Writing this blog stirred up alcohol-related childhood memories that would put the average person in therapy for the rest of their lives. In short, booze may have wrecked my youth, but I didn’t realize it until I started digging around in my past and recalling things that seemed normal at the time, but in today’s perspective are utterly awful.
Sometimes my self-confidence prevents me from believing that my childhood was less than perfect. My love of life, allows me to convert a negative moment into a positive experience. But once I started crawling around in the threads of the dirty carpet that is my long life — memories came to the surface like stains from my past. Some memories that surfaced were traumatic, while others seemed comical, in that my parents weren’t aware that safety belts were essential or that smoking would kill you. They lived in a time when simple survival was paramount and not ending up in a poorhouse was favorable, sometimes at the expense of the well-being of their children. And certainly, they didn’t consider the ramifications of their actions for our future mental health.
As I sat down to write, a single moment of my childhood gushed to the surface of my mind. Honestly, if I was a whiner, this would have been the point where I would say “booze wrecked my childhood.” But as I reflect now on that infamous moment, I think how that single point in time may have changed our family’s lives forever.
Good or bad, this is the first time I’m telling the story publicly, so bear with me, as you visit Wexford, Ireland in 1972, from the perspective of a 10-year-old.
My dad’s company repaired shipping containers — you know the big boxy metal things you see on massive ships or stacked two high on trains. Over time, he grew the business to forty employees. Even my mom worked in the office, managing payroll. One day dad, simply known as “the Da”, came home and announced that he finally landed an account with one of the largest businesses in Ireland, a well-known brewing company. They shipped thousands of shipping containers worldwide. Dad’s company won the account to repair and maintain a large percentage of their shipping containers. The deal came with a lucrative retainer and even a company car. This was such a big deal for our family that mom started planning a vacation to Spain and buying a bigger house.
At the time, the Da was in the middle of a restoration of our summer cottage in Wexford, about 80 miles (128.75 kilometers) south of Dublin. Turning it from a run-down unlivable mess into a tourist version of the traditional Irish thatched cottage, straw roof and all.
The weekend after he won the contract, we drove down to the cottage, excited about Da’s new car and mom’s new plans. But as soon as we arrived and unpacked the new car, Da hopped back in and off. His ritual night at the pub in Blackwater was about to begin. But flush with cash and new stories to tell, who knew when he’d come home. I remember the apprehension on my mom’s face as he pulled out of the driveway, years of ups and down wearing heavily on her shoulders.
We sat by the open fire waiting for him to come home, playing cards and telling stories of our own. Long after dark, he showed up at the front door buzzed — stumbling and laughing. I’m sure mom must have been relieved that he made it home alive, but as she was closing the front door, she noticed the company car was missing.
“Where’s the feck’n car?” She gasped. “Oh my God, what have you done with the brand-new car?” “Doan worry, luv, Nick drov me home,” he said, all proud for not drinking and driving.
It turned out that Nick (not his real name) drove the Da home, but not as a designated driver. He was, in their inebriated minds, the less drunk of the two, so better qualified to drive the company car. No wonder car insurance is so expensive. “How about Nick?” Mom squealed, “Is he drunk too?” Her voice raising an octave or two, but the Da just mumbled something unrecognizable and crawled upstairs.
Our cottage was still under construction, livable but unfinished—a dangerous place for an intoxicated man. The stairs going up to the bedrooms were incomplete; consisting of a partially constructed wrought-iron railing which would eventually hold the banister, poked up out of the floor like a metal spike. I remember worrying that the Da was going to do a face plant, but somehow, he made it up the stairs by holding on to the wall and sort of shimmying step by step. He then plopped into bed and began snoring before his head hit the pillow.
No big deal, just another day in the life of an Irishman, right?
—Wrong.
Several hours later, after the rest of us were in bed, we heard a banging on the front door, waking all eight of us.
My very drunk dad, being the man of the house, was on his feet in seconds, rushing to the head of the stairs, intending to grab his shotgun, and meet the intruder at the door. He ended up falling through the missing railing down one flight of stairs, directly onto the spiked wrought-iron railing. The hooked top drove through his shoulder, impaling him.
I remember, to this day, his scream of agony, my mom’s anguish, and my sister’s look of fear. The six of us children raced over to the hole in the floor of the upstairs landing, looking down at our dad with a spike through his shoulder, screaming like he was dying before our eyes. To say it was a traumatic moment in our lives was an understatement, but what I remember most was how helpless I felt. I had seen nothing like this in my short life, and my 10-year-old brain just sort of froze in place, staring down at my dad bleeding out on the floor below me.
Mom never took the Lord’s name in vain, but there she was, gasping, “Oh My God, oh my God,” repeatedly. Meanwhile, the pounding on the front door continued. Literally, the definition of chaos, trauma, urgency, and madness all in one iconic moment.
My oldest sister finally ran downstairs past my mom, who was now holding dad and opened the front door to see who was knocking. Standing there in the doorway stood the bloodied face of Nick, his wet tears mixing with blood as they poured off his pale Irish face. What more could go wrong?
It turned out Nick never made it home. Instead, he returned to another bar to show off Dad’s prized company car, then crashed it into a historic stone road marker, then veered off into a ditch, destroying the car. Worse yet, the story ended up in the newspapers, bringing negative press for the brewing company and my father’s company.
We were able, with Nick’s and a local farmer’s help, to remove dad from the spike and get him to a hospital safely.
When the dust settled, dad had lost the major account, Nick had a concussion. But worse yet, shattered were the dreams of a new home for mom. My sisters looked haunted for weeks, and poor Nick attempted to commit suicide a couple of days later. After the surgery, my dad could no longer write with his left hand and had to learn, for a second time, how to write with the other. For the rest of his life, his handwriting looked like a kindergartener’s.
Not long after, his company closed down lacking customers, and our family scraped by for years, with collectors knocking on our door. Eventually, giving up and immigrating to the United States, for a “new start.” All because of one single night of drinking alcohol.
Now, my strong-willed, pull yourself up by the bootstraps, personality is going to say that it ended perfectly. Our lives went on, and we all became successful in our own way. Even dad found a great job in America and ultimately became prosperous again.
But all of us, I think, are haunted by that moment, wondering what we would’ve done and who we would’ve become if that night had never happened. Timelines are strange that way; while you want to be grateful for what you achieved in your life, it’s natural to wonder what would’ve happened if that event never took place.
Somebody once said to me, “never dwell on past successes or failures,” but even the strongest badass is going to wonder “what would’ve happened if…”
I know you may have stories more traumatic than the one above, or it may even be a current situation that you are not proud of. I encourage you to write them down and reflect upon those moments whenever you ask yourself, “Why did I quit drinking?”
And if you are the lucky ones, quitting before something awful has happened to you, be grateful because you are fortunate. Use the stories in this blog as tools to prevent the inevitable.
I named this site Badass and Sober for multiple reasons, but the most important one is; being sober could prevent a historic level of trauma and drama for your children, your loved ones, and yourself. Being Badass and Sober is a lifestyle change, not a “quit booze quick” method. This is not a diet that only lasts until you lose a few pounds; this is an attitude change that will affect your family for generations.
In the words of Les Brown, and I’m paraphrasing here, “Life is a gift that God has given us, and how we live our lives is our gift back to God.” As with homework, you can take back your life as many times as you need for extra credit, before turning it into God. Take back your life, become a Badass and Sober person. Leave a legacy, make a difference that leaves a lasting impression for generations to come.
