I talked about individuals who found a way out of addiction to alcohol through strange circumstances. I knew people who had been in the program for many years, and I want to conclude this book showing how they used the program in the midst of tragedy to help them get through tragedy.
I got to know the people very well who attended the Sunday night meetings in northern New Jersey. Most of them had been sober many, many years, like myself. One of the members was a very jovial individual. When he walked into the room, he kind of flashed a big smile and he made us all feel really good, within the context of being sober.
One Sunday night he walked in, and he wasn’t beaming. Instantly, we knew something was wrong, very wrong. He was a very, very happy man. We all knew that his son was in Vietnam, in the Marine Corps. But one look on his face told us that something was devastating and had crushed the joy out of his soul.
“I received a telegram from the government this morning.” We all knew what was in the telegram. We started to surround him, sharing his grief with him. “I don’t really keep up with the news, you know. I didn’t want to be one of those fathers, always worrying about him, wondering about him. Was he all right? Was it difficult for him? When was he coming back? Would the war change him. Never in a million years would I have expected that he would get killed!”
When he was able to get a handle over his grief, he concluded with these words—and I’ll never forget them, for, to me, they were magical: “Although I’ve had this great tragedy, thank God for AA. I have a place to go to and share my sorrows with people who understand me.”
He did not succumb to King Alcohol to drown his sorrows.
While I was in New York City, I attended a meeting every Friday night. We had a gentleman who was well-groomed: he looked like a businessman whenever he attended a meeting. He was nicely dressed, very polite, a socialite. He was a nice guy to be around. I got to know him pretty well.
On this particular night he came in, and just by looking at his face, we knew that something was terribly wrong. It’s funny how you can know a person for even a short time and figure out right away that something isn’t right with that person. He didn’t seem very happy.
On New Year’s Eve, his daughter, a young girl, was coming out of the bus terminal in New York City. A sniper took a random shot at the crowd of people she was part of. The bullet hit her in the head, killing her instantly.
As he told his story and more about his daughter and his relationship to her, we listened respectfully without interruption. It is quite rude to interrupt a gentleman when he is discussing a personal tragedy.
Again, these magical words came out of his mouth: “Thank God for AA. And thank God you—for all of you—being here to help me get through this tragedy of losing my daughter.”
And we were there for him. Staying sober—one day at a time—even in the midst of the worst tragedies to befall us.
She was a sad-looking lady. She wasn’t too prosperous, but she was there at the meeting every Saturday in our northern New Jersey location. She very seldom spoke. One Saturday she came in as usual, her countenance still looking sad, which we kind of accepted as the norm. Nevertheless, we often wondered if there was anything else on her mind. She shared the following story:
She had two sons, her only children. She doted on them. They were her pride and joy, and for their credit they were good boys, beginning to make a life for themselves.
But one fate-filled day, while both were riding a motorcycle in tandem, a truck hit them square, and both were killed simultaneously. She was devastated by the loss. No parent should live to bury his or her children.
After sharing with us her relationship with her two boys, those same magical words came out of her mouth: “Thank God for AA. You people being here helps me to absorb the loss of my boys, and I must stay sober no matter what happens. My sons wouldn’t be very proud of me if I start drinking because of what happened to them.”
My message here is this: if you go to AA meetings on a regular basis, you are going to hear stories like this. It gives hope to all of us that when we go through tragedies like these three stories, we, too, can keep going on without returning or resorting back to drinking. To me, their stories are magical, all saying the same thing. These three people didn’t know each other. But in any AA meeting, the message is the same: we cannot pick up that first drink. An alcoholic cannot afford to pick up a drink no matter what happens. Luckily, these three people had the strength not to pick up that first drink, come to meetings, and share their tragedies. And, very importantly, we were there to help them stay the course. Sober, one day at a time.