Last summer, I arrived at what I thought would be my father’s deathbed so angry I could have killed him. It was the fourth time in four years alcohol abuse had landed him in the hospital. This time, it was acute liver failure. His skin was bright yellow, and his body was skeletal with the exception of his belly, which was so distended he looked pregnant. Just one week earlier, I had cut him out of my life completely. Prior to that, we only spoke when a concerned stranger would track me down on Facebook and beg me to intervene in his drinking. Each time, he refused to seek treatment. I don’t know what I was expecting as I sat at the foot of his bed waiting to see if he would survive the night. Maybe an apology. What I got instead was a question: “Did I ever tell you about the time Murph kicked the head?”
