My Family Legacy of Alcohol (Part 1: What We Didn’t See)
My grandfather on my father’s side was born in 1904, and my grandmother in 1905. They were alcoholics. I suspect it may have gone back further than that, but even if it started with them—and if we assume they began drinking in their 20s—that would put alcohol, and alcoholism (or AUD as we call it now—more on that later), in our family since around 1925.
That is over 100 years of alcoholism. 100 years of addiction.
Down the line, there have been almost zero people who didn’t struggle with alcohol addiction. In my own life and memory, I have been the granddaughter, daughter, sibling, and mother of people who were—or are—addicted to alcohol.
As a child, I remember the hushed tones people used when talking about my uncle, and later, my cousin. I didn’t understand it. It just felt like a secret. No one ever spoke openly.
As a teenager, things became a little clearer. People would joke about my grandmother going to the kitchen to take a swig from the bottle of rye she kept there. Later, as she rounded the sun time and time again.. we said she was pickled. Preserved.
My dad always had a drink in his hand. Rum and Coke—that was his thing. Occasionally, especially in the summer, a cold beer… or five or six. But no one was counting. No one was concerned. Why would they be? Who doesn’t like a couple of drinks after a hard day’s work? Who doesn’t want a cold beer on a hot summer day?
Dad was a “high-functioning alcoholic,” which meant his drinking appeared to have minimal impact on his life—at least from what we could see. He worked for the same company for 35 years, climbed the corporate ladder, and earned promotions that had us moving every three years throughout my childhood.
We had a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and clothes on our backs. I now understand we were borderline poor—but as a child, I didn’t know that. Bananas, milk, and sugar for breakfast felt like a treat.
My sibling and I were blissfully ignorant. It never really occurred to us that there was a problem—not even well into our teenage years. There was no obvious drunkenness. I only ever heard my parents argue once, and it was just that—an argument. None of the classic signs of addiction were visible… at least not the obvious ones.
But dad always had a drink in his hand.
If someone drank all the Coke in the house, he would be furious—but it felt like the kind of anger any parent might have about dishes not being done. A couple of times a week, a new 40-ounce bottle of Captain Morgan (the amber one) would come home with him. We never did the math. My mother never did the math.
As time went on and we moved into our twenties, my sibling and I started to see through the fog. Something wasn’t quite right. Dad was stopping at a bar on the way home. He’d have a few drinks before coming home from the office. He was getting up in the night to drink. And once, I saw him put a “splash of rum” into his morning orange juice.
The constant rum and Coke in his hand became a running joke.
But still—he was high-functioning. He got up every morning, showered, shaved, put on a suit and tie, and went to work. He did that my entire life until he took his golden handshake after 45 years.
I thought he was a workaholic. He’d leave before we got up and come home around dinner… then a little later… and later still. Sometimes, we’d go days without seeing him.
Ignorance was, well, not bliss – but it was all we had.
I remember moving back home some time after my first marriage ended. One afternoon, I poured myself a glass of Coke, finished the bottle, and went to replace it—only to find we were out.
OUT? gasp.
I can still feel the sense of panic I had in that moment—forty years later. I called him at work. He was in a meeting, so I left a message:
“It’s his daughter, Lisa. Can you tell him we’re out of Coke?” The woman on the phone chuckled—a knowing chuckle, like code. At the time, I didn’t fully understand it. Now I do.
Eventually, it became clear to both of us—my sibling and I—that there was a problem. We went to my mother with everything we’d noticed, laying out what we thought was obvious: our father was an alcoholic.
She was shocked. Dismayed. And dismissive.
“Alcoholics are those guys sitting in subway stations with a bottle in a paper bag.”
That’s what my mother believed.
Things went downhill from there—not suddenly, but slowly. Painfully. Accepting the truth is one thing. Understanding it is something else entirely.
It has taken me many years to move from that limited understanding to what I know now. I didn’t truly begin to understand alcohol use disorder until 2023, when my own child became addicted, and I found myself in what I call
“AUD immersion school.”
My father died of liver failure in 1995. I was 35. He was 61. My son 363 days old.
Sixty-one.
When I was 35, that felt old.
Now, at 65, I understand how young he really was.
His mother lived independently until she was 90. His brother did too. Without alcohol, my father might have lived that long. If he had, he would have died just last year. He would have seen all five of his grandchildren grow up. He would have known them. He could have talked to his grandson about alcohol and addiction.
What a waste.