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Wisdom to Know the Difference

Rebecca Kelly

    I was just a kid. All I knew was that Dad came home shortly before my sister and I went to sleep, played with us, and then went to bed. My sister was always four years too cool to want to play with me, but Dad was always there. We had a trampoline in our backyard. He would sit on his hands and knees underneath it while we bounced. He pushed up against the floor of the trampoline when our jumps landed near him. He always played with us.
    Once, we had bought Frosty Paws ice cream at the store, which is only meant for dogs. Mom was out of town. It came in little cups, like the bulk ice cream my grandma always had at her house for us. Dad thought it would be funny to trick my big sister and give her some. I followed him down the hallway to her bedroom, trying not to giggle. I stayed behind him and listened, safely away from the incoming wrath of my sister. It wasn’t long before she was screaming, running to the phone to call my mom and tell on him. She was so mad at him. I thought it was harmless. When my mom heard about it, she was furious. I’m sure she thought, “I leave the house for one day and he feeds the kids dog food”.

***


    When I was old enough to put the pieces together, I realized that he came home late because he went to his best friend’s restaurant, the Three Pigs Barbeque, after work each night. He went for drinks. And, when he got home, after playing with us for a short while, he drank some more. And he would drink until he fell asleep.
    My mom explained to me that it started with one drink to fall asleep. But, after a while, one drink just wasn’t enough. The trend continued.

***


    I was eleven years old. My mom came and got my sister and me from our rooms. She said her and Dad had something important to talk to us about. We followed her down the hallway to our family room, where my mom and Dad would sit in separate chairs across from our couch. My grandma sat in the middle of the couch, motioning for my sister and me to sit at her sides. She held us each in her arms, anchoring us for what was to come. I’m sure more was said, but all I remember is my mom saying, “Daddy and I have decided it will be best for us if we aren’t together anymore.” She told us that we would go see him every other weekend, and spend odd-year Christmas’s and even-year Easters with his side of the family. That would be fair.
    My mom came to the couch, and held her crying daughters in her arms. She told us everything would be alright. I didn’t pay attention to what my dad was doing. He may not have even been there.

***


    I was awoken to the sound of my grandma throwing my sister’s door open and yelling “What do you think you’re doing?” It’s the middle of the night. Her room is next to mine, my grandma’s across the narrow hall from me. I got up to see what was going on. She was trying to cut her way through the screen on her window. Grandma must have heard the knife cutting through the screen. Though our windows open, the mesh screen isn’t removable. I guess she was trying to run away. It didn’t make sense to me. We already lost someone.

***


    Last year, my sister and I saw Blink 182 together in concert. They played an old hit of theirs from when we were growing up, “Stay Together for the Kids”. She told me that she blasted that song on repeat during the divorce. Their lyrics are burned in my pre-teen memories: “If this is what he wants/ And this is what she wants/ Then why is there so much pain?”
    On our way home, we reminisced about our childhood. She told me that she felt like she had to take care of me. She said that, when we were younger, if she hadn’t cleaned up my toys by the time Dad got home that he would yell at her. I wasn’t old enough then to pick up my own toys, and he would blame her for the house not being tidy. I wondered what else I didn’t know. What I was too young to pick up on.

***


    I never looked forward to the weekends with my dad. We had dinner at the Three Pigs on Saturday nights- always a quarter chicken to share and the best garlic bread you could ever have. Then we went “grocery shopping”. We could pick out anything we wanted, as long as it was cinnamon rolls and Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. That was all he bought for us. At his condo, he had an old bowl of candy on the counter, sometimes popcorn, and an occasional leftover Dorito bag in the fridge.
    After a few visits like that, my mom sent us with a bag of food to eat. She reminded us to call her if he had a drink and then got in the car with us.

***


    On a weekend visit, he leaves my sister and me in the car while he goes into a casino. We’re alone for hours. The window is cracked.

***


    When I was in middle school, I was always so confused when I would stay at a friend’s house and both their parents were home. “Your dad is coming home?” I would ask, confused. “Of course,” my friend replied, “he makes us dinner every night.” Families cooking dinner together and eating at a dinner table every night. A mom and dad. For the longest time, it was just my mom, sister, grandma, and me. That was what a family was. Having a man in the house seemed like such an alien concept.

***


    After my sister turned 18 and I was 14, my dad said it was up to us if we wanted to come every other weekend and that we were old enough to decide for ourselves. My sister didn’t want to go anymore. I went some weekends, but only if I could find a friend to come with me.
    One weekend, my best friend and I went to his condo. He was always in his bathroom when we were over. I didn’t know what could be so interesting in there that he would spend his time there instead of out with me. I told him that I thought I left my iPod in his car and asked if he would go get it for me because I needed it to fall asleep. He resisted and insisted I go down to the garage myself to get it. I convinced him and he went out to get my iPod. I didn’t leave it in the car. I asked my friend to keep a look out and I went into his bathroom. It reeked of a smoke that was unfamiliar. I opened all of the drawers and cabinets. On his side table was a lighter and something that looked like a cigarette. Under the sink, I found at least four empty bottles of Corona Lite, and another full six-pack.
    I walked out onto his patio and sat in a chair and looked at the stars. My friend followed. Tears were in my eyes but she didn’t pry for answers. I thought, “So that’s what he’s been doing”. Dad came back from going to the garage, opened the door to the patio, and said he couldn’t find my iPod. I told him that I found it in my bag. This annoyed him. He went back to his bathroom. He didn’t notice my teary eyes.
    My friend and I talked about school and anything else to fill the silence. My mind was uneasy. I got up and walked a few feet to the railing of the balcony. Dad’s apartment was on the third floor of the complex. I climbed up on the railing, my back leaning against the corner of the apartment wall for some support. I looked down at the grass field that lay below in the middle of the units. I thought about what it would be like to fall. My friend stood behind me and asked me if I would get down. I was swinging my legs. I was being careless. I was making her nervous.

***


    One day, my mom told me the story of how and why she divorced my dad. She told me that she wanted to be a good Christian and didn’t believe in getting a divorce unless it was absolutely needed. Dad verbally abused her and yelled at her and sometimes would try to push or hurt her. She stayed anyways. She was putting up with his behavior because she thought she had to. She thought that he would get better. Eventually, it leaked into being mean to my sister, and she said she drew the line when he sent me off to the bus stop in tears. When I asked her what he said to me, she said, “If you don’t remember, I’m not going to tell you.”
    She told me she was going to therapy, and her therapist asked her, “If this was happening to one of your daughters, what would you want them to do?”
    She said, “I would tell them to leave now.”
    Her therapist responded, “Then why is it different for you?”
    Finally, she gave him a last chance to get sober and stay. He didn’t. We went on to have a long conversation about how women accept what they think they deserve and tend not to question it. In my relationships, I was accepting what I felt I deserved. She didn’t want me to get stuck in the same thing that she was. She wanted so much more for me.

***


    Two years ago, my father got his first DUI. He was no longer being a functioning alcoholic. His work told him that he would be let go if he didn’t seek treatment. Customers were complaining that his breath smelled like alcohol. He’d been there for 25 years. His boss and his wife attended my grandma’s funeral. Because it had the shortest program and didn’t deal with the emotional side like AA, my dad went to Schick Shadel Hospital in Seattle. It was $13,000, ten days long, and not covered by insurance. He used the money he got from my grandma’s passing a few months prior. Now that both of his parents were dead, he had more money to spend. My grandma would have been proud of the use of the money.
    Schick Shadel specializes in aversion therapy. There, patients are given Antabuse, which makes them throw up whenever any alcohol is put into their system. Their treatment consisted of what my dad called “barf sessions”, where they forced patients to drink different kinds of alcohol and then throw up. This alternated with “truth sessions”, where patients were given the “truth serum” drug, hypnotized, and asked questions. Answers given during therapy were compared to answers given off the drug, to see if the patient really felt that way.
    24 hours after his admittance, he managed to escape the hospital. He was found walking down the streets of Seattle in the middle of the night by his brother, who was notified of his escape. He had to stay at Harborview for three days before he could go back to Schick. The lack of alcohol in his blood system was a shock to his body. He had delirium tremens, which is defined as “a rapid onset of confusion usually caused by withdrawal from alcohol”. He said he was at work when asked if he knew where he was. He tried to drink from his shoe. He was out of his mind. My uncle said he had never seen anything like it.

***


    This April, I took a boyfriend to meet my dad and me for dinner at the Three Pigs. It was their first time meeting. Dad had been out of treatment for two months and had remained sober, at least to my knowledge. I told my dad about delirium tremens because I had just learned about it in my abnormal psychology class. I said, “I finally found out why you freaked out when you went into treatment.”
    “Oh yeah?” He replied.
    I described to him what it meant, and he denied it. He said, “No, I went crazy because my vitamin levels were so low.” I agreed for the sake of peace.
    For small talk we discussed his crazy druggie sister and his experiences with LSD in high school, among other things. Dad talked almost the whole time we were there. When my boyfriend and I walked to my car I said, “Well, that’s my dad.” I apologized for his inappropriate conversation starters. He doesn’t think before he speaks. He doesn’t have a filter. I get that from him.

***


    He went into treatment the same week my sister had her baby in an emergency C-section three months before her due date. I was hopeful that maybe my nephew would get to grow up to have a real relationship with my dad, his grandpa.
    Dad called me almost every day he was in treatment. He would tell me about his day and that the cook would make him anything he wanted, even pancakes for dinner (his favorite). He would tell me about his treatments and how he was never going to drink again. It was weird to hear from him so often. He said, “I know I’m never going to drink again because that would be a thirteen thousand dollar beer. I’m spending too much money here to waste it.” He sounded very convincing.
    While he was there, I learned the true extent of his drinking. This would be the first time I would ever see him sober, the first time in my life. He said he would even drink a beer if he woke up in the middle of the night. He drank a beer during his lunch hour at work. He drank when he got home. He told me that, in order to wean down before treatment, he had two tall boys at night instead of a six pack.

***


    On my twenty-first birthday, I met my dad for breakfast at Denny’s. It was the first time I had ever had a meal with him alone. It was new and uncomfortable. He took photos of me eating and a selfie of us together for him to post on Facebook. Like always, he gave me a $100 bill. The same gift for each birthday and Christmas for as long as I can remember. It’s the only thing I could ever count on from him. Up until now, that was all our relationship was. It was awkward to be rushed into having a real relationship with my dad. To have someone who always wants to take selfies. To have someone who calls me and will remember in two days what I said on the phone.
    On that birthday, no one believed that I had never drank before. I spent the evening with my two best friends, seeing Marvel’s “Civil War”, and having a blended drink that would be my first alcoholic beverage. All throughout high school, no one believed me either. I would tell them, “My dad chose drinking over my family. That isn’t something I’m going to jump into.”

***


    Now that my dad is sober, he offers money to my sister and me when we need it. He visited us this Easter and gave us each $100 because he had won at the casino that day. He gave my sister and me each $13,000 when he got his inheritance and the money from selling his parent’s house. It was originally $10,000 but my sister asked for more and he agreed. He said that we deserved some of the money too because they were our grandparents. Though my sister takes advantage of his recent generosity, I don’t feel I have the right to ask my dad for money. He more than owes us. He more than owes my mother for raising us herself.

***


    Last weekend, my mom and I went shopping and to lunch at Panera Bread. We ordered and walked to a table with our buzzer. I heard my mom’s phone vibrating in her purse- something she always misses- and told her she was getting a call. She handed me her drink while she searched her purse for her phone. We found a table near the windows as my mom answered the phone. I ate my raspberry thumbprint cookie and played with my phone, half-listening to what she was saying. It was a conversation with my uncle. He was calling to let her know that my sister asked my dad for $150 for car repairs but he knew it only cost $50. He was worried she may be using the extra money for pills and thought it was suspicious that she lied about the price. My sister had just gone to inpatient treatment for the fourth time. She was going through the motions of her outpatient AA program. My mom said she would follow that up with her and see what’s going on.
    My mom told my uncle that when my sister asked my dad for a ride to pick up her car, he told her, “It’s Cinco de Mayo and I can’t blow in my car.” After my dad’s DUI, a blow-and-go was installed in his car that will make it so it won’t start if he has alcohol in his system. My mom thanked my uncle for telling her about my sister and hung up the phone. Our food had come and she started to pick at her salad.
    I asked, “Does that mean that Dad is drinking again?” She said she thinks so. We went on with our meal.

***


    My 22nd birthday was in two days, May 13th. I hadn’t heard from my dad, so I called him to ask if he wanted to get together that weekend to see me. His speech had a slight slur- like he was a little drunk but not quite wasted. His thoughts were disorganized and he repeated himself often. In response to me asking to meet for dinner, he told me that he was planning on surprising me with a trip to visit my boyfriend in Los Angeles, who is currently there for school until October. He said, “But now you’ve ruined the surprise.” I told him that my boyfriend was coming back home for Memorial Day weekend, at the end of the month, and I wanted to plan my trip to visit him sometime in July or August, closer to when he came home. He asked, “I forget- is your birthday before or after Memorial Day?”
    “My birthday is on Saturday. Memorial weekend is two weeks from now.”
    “Well let’s get you down there for your birthday.”
    “Dad, I think it’s a little too last minute for me to go see him for my birthday. I’d rather go this summer when it’s closer to when he comes home.”
    “Well alright then, but I was planning on surprising you to go on your birthday. That was my plan. But just know that, whenever you want to go, I’ll pay for your trip. Don’t worry about how much it costs.”
    I thanked him and told him I would let him know when I knew the dates I wanted to go. He thanked me for calling, and then hung up. The sound of his voice hung in the air. After the call, my mom asked me if we were going to get dinner together. I said “He didn’t answer the question.”

***


    His blow-and-go has now been removed. He has fulfilled the 12 month requirement from his court date. He can now drink with the security of knowing his car will start.
    I had a dad for a year. It was exciting to feel like I was getting a father like everyone else had, but it was also uncomfortable to be forced to have a relationship with this person that I really didn’t know very well. I am disappointed that I don’t get more time with him. But, in a way, it is comforting. It is expected. Of course he’s drinking again. It was an illusion and a dream that I knew couldn’t have lasted. It is almost a comfort to have this dad back, the dad I know.
    I know that my dad has good intentions. I know that he suffers from pain that I can’t imagine and that he doesn’t want to imagine either. I know that offering money is the only way he knows how to show he loves my sister and me. I am not upset with him anymore. I know that he doesn’t see alcohol, marijuana, and his prescription medications as addictions. I know he doesn’t see his drug use as a problem.
    My sister is now in inpatient treatment for her opiate addiction for the fifth time, and the second this year. This is what she gets from our dad. He cannot understand why she can’t kick her habit. Before her admittance, she called my dad to tell him what was going on. He expressed his confusion to her. He told her that they could make a promise and that, if she could kick the pills, he would buy her all the weed she wants.
    It doesn’t work that way. A drug is a drug is a drug. I have gone through enough family weekends at treatment centers to know that. There is no using just a little bit to her. Addiction is a disease, and it is all or nothing.
    His ignorance frustrates her.
    I repeat the Serenity Prayer to myself. It is recited before every AA meeting. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.” This has to be far more ingrained in her mind, but she doesn’t put it to use.
    We cannot control the dad that we are given. I cannot control anyone’s sobriety but my own. I can be thankful that my dad is still alive. I can be thankful for his embarrassing Facebook posts, in caps lock and ungrammatical. I can be glad that he still wants to take selfies with me, even if they are a little out of focus now. I can be thankful for that sober year I got with him.



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