddened. My dad was an "Old School" tough guy for the most part, until the end. Towards the end of his life he would ask that I hold his hand. I did so eagerly, making up for years missed and opportunities wasted. I snapped this shot as he slipped off to sleep and I was leaving. I was unaware that he was so close to eternity. I was elated at its modern parallel to my favorite Michelangelo work, "The Creation of Adam."

I do not know how your relationship with your Pop, Daddy, Father, Pa or whatever name you call him is. As Father's Day is only 24 hours away you have some options. You may see him. When you do, kiss him and tell him you love him. You may honor his memory. Think of a wonderful time when you both laughed and he made you feel special, like the most precious gift in the world. You may be on difficult terms with him. Call him and just say Happy Father's Day. It may be the first step to a new relationship. You may not know who he is or where he is at. In that case forgive him and pray for him and thank him for giving you life to become the special person you are to your family, children and friends.

Pops, I love you.

Angels and Dreamin's.......What Dreams I See....

I have written 3 past chapters about angels, dreams, near death experiences and visitations. I am a firm believer in heaven and hell. So if there are good angels, there has to be bad ones too. I am not crazy. It is a part of my faith and the Bible says God created angels before man. He also said that the bad ones intermingled with humans. That made him real mad! I believe there are good and bad spirits that walk among us. I believe there are some, who for whatever reason, are trapped in limbo between our reality and other dimensions.

I have been interested in dreams and dream manipulation since I was a little boy. I dream in color. My Bing research says that between 4 and 75% of people dream in color. That's a pretty big range. Where do you fall? My further research says that we dream between 4 and 7 times per night. The theories as to why we dream range from long term memory building, data dumping and telepathic/prophetic experiences. I really don't care about the facts. I just love to dream.

I first got into dreams when I was about 7 or 8. I was watching the Donahue show and this lady was explaining that the best way to remember your dreams, or cue them, is to put a pad of paper by the bed and when you wake up from the dream write down a word, a number and a color and go back to sleep. I tried this process for a couple nights but it didn't help me remember. I do keep a pad of paper by my bed to jot down a note or theme when I wake up. The most effective thing for me has been to simply try to remember and retrieve the dream when I first wake up before I have even gotten out of bed.

My dreams were like what most folks have and usually involved flying or falling. I still remember when I would soar over my neighborhood, just above the tree tops and look at the tiny village of Mokena below. I have never flown over the village in a plane but my dreams were remarkably accurate in their geographic layout. The more I relaxed in the dream the longer the flights. I had no wings. It was just like the film "The Boy Who Could Fly." I enjoy that film to this day. I didn't take off vertically. My flight started from a run, then into a horizontal take off.

Strangely enough, when I dream of falling those dreams are in black, white and grey. They are short, abrupt and I usually wake up. As a young one I learned to comprehend that I was dreaming, while I was in the middle of one. This still happens for me about half of the time I dream. If I try to engage a person or shift the dream I wake up. If I just flow with the dream, and don't try to manipulate the plot, I am able to experience it fully aware that I am in a dream and enjoying the ride.

The subject of my dreams over the last few years revolve around malls, train stations, airports and shopping markets. I don't know why or care but I do have the ability to enjoy the trip. The more open minded you are to your dreams and remembering them, the stronger your ability to remember them gets.
The key is to make it a habit to try to remember a scene when you wake up. Don't try to remember the whole thing immediately or you will forget everything. Take a snapshot in the dream and when you wake up try to focus on the picture and the other elements will fill themselves in. The pad of paper with one written word also helps.

I dream frequently about fish; swimming fish, like coy or trout. I am never trying to catch them. They are just a part of my dream scape. I also have dreams of my teeth falling out in front of people while I am conversing with them. Some of my dreams are easily traced to a program I have watched earlier or a book I am reading, other times they are random. I have practiced enough that every time I am dreaming, I am conscious of the fact that I am in the middle of one.

The coolest thing that happens in my dreams is when my father appears. When I say my prayers I ask God if it would be possible for him to let my dad visit me that night in my dreams. Quite often it works. He is not sick or passing messages to me. He is just another co-star in the dream. Since I have some cognizant knowledge that I am dreaming, it is really cool to see him and talk to him. When he appears there is also a car in the dream. My dad was in the car business for years and he always brings one to my dreams.

After I have taken a scene or snapshot from my dream, when I am not fully awake, I take a few seconds to see if I can remember more. I don't dwell too long on the scene or I tend to forget the whole thing. Throughout the day I revisit the mental snapshot and more pieces come into my conscious reality. I hope this doesn't sound like Syd Barrett's autobiography. I really believe in dream recall and have worked on it for years. Most of the dreams are positive but sometimes very troubling. That is the good part about being partially conscious that I'm dreaming. If it's bad I know I am in a dream and not reality.

I don't know where dreams come from or why we have them. I know they have a purpose. Again, I go back to the fact that us humans use such a small part of our brain capacity, I know there is a dream decoder in there somewhere. I know I love to see my dad alive again and am happy when he shows up. Last night I dreamed I was a John Lennon imitator in a Beatles cover band that featured the real Paul McCartney. In the dream I asked him for his autograph 4 times as we sat in a hotel room waiting for a gig.

That dream I can connect to an ongoing verbal jousting contest I have with my mate Ian, on who was more influential, John or Paul. I say John. He picks Paul. I am also in the process of selling a drum set on EBay. Again there is the mental connection. I am glad I remember even the silliest dreams. Take some time with your dreams. Relax and try to be aware that you are in fact dreaming. It takes practice but gives me great comfort and enjoyment. I don't try to get lotto numbers from them or read the future. I just go for the ride, and what a long strange trip it's been.

Angels and Dreamins'.....Near Death Experiences and Visitations! Part Three!

I would like to direct you guys to a link that has found its way into my heart. Being diagnosed as clinically depressed with general anxiety disorder myself,
this organization fights to open people's minds up to the stigma attached to having chemical imbalance or disorders. I hope you will check it out. It is http://NKM2.org/ . The goal is to stomp out the stigma attached to depression and other mental disorders. You will be surprised by some people you know who suffer from these conditions.

The first two chapters in this series centered on unexplained experience and my near death experience. Some of you may think I'm nuts. You're right! I have the paperwork to prove it! This one will revolve around my father and an experience I had after his death. Since today is our game against the Packers I thought this entry was appropriate. He was the greatest Bear fan on Earth and now in Heaven! The 4th passage will revolve around dreams. Dream interpretation and manipulation has been a part of me since I was a little boy. That story is for later.

There is a term used in recovery that is "contempt prior to investigation." It is very common among alcoholics and addicts. More specifically, I think most of us take part in it. To explain the meaning of the phrase I will give a simple childhood analogy. When we were young and we saw some food that didn't look delicious, when asked to try it we would shout,"No! It's yucky! We stood resolute that the food would be bad even though we didn't taste it.

As adults we do this as well. How many times have you pulled up to a corner and seen a clearly dirty person and thought, "What a bum?" I know I have done it in the past. We see people who are ethnically different or practice rituals that don't match ours and decry,"What they're doing is wrong!" These are all examples of contempt prior to investigation. It is making a decision or passing judgement on something before we have experienced it or gotten all the facts. It is a rejection of something or someone before we know anything about them.

In recovery, contempt prior to investigation is rampant in the addict. We judge everything and everyone like we are the all knowing and powerful. We are Gods! We determine that recovery programs won't work or therapy for depression is hooey and for "crazy" people. We decide what is going to happen before we have even tried it. Therefore we don't have to try it because we have already predetermined that it won't work. Thus giving us the out. How many times have you taken the chance on that ugly contemptible food only to find it was remarkably good? Corned beef hash looks like leftovers from a fraternity party and I love the stuff. Why? Because I opened my mind to the possibility that my preconceived opinions might not be right and gave it a shot with an open mind.

When it comes to "after death" experiences, hauntings, visitations, UFOs, spirits and intelligent life existing elsewhere in the galaxy we fall into one of two camps: I believe or that's a bunch of horse hockey! It is my experience that the more open minded I am about these subjects, and all of life itself, I learn and grow. I often find out that my ideas and notions were off base. I try to keep an open mind about everything. Who am I to decide what is and what isn't possible? The more my mind opens up to foreign concepts that I once decried as impossible or wrong, the more balanced I become.

When my father died I was concerned about where he was headed after death. He was an Agnostic (he believed in some creator but not sure what it was). He became more receptive to the concepts of heaven and hell towards the end. I took communion to him in his bed and he confessed his faith. My sister Chris would read the Bible to him and he really began to enjoy it. We all prayed with him and I was surprised he knew the "Lord's Prayer." I have said before an Atheists last words are..."I was only kidding!" It makes complete sense that as we approach our death we become more receptive to another dimension out of fear or to cover our basis just in case.

I am certain there is a Heaven and Hell. I know I'm going to Heaven! I obsessed about my father's final destination incessantly. Obsession is part of me. On the day before he passed onto the great Bear locker room in the sky I asked him a favor. I asked him to let me know that he made it to the other side. He was still coherent at that time and he said yes he would. He passed the next day and I began to wait for his message of safe passage.

When my dad was at our house he sat at the same place on one of our couches every time he visited. For the first three months after he died I slept on that couch waiting and waiting. I even hung up his favorite Bear hat and jersey above my pillow in hopes that it would be easier for him to find me. Night after night he would show up in my dreams but I waited for "the message."

3 months after his passing, and suffering from an aching back from sleeping on the couch, I got my message. It was different from the experience I had with the bridge and grey figures in 2004. He didn't kneel down next to the couch and say "hey little buddy I made it." It was different and amazing. He kept his promise.

I don't sleep well as you may know from the odd hours I am on FB or posting blogs. On this particular morning I was napping on the couch after a recovery meeting. As I began to doze off I opened my eyes and saw two figures at the top of my stairs leading to the kitchen. They were about 15 feet from the couch, his couch. These figures were more defined than my first experience. One was tall, very tall like 6'8" and the other 5'10," my Father's height.

Again there were no words spoken aloud but a telepathic transfer of words and feelings. I could tell the taller figure was a guide of some sort. It stood behind my father and did not communicate with me. It was there for my father. Both auras were bleach white and illuminating. My father's aura was that of a younger man, like when he was in his 30's. I could also notice his hair was straight, a style he wore briefly before going to his perm. He had a burgundy hue to his aura. I do not understand, nor need to know why burgundy was his color, but it was. The taller guide was in all white.

They stood at the top of the stairs and I looked at the TV to make sure I wasn't dreaming. The whole experience only lasted about 15 seconds but a lot of ground was covered in that short time. My dad let me know that he was alright. I could tell he was happy. He reminded me of the pictures of when his hair was greased back and he was driving flashy Cadillacs. There were no questions asked but answers were conveyed to me. He was elated and I knew he made it to the other side.

I believe you have to be open to the possibility of these visits or they can't happen. My mind opens more and more each day. That 90% of our brains that we haven't tapped into has to serve a purpose. I believe in the next dimension. The next level of our experiences after death don't end here. Just because we experience things we don't understand, or experience them personally, doesn't make it impossible. Contempt prior to investigation prevents us from discovering so much more of what life has to offer.

My final passage in this series will involve dreams. I have been interested in dreams since I was a little boy. I will not post that until after the Bears win the NFC Championship today. This is my Dad's season. He may not get the score but we will get the victory. I believe he will help us win today. Remember: he is part of the north end zone.

Excuse Me? Is There an ENABLER In The House?

I've told you bits and pieces of my family life in previous chapters. There are happy stories and tragic ones, but all of them have a message. That message is don't give up hope! Keep the faith! If you haven't found God, not to worry, he isn't lost. Start out with a simple hello. He already knows who you are. Then pray and talk to him with the deepest of sincerity and you will find the more you turn to him, the more you will feel his guidance and presence. I know I would not be sober or writing this blog if it wasn't for the relationship I have with the Lord. The comedy and acting skills he blessed me with are to be used to glorify his touching my life. He is, "I am."

I skipped from the beginning of my father's life with my mom, sister and me to the end of his life. Now we take a stop in the middle.

I was the only boy and baby of the family with a combined sister count of four. Being the only son had its advantages with my father. I went to my first Bear game at age 5 or 6. I vividly recall Dick Butkus hitting a guy so hard you could hear the crunch from our seats in the north end zone. As a youngster I saw Joe Namath and O.J. Simpson at the end of their careers and all of Walter Payton's. I was with my dad for the 1985 Superbowl season and 1988's loss to the Niners. I truly don't know how many Bear games we saw together but it was quite a few and it was a place I could tell my dad was truly happy. There was the snow falling from heaven during the NFC championship against the Giants and the "Fog Bowl" against the Eagles. The first game after 9/11 was the heaviest. We both cried like babies as they unfurled a field sized American flag across the stadium while F-15's roared overhead. When the new stadium was built our run ended with the personal seat licensing and my dad passed the tickets on to my Uncle Bob.

I missed a few seasons in between. I couldn't pay for the licensing seats because I was too busy spending my money on booze, dope and whoever wanted to do booze and dope with me. I have spoken about the lengths an addict will go to to keep the run going. Please remember when I say the addict I am the "THE." It doesn't mean we don't love people or care about their feelings. It's just that the power of addiction over our minds, bodies and souls is so domineering we often turn off our morality button to reach our goal of getting high.

The key player in the perpetuation of alcoholic or addiction insanity is the enabler. The word enable implies the weak and timid, easily manipulated and a complete pushover. It means in brief  "to supply the means," as listed in the American Heritage Dictionary. Enablers are usually the ones who love the addict the most and is filled with the most hope that someday things will be different. They are moms and dads, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, friends and neighbors. They are sometimes obvious in their efforts and sometimes stealthy, dealing under the table.

Their intentions are pure but can be destructive in the end, not to just the user but the one who enables them. The pain of letting someone they love down, hurts them so they give in knowing it is wrong. The anger of withdrawal is frightening so they pacify. The hateful words or disinterest of the user makes them try to buy their approval and love. They hand out money, food or shelter not knowing if that hand out is going to be the one that kills or saves the user. Ultimately it is just another time in a merry-go-round of negative encouragement.

My dad was my enabler. He was there when I needed him. Whether it was for some cash or a car, he was the guy who saved my ass over and over. I took it for granted that he would always be there to clean up the shit I left behind. I worked for him on and off while crawling through 9 years of college. I didn't go 9 years straight. That was impossible for my addictive nature. I went for a year and a half to ISU. When the heat was ready to come down on me from the law or Academic Probation I skated back to Daddy. I transferred to Columbia College Chicago and attended, on and off, until graduating in 1992. I paid my ticket through student loans. I thought it was free money. I have paid the government back the $18,000 dollars I borrowed for my education. The $26,000 I owe them in interest, for all my years of neglect, won't be forgiven. Student loans come with no deal making. The government does not enable, at least where student loans are concerned.

If I was short of cash I would hit Dad up for a "loan." Those loans were rarely, if ever, paid back. He helped me move when a marriage or 3 failed. He did whatever he could to help me because of his love for me. I didn't see it that way. The addict thinks family and society owe them the money for injustices real or perceived from our earliest recollections. We had it coming! Suckers! That seems crass but when we need to use our hearts and minds focus on getting high. The kindness of the enabler is overlooked instantly by the obsession of the score.

By 1996 I was a fall down drunk and my father's good spirited giving ended. He arrived at my apartment after a girlfriend couldn't rouse me from a stupor. He slapped me awake, crumpled up a $100 dollar bill and dropped it in my lap saying, "That's it! The end of the line. You are no longer my son!" The words hurt long enough for me to realize I had a Ben Franklin and could get more vodka. We didn't speak for quite awhile after that. Messages were past from family or employees to check on each others well being.

In March of 1999 I called him begging that he take me to rehab. Initially he refused. I don't blame him. I was a drunken liar and thief. He did call back an hour later saying he was on the way and his charity got me to the hospital I so desperately needed. He didn't visit me in detox or for my loony bin stay, but Mom #2 stopped by every few days to bring me smokes, magazines, socks and undies. She was amazing. On family night none of my family came. I had used and abused them to the point of disconnect. Funny thing is that my dealers and bartenders didn't show up either. They had always said we were family.

My father and I built our relationship back up again, but he no longer enabled me. He helped where he could, but if I slipped off track he let me fall right on my face. It was tough love until I got the picture and started to fly right. There were ups and downs like any family dynamic, but I was able to make reparations toward the end of his life for the damage and manipulation I had laid on him. We spoke of my specific wrongs and I cleared away the damage of my past behaviors.

Toward the end, during one of his stays at a home, he made the comment that he had saved my ass now I was cleaning his. We both laughed but I was grateful that I had the chance to right my wrongs. If you enable, the choices are tough and there is not a one size fits all explanation on how to handle it. I was lucky. I had a chance to make peace and be useful to my father at the end of his life. If you are a user your time may be running out to make things right. Think about it. I was one of the lucky ones who got a chance at redemption. You can have it too starting one day at a time. Today looks good!

Dad ,You're Going Back To Ireland!

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.