Her father’s death taught her the true meaning of acceptance
FOUR WORDS have kept coming into my mind ever since I lost my father, a few short days ago. “Shall we dance, Daddy?” That’s what I often used to say to my alcoholic father to get him to bed. I couldn’t carry him, and he couldn’t walk. So we danced–or, at least, it resembled dancing–down the hall to the bedroom, where he would fall across the bed and pass out.
I guess everyone in our family knew that sooner or later Daddy was going to die as a result of his drinking–but knowing and accepting the reality and finality of it are not easy.
When I came into AA, many people told me, “‘Easy Does It.'” I have finally realized just what that slogan means. I had been trying to learn it all too fast. Take it day by day and don’t project–that makes sense now. I realize that I was projecting the future of my own sobriety. I’ve finally admitted that I had a dream of twelfth-stepping my dad. When he died after my being sober only three months, I felt cheated, and I despaired at my loss. The program had given me hope that one day my dad would be sober. I had heard so many say, “Where there is life, there is hope for the drinking alcoholic.” And Daddy had been in AA. I had such hope.
When I got the call that he had suffered a brain hemorrhage and was dying, I felt numb. I remember getting in my car and driving to an open AA meeting, screaming, “No, no, God! Please, no!” I was praying for a miracle. I could hardly see the road for the tears of despair that ran down my face. When I arrived at the meeting, I found the discussion was of the first three Steps. And the turmoil I felt began to subside as I listened. Finally, I admitted my powerlessness with the words “Thy will, God, not mine, be done.” I repeated those words all night and into the next morning. I could feel despair, hurt, and aloneness creeping in, and still I prayed that God would help me carry the burden of my heavy feelings.
I was with my dad in the hospital just a few hours before he died. I was allowed only twenty minutes–I will never forget them. He was battered and bruised from falling down in the previous weeks, and–at fifty-four–he seemed so gray and so tired and so old. I loved him dearly. I held his hand, and he looked at me and said, “I’m afraid.” I felt so helpless standing there in that hospital room with a man who had given me love as well as the horror of alcoholism. I, too, was afraid–afraid to let go of his hand, afraid to leave, afraid to say goodbye, and yet afraid to stay, afraid he might see my tears and my own fear of losing him.
And so he died, and in death, he was afraid. I was helpless to comfort him or to remove his fears. All I could say was “Daddy, don’t you think it’s about time you learned to let go and let God?”
I’ll never know whether or not he did, but I know that, for my own sobriety, I must. For the first time, I really have taken the First Step–not just with my own alcoholism, but with my dad’s and my family’s, too. I’m finally learning that I can do nothing about another alcoholic’s drinking–except to share what I’ve learned in the Fellowship and pray that when I share my own story, some other alcoholic may relate and find hope and some day achieve sobriety. I’m also learning the true meaning of acceptance and letting go and letting God. In losing my dad to the disease of alcoholism and accepting this loss as the will of God, I have admitted my hurt–and been made once again a vulnerable human being.
To have loved so much and to lose so tragically–with this experience, I am finally opening a door to my feelings that has been closed for a very long time, and I am allowing my loved ones in. I am no longer afraid to love and to be loved. I am no longer afraid of being hurt because of love. I know God will never give me more than I can bear. He proved this much to me these last few days, and I am stronger for it.
My eyes are beginning to open finally upon a whole new life–a sober life. And I am changing. I’m finally seeing my character defects in the light of sobriety, and I know I don’t have to be like that any more. I can change–with the help of my God and AA.
No, I’m not cured yet. I never will be. But I am sober. I’m climbing back on that pink cloud I fell off a few days ago, and I’m realizing how wonderful, how truly beautiful it is to be a sober alcoholic.