Dear Happy Asses,
He had the bluest of eyes and the kindest heart. He was brilliant, thoughtful, and overly generous — and he died of a terrible disease at age 63.
My grandfather, Pete, had the most beautiful red wavy hair, porcelain-perfect skin, a fit body, and a winning personality — and he died of a terrible disease at age 51.
My brother Stuart was the most charismatic person I have ever known. He scored almost perfectly on his ACT, was voted “most likely” for so many things, broke high school football records, and played at Alabama under Bear Bryant. And yet, he died of a terrible disease — homeless behind a Winn-Dixie, with no one around.
All of these men were deeply important to me — Curt, my father; Pete, my grandfather; and Stuart, my brother. All three died from a pointless, devastating, life-destroying disease: alcoholism.
The heartbreaking truth about this disease is that you die long before you actually die, and you impact so many lives for generations to come. These men all held such promise, and they all had kind and tender families who would have loved to enjoy them and cherish them.
I know this doesn’t sound like a lighthearted Valentine’s message, but today is the anniversary of my father’s death. We called him Curt, and even to his last day, I was mesmerized by those piercing blue eyes. He was gentle and kind, generous to a fault, ahead of his time in construction and design, and an avid reader. He loved his family — but the disease did not care.
For those who may not know our story: when I was around 12, I packed my father’s bags and told him he had to leave. After that, he stopped drinking and became deeply involved in AA. For 18 years, he carried the message of hope to other alcoholics. I watched him get dressed in the middle of the night to help someone in need. He anonymously put roofs on people’s houses and arranged for people who needed teeth to get teeth. He embraced the belief that service to our fellow man is one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves and others.
For 18 beautiful years, he lived this way — but he eventually forgot that alcoholism is a disease that only offers a daily reprieve based on our spiritual condition. He died with nothing but debt, hopelessness, and disappointment. I wish, with all my heart, that I could have helped him more.
My grandfather Pete walked away from his family when my mother, Barbara, was six years old — guided by his disease instead of the integrity of his heart. I only knew him through sporadic visits as a child, but I remember him being delightful when he was not drinking. My mom and grandmother carried the weight of his leaving — and the weight of his disease — for years.
Now this one is hard for me to talk about. My brother Stuart was perhaps the most brilliant and magnetic person I have ever met. To be honest, he was not much of a looker, but oh how the ladies thought he was. His inviting personality, his fit body, and his ability to do most anything and read most everything made him irresistible. Young people and adults alike found him easy to love. He was the high school star and always at the center of fun and excitement.
He began using drugs and alcohol at a young age and was in trouble numerous times with the law. His football dreams and hope for the future were slowly given over to cocaine, alcohol, and dishonest living. Dishonesty and addiction are close cousins.
I did not even know Stuart was dead because he had been eluding our family for over 15 years. I found out about his death in an online obituary. He was 48. He had once been so full of life — but again, the disease did not care.
So what is this message about? Is there hope in it?
Yes. There is deep hope.
I hope this reaches anyone struggling with alcoholism — or anyone who loves someone who is.
My precious husband Hugh had a different outcome. He became sober and spent 26 of the last years of his life telling his story and living the story of others who were riddled with this one-day-at-a-time disease. The thing about alcoholism is this: if you are able to conquer it one day at a time, you have the ability to live one of the most fruitful and honest lives of any of us. You have something in you that you have battled, and you know the way through — and you can take others with you.
Alcoholism is no respecter of persons. It can strike anyone — any family, any background, any level of success. It is a disease, not a moral failure.
But there is a way through. There is help. There is community. There is recovery. And there is the beautiful possibility of a life rebuilt — one sober day at a time.
Many families are impacted by disease, and it often defines or shapes their life story. For me, addiction and its repercussions have been the part of my life that has shaped me the most. All that I am — good and bad — was born out of this early struggle and the continued challenge of living with and loving addicted humans.
I developed ways of coping — some healthy and some not so healthy — but I made a promise to myself that I would find the best part of life and live it, and that I would strive to love others. Loving others did not mean that I allowed destructive behavior, but it did mean that I chose not to let the choices of others steal my desire for a fulfilled, productive, and yes, peaceful life.
I had to choose to be happy whether those around me were sober or not. I could not wait for others to decide. That was my decision then, and it is my decision now.
I am profoundly grateful for the sobriety in my family today. It is the very first thing I thank God for each morning.
So if you — or someone you love — is struggling, please know this: you are not alone, there is help, and there is a way.
The beauty in this disease is that it is conquered one day at a time by allowing another to walk alongside you. The very act of helping their fellows allows the addicted person to stay sober one day at a time. Thank you God for those servants.
With profound love and HOPE!!!
Karen Key Smith
