Alcoholism doesn’t only impact the alcoholic. As many people are intimately familiar, family and friends can also bear the brunt. Speaking out about it can cause conflict—both inner and outer—and takes courage. Recently, writer Farrah Penn shared her experience dealing with her alcoholic father. For those in the Westside Cleveland area, we’re here to help you with matters of addiction including alcoholism.
The last conversation I had with my father was on Christmas Eve. We’d decided to meet for coffee and I’d shown up right on time. Even though he was usually punctual, if not early, there was no sign of him.
In a way I was relieved. This meant I could order my cup of coffee without worrying about my dad using funds he might not have to pay for it. I was always grateful for the gesture, but more often felt guilty since I was never sure if he was working or between jobs or relying on his current wife for finances.
The shop was empty except for a couple perched at a high table near the pickup counter. I sat in an armchair facing the front door. It was five minutes past the time we’d agreed to meet. I wondered if he’d forgotten, even though he’d texted me an hour earlier that he was coming. Ten minutes went by. Fifteen. And there he was. He had a deep gash on the side of his face that looked fairly recent. I didn’t know what to make of it. Had he gotten into a fight? That wasn’t like him. Was it a drinking-related accident? But when he stepped forward to hug me, I didn’t smell any hint of liquor. He smiled, as if the wound weren’t a current concern.
I was always nervous and apprehensive every time we met during the holidays. My father had fluctuated between drinking and sobriety for as long as I could remember, which eventually led to my parent’s divorce when I started high school. There were several years in between when we didn’t talk, but for the last six years I’d wanted to make an effort to get to know him better. Our conversations usually centered around catching up on what we’d been doing for the last few months.
We’d been talking for 10 minutes when he brought up the gash on his face.
“You’re probably wondering what happened, huh?”
I was, but I hadn’t said anything at first because I didn’t want to be rude.
“It looks pretty deep,” I said.
He told me that his new wife wasn’t doing well. In a fit of hysterics, she had demanded all the Christmas decorations be taken down and put away. He recalled how she had knocked the tree right into his face, and that’s how the lights strung upon the branches electrocuted his cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I’d told him, looking into his eyes. I wasn’t searching for the truth in them, but for sobriety. I was convinced I’d found it. “But you’re okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I’m doing just fine. Did I tell you? Had to get a tooth pulled. I couldn’t pay for it. But my dentist — real nice guy — he said, ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He goes, ‘Merry Christmas.’ And I was able to have it removed.”
I wanted to believe he was sober. He’d suffered and survived a heart attack back in 2013, and to my knowledge he was taking his health seriously. But I wasn’t my mother, who could always tell when he’d been drinking even if he hid it well. It was in his eyes, she said, but I could never tell. I only knew the obvious signs, which were the slurring and stumbling and sharp smell of liquor. The yelling that came with the consumption of too much beer. None of that was present now. I assumed he must have kept his promise to me and remained sober, but I’d been wrong before.
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