From a young age, I found comfort 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.” Originally penned by a theologian and later embraced by various recovery programs, I leaned on this prayer throughout my adolescence and into adulthood.
My father struggled with alcoholism for as long as I can remember. Some years were better than others, marked by periods of sobriety where he would be more pleasant and less unpredictable. During my childhood, my brother and I were aware that his drinking was problematic. We often found ourselves stopping at a bar on the way to school, under the pretense of it being my grandfather’s establishment. I’m quite certain there was always something added to his coffee. His day would continue with drinks at lunch, followed by picking us up after school. There were moments we considered walking home to avoid the situation, but we knew that could lead to an explosive reaction.
When I became a parent, I knew I had to draw a line. I told my father that driving while intoxicated with my child was off-limits. He had the liberty to do so when I was a kid, but now that I had my own, things needed to change. It was a tough conversation—one that shifted our family dynamics and marked a rock-bottom moment for both of us. My dad agreed to attend Alcoholics Anonymous again, and for a while, he seemed to conquer his demons.
But soon after his sobriety began, we noticed troubling signs: lapses in memory and odd conversations. Initially, we attributed this to the absence of alcohol in his life, but as time passed, the symptoms worsened. Our family was familiar with Alzheimer’s, given its presence in our history, and it wasn’t long before my father received an official diagnosis.
Alzheimer’s is a cruel illness, much like alcoholism, stealing away the person you once knew and replacing them with someone else. Society often shows more compassion for Alzheimer’s, yet both conditions share a genetic link that offers little comfort. After receiving a diagnosis, there may be some initial reprieve, but it is a relentless thief of memories and identity.
How could we overcome one disease only to face another? Why did my mother deserve to care for her partner in such a way, not once but twice? What had my father done to warrant this?
We can’t dwell on the why or how anymore, especially as we navigate the later stages of my father’s illness. Recently, I assisted my mother in checking him into a memory care unit. His days are filled with more confusion than clarity, and he frequently falls, leading to hospital visits. He calls us repeatedly throughout the day, and each conversation feels like a loop of the same few phrases.
In a way, we should consider ourselves fortunate; soon, these brief exchanges may come to an end.
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Summary:
This piece recounts the author’s experience with her father’s long-standing battle with alcoholism and the subsequent diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease. It reflects on the complexities of caregiving, the emotional toll on family members, and the struggles of facing multiple illnesses within a family dynamic.
Keyphrase: Father’s battle with alcoholism and Alzheimer’s
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