July 28th, 2011

On July 28th, 2011, four years ago today, my dad passed away unexpectedly. It was early in the afternoon on a weekday and I had just gotten home from walking my dog when my grandma called. I decided not to answer and that I would call her back later. She left a voicemail, though, and for some reason I wondered if something might be wrong. I listened to it. She was sobbing, and she said "it's your dad." I knew.

When I got to his house, an emergency vehicle was parked outside. Inside I found my grandparents and a few paramedics. My dad had died of a heart attack in his sleep that morning. People respond to traumatic situations in different ways, and I remember feeling an incredible sense of calm. Still, my heart broke into a million pieces. 

My dad was a dentist. He was exceptionally smart, determined and talented. He was a hard worker and a loving father. He was also an alcoholic. In his twenties, he learned that he lost control when he drank hard liquor, so he drank beer instead. Over time, it became a lot of beer. Growing up I remember that he nearly always had a beer in his hand, but, with the exception of maybe once or twice, I don't recall ever seeing him act drunk.

We spent a lot of time together, too. When he got home from work, we would shoot hoops in the driveway, or play pitch and catch in the backyard.

He went to all of our ball games, and even many of our practices. We swam, camped, and went on great vacations. We were always hanging and having fun. 

For my mom, it was a different reality. Alcoholism is a progressive disease, and as time went on, he was drinking more and more. Sometime around my sophomore year of high school I remember going over to my neighbor's house while my mom and my dad's parents confronted him. Unfortunately, he didn't feel that he needed help, and so he moved out and my parents separated. Still, at this point, I would say he was hanging on as a "functioning alcoholic." He was still performing in his daily life: managing his business, maintaining relationships, etc. Like most functional alcoholics, he was very good at disguising abusive drinking, and because some areas of his life indicated success, he had strong denial about the problem. 

But just before my freshman year of college, my dad was faced with losing his dental license. The only way to keep it was to enter into a treatment facility in Chicago, and so he did. I was at Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana when he got to leave the facility for a day. He came to visit me and we had the best time together. He seemed different, maybe a little down, but clear and present and whole. I had my dad back.

He completed treatment, and went back to practice dentistry. He was doing well, but I sensed that he was sad or a little depressed. He no longer enjoyed his job as a dentist, and he was spending a lot of time alone since most, if not all of his closest friends drank heavily. Within a year, he gave up. He stopped going to get tested once a week, and eventually lost his license to practice dentistry. I remember that he felt (or said he felt) a great sense of relief. He planned to find a job teaching, something he'd always wanted to do, and to only drink in moderation. And at first, that's what he did.

He got a job teaching Biology at a community college in Kentucky. He was so excited, and he really loved it. But, he was a couple hours from home so we didn't see him as often, and he was lonely. Soon, drinking in moderation became drinking heavily. After a couple years, he was let go.

He moved back to Evansville, and was living in a condo my grandma owned. He was driving an old car he'd gotten from a family member, and he was unemployed. He'd lost it all. His big house, his nice cars, his job, his identity, and in some ways, his family. And yet, he still turned to denial, manipulation and justification. I was busy with my own life - college, relationships, the future - but though everything, Dad and I remained close. He was always there when I needed him, and we could talk to each other about anything, even his drinking. We had a lot of great conversations where he opened up about his struggle and his disappointments and failures. I was always honest with him, and offered him support or even criticism. But his denial, whatever the stage, was very convincing and often times I just didn't fully see how desperately he needed to seek help and quit...

Until the summer that he died.

I was getting to know and had been on a few dates with a guy who was a recovered alcoholic. He realized he had a problem in college after several DUI's and serious incidents, and decided to get sober. He taught me so much about alcoholism, an uncontrollable physical addiction that chemically alters the brain and is thus considered by many as a disease. I began to understand the severity of the situation, and my dad was only getting worse with time. My brother agreed that things were getting out of hand, and that if we didn't step in soon we might lose him. It was mid-July. I called dad. We caught up, shared some laughs, and I talked to him about quitting. For whatever reason, he was especially receptive. We made plans to see each other the next day. We were going to go shoot hoops, something we hadn't done together in years. He canceled. It was the last time I talked to him.

A couple weeks later and the day before he died, he invited his mom (my Granny) to come over and spend the day with him. He told her he was ready to quit, and he wanted her to be there just in case it got difficult. The two of them ran errands, paid bills, and took the time to stop for ice cream. The next morning when he still wasn't up, she went in his room and found him unresponsive. We got an autopsy. He died of a heart attack in his sleep... sober. 

I can't believe it's been four years since that day. I go days sometimes without thinking of him now, but I miss him just the same. Sometimes, out of nowhere, it will just hit me that he's gone and it takes my breath away. The connection and the bond that we had is indescribable. We loved each other so much, and we knew and understood each other in a way that I'll never know with anyone else. (Realizing that helped me really understand God's love for us. His presence through my dad's death is a story for another time.) It tears me apart that he won't walk me down the aisle or that I won't get to see how much he loves his grandchildren, but what my heart longs for the most is to just talk to him. I look forward to the day I get to do that again.