DearChickenSoupfortheTeenageSoul,
Ever since I can remember, my father has had a problem with alcohol. When I was little, he and my mother would have fights. My mother, sister and I would have to pack up our bags and stay with my grandmother. We must have done that ten times, but I was so young and naïve then. I never paid much attention to the fact that every drink my father consumed affected how long he would actually live.
About two years ago, my father was officially diagnosed with alcoholism, a disease that controls your thoughts and emotions to the point where you cannot function without alcohol. I never saw my father as anyone with problems. He was my undying superhero, capable of overcoming every obstacle in his way. In his high-school years, he was labeled “The American Dream.” He was a high-school track star, handsome and talented. Unfortunately, my father grew up with an alcoholic father much like himself. I wish he hadn’t inherited his father’s tendencies.
Recently my father was in an alcohol-related accident, a head-on collision with another car. It was this accident that made me realize how serious his illness really was. I clearly remember the phone call we received that night, at 2:00 A.M. I picked up the phone and was asked to put on the lady of the house. I hurriedly awoke my mother and gave her the phone. I watched as she listened to the grueling details. What if he doesn’t make it? I thought as I sobbed. She hung up the phone and told me not to cry, that everything would be okay. I watched from the window through tears as she pulled out of our driveway to go to the hospital. I stayed up all night by the phone, waiting to hear that my father was going to be okay.
Finally at seven in the morning, the phone rang. He had been under the influence and without a seat belt. His head had smashed through the windshield, cutting open his face and damaging his brain. He had been unconscious when they pulled him from the car, and his eye was completely exposed. My mom had seen him before they took him to surgery, and she said that she thought he was dead. He looked horrible. Luckily, the doctors, with the help of God, were able to save my father and prevent permanent damage to his right eye.
Now the doctors are telling us that my father will die if he doesn’t quit drinking. He’s only forty-five years old. Even if he does quit drinking they will eventually have to transplant his severely damaged liver.
My dad, the once-beautiful track star, has changed. His hair has thinned, and his skin is scarred. His legs are black from lack of blood circulation; his once sky-blue eyes are no longer bright, but lackluster; and the whites of his eyes are yellow.
If you ask me, though, my daddy is still beautiful and he’s still my hero, my American Dream. But one with a life-threatening disease.
There has never been a greater pain than witnessing my father, someone I love and look up to more than anyone in the world, slowly killing himself. And I pray every day that God will help free my father of his alcoholism.
If you’re reading this, Dad, I want you to know that I love you. I am proud of you and all the things that you have accomplished. You are still my hero and my superdad. You have strength in you, Daddy, to overcome drinking. I know you do. Everyone makes mistakes, and God offers many chances. Daddy-O, this is your chance; please come back to us.
I am writing this letter in hopes that anyone with this disease in their family will know that they are not alone. With the love and support of family members and friends, this disease is conquerable.
Thanks,
Rachel Palmer