From a young age, I found solace in the Serenity Prayer, even before I understood its origins. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Written by a theologian and embraced by recovery programs globally, this prayer would become a guiding light throughout my life.
My father struggled with alcoholism for as long as I can remember. Some years were better than others, marked by periods of sobriety when he would attempt to stay “on the wagon.” During those times, he was more cheerful, not the volatile figure we often feared. As children, my brother and I were aware that his drinking was problematic. We often found ourselves stopping at a bar on the way to school—always with the excuse that it had belonged to my grandfather, “it was my grandpa’s bar.” I can’t shake the feeling that there was always something added to his coffee. His day would unfold with drinks at lunch, followed by picking us up from sports or activities. We sometimes contemplated leaving the car, but expressing our concerns would trigger an emotional explosion.
In hindsight, we were fortunate; we escaped harm and enjoyed a relatively happy childhood, save for those haunting memories. When I became a parent, I resolved that my father would not be allowed to drive my son while intoxicated. He could have done it with his own children, but that cycle would end with me. That confrontation marked a turning point for both of us. It was a painful moment, telling my father, in front of my mother, that I wouldn’t allow my child to experience what I had.
In that discussion, we traversed the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and ultimately acceptance. My father expressed his willingness to return to Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), a commitment that felt all too familiar and likely wouldn’t be his last. However, driven by the fear of losing time with his only grandson, my father faced his demons and conquered the addiction that had plagued him for so long. Unfortunately, the relief was short-lived.
Soon after achieving sobriety, he began exhibiting signs of forgetfulness and disoriented conversations. Initially, we attributed this to his adjustment to life without alcohol. But as time passed, the forgetfulness intensified, leading us to confront the family history of Alzheimer’s disease. Eventually, he received an official diagnosis.
Alzheimer’s is a cruel illness, similar to alcoholism in that it robs you of the person you once knew, replacing them with a hollow version. Society often shows more compassion towards Alzheimer’s than alcoholism, but both have genetic roots that offer little comfort. You might enjoy a few early years post-diagnosis, but Alzheimer’s is a relentless, unforgiving disease.
How did we survive one illness only to face another? What karma had my mother accumulated, caring for her partner through both struggles? It seems unfair, and we grappled with these questions as we navigated the final stages of my father’s illness. This fall, I assisted my mother in admitting him to a memory care facility. He experiences far more bad days than good, has frequent falls (including one that necessitated a hospital visit), and often loses track of where he is. He calls us over thirty times daily, repeating the same conversations—only my mother, brother, and I are programmed into his phone.
Yet, we find ourselves fortunate; soon, those repetitive exchanges about the weather will dwindle as the disease progresses.
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In summary, my father’s battle with alcoholism was only the beginning of our family’s struggles. His eventual sobriety was overshadowed by the cruel onset of Alzheimer’s, a disease that has taken away the man I once knew. While we navigate this difficult journey, we are left to grapple with feelings of loss and confusion, cherishing the moments we have left.
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