Joe M. 1957-1992 (My Father)

Today is the 16th anniversary of my father's death. He has been gone for more of my life than he was here. It is as if he never existed. Alcohol took his life swiftly. He died of cirrhosis at 35 years of age. How he managed to destroy himself so quickly, I'll never know.

I was mad at him for a long time, but I now understand that he was sick. They told me it was a disease back then when he was dying, but I thought he was being selfish and could stop if he really wanted to. He was in denial until the day he died. The morning of his last day he asked the nurse, "I'm not going to die, am I?" "Baby," she said, "we don't talk about things like that around here." He died a horrible alcoholic death...his body like a skeleton, yet his feet and stomach were swollen like a balloon excreting a vile fluid through his pores. When he slept, his eyes wouldn't close so his blank eyes rolled around helpless as if he were already dead. He couldn't breathe and he could barely talk. I don't even remember what I said to him.

I am sitting here sobbing at the thought of his suffering and I honestly think this is the first time I've ever felt true compassion for him. I can't imagine the physical and mental agony he must have endured and the regret and sorrow that must have plagued his mind in the end with no chance of redemption. No spiritual connection. No higher power. Why? Because he was an alcoholic, that's why. I often wonder if he ever sat in the rooms of AA. Was he offered the gift and didn't take it? Did he ever pick up a white chip? Was he one of the ones who went back out and never made it back?

He was one of the ones who died so that others may live.

Rest in peace, Daddy.

I wish you had made it. I think you were a pretty cool guy.