Never Too Late (7 page)

It’s understandable now how he might have felt. Maybe the reason he was like that was because I’d been partying and pushing him away and stuff, and he didn’t want me to leave and go get into some kind of crazy trouble. That would make perfect sense. I couldn’t argue. But the way I saw it, I was just a normal crazy teenager, and I was doing what I wanted. At some point, that had become my top priority. I was just doing what I wanted, and that was that. Nobody around me was telling me what normal boundaries were, and so my guiding force was basically that I really didn’t like being told what to do. I was so young and so rebellious about it that when I thought of somebody else’s disapproval, all I wanted was to go party harder and do more drugs. And he hated it.

We ended up fighting more and more, and eventually we fell into the break-up and make-up cycle. But our relationship had already been established, and there was something so strong and special about our connection that it never really went away. Even when we weren’t together, we kept an eye on each other. If he got wind of me being depressed, he’d come right over and try to patch me up. If he called me to see what was up and heard that I was crying, he’d be there in five minutes. It didn’t matter what he was doing. And I still loved him, too. I always went back to him. There was one night when he was at his mom’s, and for some reason the electricity had been turned off. I was out partying at about three in the morning when somebody told me about it, and immediately the thought of it just took over my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about him and worrying about what that felt like for him, lying at home all alone with the power shut off. That’s not a nice situation to be in, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him dealing with it all alone. So I bailed on the party I was at and went over to spend the night at his house, just to show him I was there for him and that he didn’t have to be alone.

The simple fact is there was never a time back then when I didn’t care about him, or even a time when I didn’t want to be with him. I was just young and stupid, and I wasn’t thinking about a relationship full time. He was older than me, and he was ready for more than I was. I wasn’t on his level yet. I had only just started coming into my own and being a rebellious teenager. I just wanted to do what I wanted, go out and party as much as I wanted, and take all the fun I could get. In my mind, I’d gone long enough without it, and it was time to soak it up.

But honestly, things were starting to get darker in my world. While all of that breaking up and making up was going on, there’s no question I was moving steadily deeper into a lifestyle I had no hope of keeping control over. Whether I realized it or not, I was starting to figure out how those pills could help me escape the things I didn’t know how to deal with, or didn’t want to deal with. You can’t blame the guy in my life for sensing it was bad news. In the end, he was right to try and get me away from drugs as soon as he could. It’s too bad it didn’t work.

He wasn’t the only man in my life who knew how terrible the consequences of addiction could be. While I was casually popping those pills and brushing off his warnings, my dad was coming face to face with the physical effects of a lifetime of alcoholism. And when that happened, I found myself dealing with one of the most difficult and painful things I had ever experienced.

It’s hard to tell the real story of a relationship when it’s been through as much as mine has with my dad. I can’t ever really explain those years of loving him and then hating him. The ups and downs make it impossible. And back when I was a teenager, I couldn’t even make sense of it. That was why I didn’t have a relationship with him anymore by the time I was fifteen. I couldn’t forget how much I loved him when I was little, and I couldn’t forget how much I hated him when I was older for the way he treated the family. I didn’t know what to do with that combination.

When it comes to family problems like that, though, you never get to sort through things in your own time. They always end up exploding in your face when you least expect it, forcing you to face things you don’t feel ready to face. I had already built up a lot of walls so I wouldn’t have to deal with my relationship with my father, and it all came crashing down on me much sooner than I was prepared for.

My dad had been staying at our place for a couple of nights. He’d gotten sick, puking up blood, and his stomach was swelling up really bad. He was having trouble breathing. But after a couple of days he went back home to rest at his own place. That night my mom had a dream that something bad was going to happen to him. It freaked her out so bad that she got up early in the morning and went straight to his house to take him to the hospital.

She was right to trust her instincts. It turned out the fluid in his stomach was squeezing his heart. They drained two freaking liters of fluid from his stomach. If my mom hadn’t taken him to the hospital, he would have died in hours.

My dad had been an alcoholic for my entire life. In fact, he was an alcoholic right up until the moment he went to the hospital. That alcoholism had destroyed our relationship. And it had destroyed his body, too. Now he was in the intensive-care unit with cirrhosis of the liver, and the doctor was giving him eight months to live.

When my brother and I found out, I remember Bubby freaking. He locked himself in the bathroom, yelling and screaming. I was weirdly calm. I remember saying to him, “Quit freaking out. You’re gonna be fine.” I didn’t even think about it. Then I got to the hospital. As soon as I walked in there I started bawling my eyes out so bad I couldn’t even make my way into the fucking room. I shocked myself with my own reaction, because I had hated him for so long. But knowing he was in the ICU just got underneath that grudge I was holding and shook a lot of feelings loose.

When my father got out of ICU, he was sober. And that was the craziest shit. He was like a completely different person. He would come over to sit with me and try to talk to me. At that point the shock of seeing him sick had worn off, and I was feeling even more confused and lost than I was before. I just didn’t know where to go from there. At that point I still hated him because I couldn’t even process this new person that he was. I couldn’t remember knowing him sober, outside of those little-kid memories from way back when. But after so many years with my father the alcoholic, they seemed more like dreams than reality. Now that he was sober, it was truly like talking to a stranger. I used to explain it by telling people that the first time I met my dad was when I was sixteen. That’s how it felt to me.

Slowly, I got to know him on those new terms. One thing I realized after my dad became sober was how much we have in common. I’m so much like him that it’s insane. We both have the same filthy mouth. We’re always trying to get a laugh out of people. We’re always thinking about random stuff, starting crazy conversations about unexpected things. There’s so much of him in me that I never knew about growing up, because I never got to see it past the alcohol.

Our relationship didn’t recover right away, though. I didn’t leave that hospital planning father-daughter days. When you have that much hurt and anger between a parent and a child, it’s not that easy to fix. As stubborn as I am, I don’t know how long I might have gone on hating him if the situation hadn’t forced me to accept that things had changed.

It started with a big fight between my mom and me. I was so pissed I was threatening to leave. I was telling her I was moving in with my friend and I wasn’t ever coming home, and of course she didn’t know what to do about it. She was desperate enough to call up my dad and tell him he should come and get me, and he agreed, saying he would come to pick me up and bring me back to his place.

Of course I said there was no way that was happening, but I still got in the car when he came by to get me. I went to his house with him, and before long the argument was on. We got into a huge fight, really big, the kind of fight where it all comes out. I didn’t hold anything back. “I fucking hate you. You ruined my life. You ruined my childhood. You ruined your family.” And I don’t regret a single one of those words. I don’t take it back. He was hell, all those years. Seriously hell.

Of course, I wasn’t just mad at him that night. It started with the fight with my mom, and by the time my argument with him came to a head I was so worked up and so dead set on running off on my own that he called the police to come calm me down. They told me I needed to stay with a parent. So I went off on the police, too. “You don’t understand,” I told them. “He’s an alcoholic and I can’t stand him. He ruined my life. I can’t live with him.”

It was the most horrible scene. I’m surprised my dad was able to stand it. After years of messing up, all the consequences of his mistakes were blowing up at him all at once. All he could do was stand there with the cops, pleading with me to listen to him and to give him a chance. I wasn’t having any of it. I just wanted to be out, away, gone.

And then, he apologized.

It was the first time my father had ever apologized to me. He had never been that type of person before, but somehow I could hear it in his voice and I could see that he meant it. It was hard to even believe. To hear that coming out of his mouth was so powerful. It got through all the hate and anger I was throwing at him and reached the place inside of me that was still hurting because I missed my dad. That apology meant everything to me.

After that day I stayed with him for a while. It was a one-bedroom apartment, so I slept in a bed in the living room. That was one of the lowest points I ever experienced, actually finding out how sick he was and witnessing it firsthand. I’d never stayed with him before, or spent time with him outside of that visit to the ICU. I didn’t know what kind of pain he was in, and I wasn’t prepared for it at all.

In the mornings I would hear him in his room, groaning really loud in pain, waiting for his painkillers to kick in. I knew it was really bad when I would walk in there and he would be shaking and holding his stomach, holding his rosary, laying there with his eyes closed and pretty much praying not to die.

One day I heard him making these terrible sounds. He was just so obviously in pain. I went into his room and saw him lying there with his rosary, and he was trying his hardest to say he was fine. He told me to stay in the other room, and he was trying to be quiet so I wouldn’t know.

Seeing him suffer like that ripped me up in pieces inside. To see a human being in that much pain and struggling to hide it, was horrific. I couldn’t escape how bad his condition was. And finally I couldn’t escape the feelings I had about it.

That was when I laid on the bed with him, put my arm around him, and started crying. I told him I loved him and I just hugged him and held him. When I did that and showed I accepted his pain and was there for him, he was finally able to sort of let go and handle it the way he needed to handle it. He stopped fighting to stay quiet and let himself make those sounds of pain, and I just held onto him. It was the first time I’d ever done that, and it was the first time I really accepted him as my dad.

It was painful for me to see that all the pain he’d put me through was coming back to him times ten. Maybe the saddest thing about it is that I had to believe he was dying before we were able to have a relationship. He had to get to that point to be able to introduce himself to me as a sober man. I don’t have the anger I used to have toward him anymore. Instead, it makes me so sad that we don’t have the chance to spend time together when he’s not sick. He’s the number one person in my life now other than Leah, but I still get so emotional over the time we lost that I have a hard time even talking to him. I just wish he wasn’t sick and we could have that relationship that I always wanted.

But at least it’s something. And it’s taught me never to give up on forgiveness and making it right. People can hurt each other in the worst ways, and they can destroy their relationships, but no one can ever tell me it’s impossible to rebuild. You can always start again. It’s never too late, and it’s never impossible.

F
orgiving my father was one of the most important moments in my life. I’ve learned from that experience in so many ways. Unfortunately, I didn’t really get all the lessons I could have gotten from what he went through. I could see, right in front of me, how his addiction had destroyed his life and the lives of the people around him. But somehow I couldn’t think of myself as the same as him. I couldn’t understand that I was steadily sliding down the same path.

While all that was going on with my dad, I was still dating my future fiancé. I was skipping alternative school, and I was fighting with my mom. I did have a job, at least—that’s one thing I can say. I’ve had a job since I was young enough that they had to pay me under the table.

But I was really starting to love those pills, and while I was living with my dad, I started to dip into his painkillers. Opiates are very serious pills to start out on. Those things are insane. But that’s what I was taking as a teenager. Opiates just made me feel happy. It wasn’t about relaxing or passing out. They just filled me with happiness and washed away all my problems. It just felt like they kept giving me exactly what I wanted. I wasn’t an addict, but I was starting to get there.