‘I walked away from my father as he was dying and went garments purchasing – this is why’

Stephen had been sober for 16 months when his daughter came home to find him curled up, shaking and yellow on the sitting room sofa.

She was so cross with him for drinking again after having abstained for so long, that she turned around, left and went clothes shopping. Stephen died three days later.

“When my dad was sober, he was at his very best—loving, kind, supportive, and full of wisdom,” consultant Sarah Drage, from Kent, said.

“But when he had been drinking he could be angry in a sinister way. He would often sit in a dark room with a drink in his hand, his tone of voice dark, and his eyes speaking a thousand words.

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“I grew up loving him just as much as I hated and resented him. When I was younger, I wished him dead on various occasions because I couldn’t see any other way out of such a volatile and unpredictable environment. The feelings I had were contradictory and confusing: I hated him and loved him; I respected him and resented him; I wished him dead, and yet I longed for my ‘normal’ dad. I felt angry, sad, scared, isolated, and anxious’, Sarah, 35, explains.

Stephen was a property developer who had drunk to excess Sarah’s whole life. “From as young as 10, I knew my dad had ‘quirky’ ways—his mannerisms, his moods, the tone of his voice, the emptiness in his eyes.

“I couldn’t articulate what I was experiencing until my late teens, as I had become so accustomed to the dynamics. Even as a young adult, saying the word ‘alcoholic’ out loud didn’t feel real. I suppose I was also in denial and was constantly led to question my reality, as my dad was so deep in denial that he wouldn’t admit anything was remotely wrong. ‘I could stop tomorrow if I wanted to’ became his daily mantra whenever he was challenged’, she explains.

By the time Sarah turned 14, Stephen’s drinking had started to ramp up. She would call ahead before coming home from school so she could gauge the tone of his voice. If he was drunk, she wouldn’t come home, or she’d hide in her room.

For most of his life he consumed excessive amounts of cider and lager, but by the end he was drinking a litre of vodka a day.

“The last few years of his life were tough. Looking back, you could really see the physical signs—the bloated abdomen, the red, swollen face, his glazed eyes, and the visible capillaries on his body, all signs of advanced liver disease. As a family, we were so consumed by the stigma of alcoholism that we brushed a lot of it under the carpet. We were afraid to bring it up with him, worried it would start an argument. We were also reluctant to tell anyone, as it felt disloyal and disrespectful. So, it became the family’s dirty secret.”

The family forced Stephen into detox, but he relapsed a few months later. He attended one AA meeting, but didn’t like it and never went back. And a visit to his GP was fruitless.

The day that Sarah left him at home she ended up consumed by guilt.

He’d previously got angry at her for suggesting the emergency services, telling Sarah: ‘I have done this to myself, and I will get out of it myself’.

“He felt that an ambulance was a waste of NHS resources on him, which makes me angry now because the vast majority of diseases are inflicted by our lifestyle choices.”

Sarah’s sister later took him to A&E and Stephen was admitted to hospital with acute liver failure.

“The denial of the severity of his addiction ran so deep that I went to work on the last day of his life. My mum had called to say that he had been transferred to intensive care and placed on dialysis. Even when the doctors told me he was very sick, I still didn’t grasp the severity.

“The last time I saw him, he was wired up to a ventilator. His organs were failing fast, and there was nothing they could do for him. I held his hand and spoke kindly and gently to him, telling him that I didn’t blame him, I didn’t hate him, that I loved him, and I thanked him for instilling independence and confidence in me. It was the most painful memory of my life so far. The physical and emotional pain were all-consuming. As was the guilt.

“I watched him die, but I had been told it would happen by a specialist who outlined all the damage his latest alcohol binge had caused to his body and organs. It was the worst pain I had ever felt, but I also felt relieved that he was no longer suffering, and selfishly, I felt relieved that I didn’t have to worry anymore.”

Steven died in 2017, one week away from his 60th birthday.

“When he died, I felt free from his addiction, free to live my life without the anxiety of wondering if he was going to do something reckless. The relief floored me because I felt guilty for having ignored him and walked away, yet equally relieved that he was no longer suffering. And, of course, I felt guilty for feeling relieved.

“I felt angry—angry at him, and angry at myself and others for being so judgmental of him. People would often say it was his own fault and that he only had himself to blame, but in my opinion, this was neither helpful nor fair. The nuances attached to all addictions are so complex’, she adds.

Sarah is telling her story now to help other family members going through the same thing. Alcohol impacts 1 in 3 family members, and 1 in 5 children of alcoholics are deeply affected.

She now works as an Ambassador for the National Association for Children of Alcoholics, which is also supported by Calum Best and Vicky Pattison.

“The loneliness and isolation of living with a loved one’s addiction can be all-consuming, with conflicting emotions that fuel constant anxiety. Watching someone you love suffer from addiction is like watching them drown while you stand helpless, unable to reach them. All you can do is hope they begin to fight for themselves. I want loved ones to feel heard, validated, and supported; it’s an incredibly lonely place to be,” she explains.

“I am passionate about breaking down the stigmas attached to alcohol addiction, the stigma prevents many people from openly speaking up and asking for help.”

NACOA offers a free and confidential 24-hour phone line for children and adult children affected by a parent’s addiction. For help, contact: 0800 358 3456.

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