Shattered

Trigger Warning: Substance Abuse, Death -

I watch in utter helplessness as my father takes another swig from his handle of vodka. He no longer pours himself glasses of this ruthless poison as he once used to; instead, he has graduated to simply drinking straight from the bottle. Though he bought the handle only a mere few hours ago, half of it has already been emptied into his stomach for his failing liver to process. I glance concernedly at his abdomen, which has become distended – the hospital diagnosed him with ascites and an inflamed liver when I brought him to the emergency room a couple of nights ago. The nurses had pulled me aside and advised me to begin gathering my support system, for they did not believe that he had much longer to live due to his severe addiction to alcohol.

              I have never quite understood his obsession with alcohol. He began drinking at the young age of 14; his parents – my grandparents – never batted an eye, even as his drinking grew more and more frequent. He still functioned well, so I suppose that they did not see an issue with him indulging himself and his love for alcohol. Perhaps what they failed to understand is that he was already an alcoholic – even then, at 14 years old – despite his ability to function; to put simply, he was a functioning alcoholic, but still an alcoholic, nonetheless. Had they sought the proper treatment for him at that age, maybe life would be different today. Maybe he would be a healthy 56-year-old man with decades of wonderful life splayed before him. Maybe our relationship would be different . . . maybe it would be healthier. Maybe all the trauma that I have endured at the hands of this nasty addiction would not exist, and I would be more whole and more grounded. These are things that we will never know because his parents ignored his alcoholism, and time travel (in an effort to warn them of what was to come) is a thing of science fiction.

              He is now essentially on his deathbed. He has not eaten in quite a number of days due to the pressure of the fluid accumulating in his abdomen from the ascites and his dying liver – it makes him feel full after one bite of food, so he refuses to eat altogether.

              Drinking, however? Of course, he can still drink! Never mind eating and thus never mind the fact that he is also starving himself to death; as long as he can still drink his vodka – that absolutely disgusting poison – he is “okay.” Needless to say, he is not “okay” in the slightest sense of the word. As his abdomen continues to expand, his arms and legs grow skinnier. He is effectively anorexic, and his liver is failing; with a heavy and broken heart, I realize that it will not take much longer for death to follow.

              Behind closed doors, when he is restlessly sleeping, I often grieve. I grieve for the man who is still alive, but who is killing himself before me because he is completely powerless against his addiction. I grieve for the father he never was, but could have been, had he never taken that first sip. I grieve for all that he has put me through; I grieve for the past, for the present, for the future – for all that ever was, and for all that never will be.

              Addiction is a relentless and powerful disease. It does not just affect the person who struggles with the addiction; it affects all those around him as well. It has shattered me into pieces that I am still struggling to fit back together at the age of 25. Though I am an adult, I still feel as though I am a wounded child who wishes desperately for her father to snap out of his alcoholism and see that he is so deeply loved. Like a child, I find myself wishing that I was enough of a reason – as his daughter – to put the damned drink down and actually live, but as an adult, I know that is simply not how addiction works. Once addiction sinks its unforgiving claws into a person, it is incredibly reluctant to release that hold . . . if it ever does. It never did release my father.

              Dad clumsily sets the handle down on the table with a thud. His eyes, glazed with intoxication and yellowed from jaundice, turn to me, and his thin lips crack into a drunk grin. As horrible as he looks, he does appear to be happy under the blanket of alcohol intoxication.

              I feel rage rising within me; how dare he have the audacity to smile at me after all that he has put me through and is continuing to put me through? And then that fury is immediately replaced with guilt; he is ill from a disease against which is utterly powerless, so how could I be angry with him? I should be infuriated with his addiction, not my father. And I should be infuriated with his parents for not having gotten him the help he so clearly needed as a young teenager. Again, I feel the rage return, causing my body to burn and tremble – they could have prevented this, could they not?

              But instead of speaking stinging words of fury, I simply return the smile. It is forced, but I figure a forced smile is better than no smile, for to discuss such thoughts with him is futile. I have learned in my years of watching him spiral into the darkest depths of alcoholism that speaking to him about serious matters regarding his drinking behavior is akin to speaking to a brick wall. The conversation typically goes nowhere because he either ignores me or becomes so defensive that it is absolutely pointless to continue the conversation. So, instead, I return the smile.

              “What is it, Dad?” I inquire gently, choking back the rage that is rising within my throat.

              “You look beautiful,” he slurs in response. “Almost as beautiful as that fairy over there.” He points past my shoulder to the far right corner of the room.

              Wondering what in the hell he is talking about, I offer a swift glance over my shoulder at the empty corner. There is nothing there – not even a shadow. How odd, I think to myself. Dad usually doesn’t hallucinate when he drinks.

              My gaze returns to my father whose eyes are now focused on the corner as though he sees a creature of unadulterated beauty standing within it. I wonder if the hallucination is perhaps a symptom of his failing liver – I will have to research that later to be certain.

              “Is the fairy still there?” I ask curiously.

              “Yes,” he croaks. “And my God, is she beautiful.”

              If there is one thing that I learned from my mother who worked as a psychiatric nurse, it is that delusions should not be broken by those who are not trained in mental health. Therefore, instead of arguing with him and telling him that the corner is in fact empty and he is quite simply out of his mind, I again peak over my shoulder at the corner in which there stands nothing. I then look back at my father and offer another smile.

              “Yes, she is beautiful,” I agree kindly. “But it is time for you to go to bed. You have another appointment in the morning.” Another useless appointment, I should’ve said, but didn’t, for what good would that have done? But that is indeed the truth; it is just a consultation with a gastroenterologist to determine what our next steps should be in my father’s journey with his alcoholism, though I know that my father will not listen.

              He heaves a childlike sigh and retrieves his huge bottle of vodka from where it rests on the table. I grimace as he swallows, swallows, swallows . . . I suppose he wants to drink as much as he can before he goes to sleep. Finally, after many gulps, he slams the vodka down on the table and screws the cap back onto the top of the handle.

              “Alright,” he slurs again. “I’ll good to bed. I’m tired, anyway. But don’t let that fairy leave. I like her.”

              “I won’t let her leave,” I assure him. “Now, go on to bed.”

              On wobbly arms, he lifts himself from his seat to stand on equally wobbly legs. He raises his arms above his head and briefly stretches, exposing his abdomen that looks more similar to a pregnancy bump than to a beer belly. Then he staggers into his room, mindful of keeping the door open in case I need to check on him, and collapses upon the bed. Before he can even cover himself with his blanket, he is blissfully unconscious.

              Having sent him to bed, I walk on weak legs to my own room, and weep. I weep for my father who has fallen victim to this disease of addiction – specifically, alcoholism – and I weep for myself. Loving an alcoholic is beyond difficult . . . beyond heartbreaking, even. It is so hard to watch someone you love so deeply kill himself through means of his addiction. It simply is not fair. I know that life is not fair, but why, of all people, did it have to be my father who would have to be so ill and powerless in the face of his addiction? Why did he ever have to be addicted in the first place? And why was I never enough?

              From his room, I hear odd, exasperated breathing. I am swift to wipe away the tears as I run to his room, only to find him on the floor clutching at his chest and struggling to gasp for breath. His breathing is erratic and noisy; each breath is accompanied with a strange grunt, and there are long pauses from one breath to the next.

              I rush to his side and immediately collapse upon the floor next to him. With strength I did not know I possessed, I heave his upper body into my lap so that he is leaning up against me, hoping desperately that the change in position will allow him an opportunity to breathe with more ease. My hopes are dashed as the odd and terrifying breaths continue. Helpless and wildly unsure as to what is happening, I work my hand into my pocket and retrieve my phone. I dial 911 and immediately begin explaining to the operator about my father’s intense struggles with breathing.

              As she begins to tell me what to do to help him, his body suddenly becomes limp within my arms. The grunting stops, the pause stretches and stretches until I am suddenly certain that he is no longer breathing. Horrified and desperate to save Dad’s life, I drop the phone, rest my father’s body upon the floor, and immediately begin administering CPR.

              “Come on, daddy,” I plead through tears. “Please don’t leave me! Not yet!”

              In the faint distance, familiar sirens sound. An ambulance is coming. But looking at my father, who still lies limply upon the floor, I realize that any help he is to receive from the paramedics will come too late, for he is not responding to the CPR. I pause to check for a pulse in his neck – and utter a long shriek of unadulterated agony when I find none.

              I lost him. I lost my father.

              I lost Dad.

              When the paramedics arrive, they try to revive him. They attempt to restart his heart with the paddles, but to no avail.

              Dad is gone. His addiction finally robbed him of his life at the young age of 56.

              Not in my right mind, I walk into the kitchen where we were just sitting moments ago. I take the handle of vodka and throw it onto the ground; glass shatters everywhere and the liquid splatters onto both the floor and my legs. I am furious that this monster took my father’s life. I am hurt beyond belief. I am heartbroken and shattered all over again.

              What would life have been like if he had not taken that first sip at 14 years old? What would life have been like if his parents had intervened and gotten him the support he so desperately required?

              Maybe . . . maybe I would still have a father, my Dad.