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My father was an alcoholic from whom I learned many lessons. In some cases, they were lessons about what not to do or what not to be; the negative example of an alcoholic’s life stood before me in clear view. In other cases, the lessons were positive, and in my later years, I’ve come to realize that in many ways, I was lucky to have had the experience. When I’ve mentioned this to friends in conversation, a quizzical expression and an unspoken question soon follow; How could someone be fortunate to have had an alcoholic father? Let me explain.

There is not much that I can point to that was fun about growing up as a son to an alcoholic father. The social and psychological pitfalls have been well documented by others. And yet, it taught me much that I needed to learn. Alcoholism, like all addictions, has broad impacts well beyond the addicted individual. For my mother and us seven children, the effects were profound and ever-present as we grew up. But I remember the day that it began to change, which required me to do one of the hardest things that I had done in my life to that point – I said no to my father.

Like many who had (or have) a family member struggling with addiction, life was filled with promises of change that were never kept. It is exhausting to care so much, hope so much, and despair so much. Then, one day, when I was perhaps 17 years old, my father said he wanted to try again. He said he just needed a ride when I went to the bar to meet him.

This was a story I had heard so many times before, and I was tired of the heartache and more than a little angry. I left the bar while he finished his beer, not knowing what I should do, and wondered where I could get advice. A friend recalled a place he drove by where the “drunks” met, and I put the car in gear in search of the meeting. I pulled into the parking lot of an Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting place with no ideas and no plan. I got out of my car just as a man was crossing to the building, and I stopped him to ask questions.

There in the parking lot, I told him my story and asked that stranger for advice. As he took a moment to reply, I watched as a deep and knowing sadness washed over him and, as compassionately as he could, said to me, “Son, as long as your father is sitting on a barstool, he doesn’t want to be sober yet. When he wants it, he will find the way.” Although this wasn’t the advice I expected, it rang true to me. I returned to the bar to tell my father no, and I faced the shouting and cursing that followed. Three days later, he entered rehab, and to this day, I don’t know how he got there.

Dad fought his way back to life slowly, in small steps – it is difficult to plow a field of stone. That place I stopped at for advice became his daily meeting place where he received support from others on the road to recovery. In time, he became a help to others and would talk at gatherings and high school assemblies whenever he could. I attended open AA meetings with him to hear the stories of others in recovery and, on one occasion, heard him tell his story from the back row in the audience. It was hard, but it was good. When he suffered a stroke that took his speech and movement away, he fought again, confronted the challenge, trained himself to speak and walk, and continued to live his life.

When my father passed, he had been sober for twenty years. A eulogy by one of his friends succinctly put it; “The SOB made it.” I knew what he meant and considered it high praise. I was able to spend all of those years with him getting to know him in his sobriety. As I have acknowledged before, I became a better man watching him become a better man. I realize that I have my own fields of stone to plow, but I am indeed fortunate that my father showed me how.

I have now decided to set this memory aside for a time and let my father rest in my thoughts. I will see him again soon enough, and I expect we will talk well into the night.

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Kevin Deeny