Ever too late? No, Never!

by Debra J. Schmidt

The morning of June 3, 1978, dawned sunny and warm—a perfect day for a wedding.

All of the preparations had gone smoothly; my shining moment was near. My maid of honor had just begun her walk down the aisle, stepping in perfect time to the music.

There I stood in a beautiful satin wedding gown my mother had so lovingly made for me. Yes, it was my turn. My heart filled with joy and anticipation as I stood ready to walk down the aisle toward my new life.

Then I saw my father, Ralph, stagger drunkenly toward me. I was sickened by the smell of alcohol on his breath. He nearly fell as he hooked his arm through mine. Within seconds, the "Wedding March" started playing. It was time to go.

So I did the same thing I had done so many times before—I faked it—just to keep up appearances.

I was angry, embarrassed and extremely hurt

I glued on my best smile, mustered all my strength to hold my dad upright, and then walked him down the aisle. Only when my dad was safely seated and I stood at the altar holding my groom’s hand could I concentrate on the ceremony.

For me, the most important part of my wedding had been ruined. I was angry, embarrassed and extremely hurt.

I decided that day to never forgive my father.

My dad had been an alcoholic since I was a little girl. His drinking just snuck up on our family, starting off quietly and slowly getting worse each year. The escalating problem became very real for me one beautiful October day in 1963 when I was eight years old.

I sat on the back step of our home breathing in the fragrance of the autumn leaves and admiring the perfect blue sky. Then I saw my dad begin to load all of his belongings in the car.

I looked up at him in disbelief and asked, “Daddy, where are you going?” With tears in his eyes, he answered, “I’m taking a job downtown and need to live there for a while, but I’ll be back soon.”

I held out a child’s hope that he would return home one day. But his out-of-control drinking led to a divorce. He never moved back.

After that, I spent virtually every Saturday with my dad—all the way through my teen years. I wish I could say those were happy days, but frequently they were spent waiting in the car while my dad went into the tavern to “make a few phone calls.” My resentment toward him grew and continued to increase until that fateful wedding day in 1978.

My resolve never to forgive my father lasted for more than three years after my wedding. Then on his 71st birthday, he visited a doctor to have a complete physical.

The doctor, shocked at my dad’s overall condition, told him, “Ralph, unless you quit drinking right now, you will not be alive to give your daughter away at her wedding.” My sister’s wedding was just six months from then.

Those words scared him, so he checked himself into a 30-day inpatient alcoholic treatment center. Relieved he was finally getting the help he needed, my sister and brothers and I rallied around Dad to give him support. We even attended family counseling sessions to learn more about the disease.

But the physicians and counselors met with us and said, “Do not expect a miracle. Your dad is retired, lives alone and has been drinking for over 40 years. He will relapse.”

So we didn’t get our hopes up. Yet…a miracle happened. From that day on, Dad never took another drink. He remained sober for the next 14 years.

Even more miraculous is what he did with his life after he became sober.

At age 72, Dad founded an alumni association for recovering alcoholics who had been treated at DePaul Hospital in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He created and typed an alumni newsletter on an old typewriter, copied it and mailed it out monthly to nearly 100 people. He filled it with inspirational stories to give his recovering comrades hope and courage to stay sober.

At age 73, he helped organize the first of a series of annual events on the DePaul Hospital grounds. Each fall for years, hundreds of recovering alcoholics and their families gathered to celebrate their sobriety and give each other strength.

At age 76, he became a proud “red coat” at West Allis Memorial Hospital in Milwaukee.

Red coats are volunteers who wear red jackets and deliver newspapers and flowers to patients in the hospital. Primarily, though, they deliver encouragement as they visit patients or push wheelchairs of mothers holding new babies preparing to go home. Dad volunteered there until he was 79 when he became ill with prostrate cancer and moved into a nursing home.

Instead of moping about his situation, he appointed himself “the ambassador” for Colonial Manor Nursing Home. Once settled, Dad took under his wing everyone who moved in after him.

He knew how profoundly difficult it was to give up one’s home and belongings to move into a strange new setting. So he would take the new residents on a tour and show them humor in every corner of every room.

On holidays, he would occasionally call us and say, “I’m going to be a little late today because some people here have no visitors—and I’m not leaving anyone alone on Christmas.” Again, in this environment, my father gave encouragement and support to the people around him.

Imagine our surprise when over 100 people came!

When Dad died at 85, my brothers, sister and I expected that few people would attend his funeral. Imagine our surprise when over 100 people showed up! Most were complete strangers to us.

And one by one, they came up to us and shared their memories about Dad.

“Your dad is the reason my dad is sober today,” they said. “Your dad is the reason my mom survived living in that nursing home.” “Your father is the glue that held our family together during our father’s drinking crisis.”

They told story after story about how Dad had stood by and encouraged them and what a wonderful person he was. Then we saw seven men all wearing red coats quietly walk into the funeral home. They had come to pay tribute to my dad for inspiring them to volunteer at the hospital, even though many were over 80 years old.

All these strangers painted a whole new picture of Ralph for us. I learned more about Dad at his funeral than I ever knew about him during his lifetime.

Change is difficult, but it often pays off in a big way.

Because of Dad’s courage, I got to know him as a sober, delightful, talented man for the last 14 years of his life. And he got to know seven of his eight grandchildren. The only one he never met was my son; David, who was born just a year after Dad died.

I feel honored to know a wonderful side of my father and especially blessed to witness the positive effect his courage and compassion had on hundreds of people. As his gift, he gave me two valuable lessons that I encourage everyone to live by.

One, never underestimate the effect you have on those around you. And two, it is never too late to change!

Emmy nominee, entrepreneur, author, television personality and winner of six national marketing awards, Debra J. Schmidt is one of the nation’s most versatile speakers and trainers. She is also the author of The Loyalty Leader, a free on-line monthly newsletter loaded with tips and information to help you boost profits through greater customer retention and dynamic teamwork. To subscribe, visit: http://www.theloyaltyleader.com.

Some Related Articles:
A Gift for Grandma G
Family Relationships Under Fire: Lessons from the Front Line
When Your Children Leave the Nest: Getting ready For the Day After
You Have to Probe Deeper: On the Danger of First Impressions
The Very Real Power of Empathy
The Lies That Saved a Judge
Is It You or Is It Me That's Out of Line?