This is a story about alcoholism. About the effects of it. About the end. About the pursuit of it into insanity and death. After watching Russell Brand's self obsessed documentary about Addiction on BBC3 tonight i thought it was apt to re-issue my blog i wrote about my father's death from alcoholism. It really is rather good people but fair play to the lad Brand for dealing with the issue of addiction, mine is delivered i think in a slightly less cunty fashion. Enjoy x
This is the story of my Fathers death
Three years ago after Easter, I received a call from my
Cousin who I hadn’t spoken to, or seen since I was a kid. My father had 3
sisters and it was his eldest Sister’s son. He told me the news that my father
had been found dead, in a flat in London. The welsh
family were all old and infirmed and could I sort out the details.
I hadn’t
seen my Father properly since I was 13. (I was 36) He had been lost to alcoholism since
1987. He had caused destruction and had resigned from normal life to a life a
life of hostels, doss houses, streets & park benches. We never knew where he was.
He was a full blown alcoholic.
I was stunned at first of course, shocked. I hadn’t
thought about him for ages. Got used to not having a father. I remember weirdly
Kenny Logan was in the office at the time and he gave me a hug. Then I called my Mum,
brothers and girlfriend at the time. Elizabeth, who was amazing and a rock. Then
I received a call from someone in AA who talked about themselves for a few
minutes before asking me 1 – is it a good time to talk and 2- how am i? Talk
about self obsession. They soon received the send
off.
Then I started making the calls to the coroner. Trying
to find out the facts and piece together his life. Basically he lived in a
warden controlled flat. On welfare for years. He had apparently been in and out
of hospital for years with liver failure and a host of other alcohol related
problems. He had a hemorrhage in his sleep and was found dead after Easter, he
had been laying dead, in his flat for a few days. Last seen before Easter, so i
figured only a man as egotistical and grandiose as him, born on Christmas Day 1946,
probably died on or around Good Friday. Only he could do that! Classic alcoholic.
The coroner was lovely stating that it would have
been quick and he wouldn't have suffered. But he had been suffering for 27 years. They were holding the body and we had
to make funeral arrangements. Jesus, I'd never prepared myself for that. Pun intended.
I had to go to & see where he lived
and spoke to the warden of the flats, who put some pieces of the jigsaw together and it was
then, that the real details of his alcoholic death were brought to life. He lived in flat 3 of an old peoples block for 3 years, looking disheveled and tramp like most of the time. Leaving early to go and drink with his pals on Shepherd Bush Green and coming back late at night. He said he didn't have kids (even though he had 3 of us) and had effectively blocked out his past. (I don't blame him or am angry or hurt, it's just the pain of alcoholism - imagine normal people saying how can you do that? Too painful for him i guess so much easier to say you didn't have any)
So, i got the keys to his flat. I needed to see
where he died. How he lived and get any details, papers and articles. The warden
warned it wasn't nice. That he had been dead in bed for days. I was with my Mum
and girlfriend. I wanted to go alone, but they insisted.
Nothing prepared us for that flat. A small place. We opened the door and the stench of death was overwhelming. The heating was on full blast, it was a mild Easter and it was just a horrible smell. Disgusting. On the left was the kitchen. Bare, no cutlery, plates or anything. Just an ironing board with a book on it. A Rebus book from Ealing hospital library and rather ironically a book on health. In the fridge was an old fish and chip dinner out of date by 5 weeks.
Then the living room. Bare. 1 chair. A guitar, Free newspapers. Hospital papers and that was it. Empty. soulless. No sign of human life. No pictures. No humanity. Sad.
The bathroom. Filthy. Covered in blood on walls and toilet. Like he had been throwing up blood for years. A horrid state,
And finally the worst room. The bedroom. A room that was an utter synopsis of the end of the road for an alcoholic. Fuck Tracey Emin's Bed installation. If i was to do one entitled alcoholism i would reproduce this room. It was horrifying, upsetting, shocking, sad. I was used to it through experience of alcoholics, but it hadn't prepared my girlfriend or Mum for it. They were upset and shaken. We all were. Who wouldn't be?
The stench was rancid. There was blood on the empty bed where he had died. There were clothes and knee deep rubbish all around the room. Empty bottles of vodka, cider and High strength lager strewn around. Blood spattered paperwork next to the bed, an umbrella open on bed. Just shit and devastation. Fuck me. It was just the most grizzly death place.
I had to look around for his wallet. So i found his
trousers on floor. And this to me sums up alcoholism for those of you who don't
understand it is a mental illness with a massive ego and self esteem divorced
from reality.
He had a pair of chinos (shit stained) with a dressing gown cord
as a belt and in the pocket of these trousers which signified someone who had
given up, were 2 combs. 2 combs! Clearly he still thought he 'had it' even at
the end. That is the delusion of alcoholism, and always makes me smile when i
think about it. Alcoholism is tragic funny. You have to see the humour to feel
the sadness. Only an alcoholic can look down on people from the gutter.
His wallet was a Freedom Travel pass and i found a cash card, money (fuck me can i have 25 years of child support back payments please?) a picture of him, which we didn't recognise, yet did at the same time. The arrogant menacing look and the nose broken and face ravaged with booze. Hard living.
Within the wallet i found a piece of paper with 2 names and numbers. The first a woman he was with for a while who left him to go to New Zealand, (they always need to leave the alcoholic in the end or it will destroy them) and the other, my name 'Nicki (as he called me) Evans and my number. I think that got me the most. Clearly it was numbers to contact in case someone found him. Like he knew his fate, Prepared for it. He carried me around with him throughout. Makes me cry. As i passed his flat so many times, i lived 2 miles away and i never knew he was there. I used to pass that flat for AA meetings.
I took in the scene. Said a prayer. Talked to him.
We took some paperwork and left. We were all stunned. Went for a coffee and sat
in stunned silence and shock and sadness. My girlfriend never knew or heard about
him, but she was so sad to see someone end up like that. If someone who doesn't
know alcoholism or know the person at all, felt a connection and sadness on
seeing that - then it can have a profound effect on people's attitudes to
alcoholism. My Mum was so upset as she married this charismatic man, full of
life and fun and stature. She had 3 children with him, she went through years of
horrific alcoholism with him, yet for her to see his final years like this was
massively upsetting for her. Tragic. It left a print in time on all of our
minds.
And for me? I don't know. He was my father. My
hero. I looked up to him, Sought his approval. I was his son. I was upset of
course, But i guess 10 years in AA, helping lots of newcomers or low bottom
drunks, going to hostels etc - made me sort of used to what i had seen. I was
also there to do a job, get my father buried with dignity and organise the
details. I was shocked but i think i had better preparation than E and Ma.
Having said that, it still shook the fuck out of me. Though if I'm being honest
i had buried emotions years ago & i still suffer from it.
A little on the
emotionless side. And i was struggling with this conflict. I saw the sadness for
all alcoholics and i felt the personal pain of losing my father like this.
So those were the circumstances. A few things that stuck in my mind. The warden said my Dad was funny and joking that he discovered Charlotte Church. I emailed her management team and they had never heard of Mike Evans. I'm not sure she frequented Shepherds Bush Green much, though i admire his Grandiosity.
The other was my brother organising the
funeral directors and getting a discount deal. Great businessman, his Dad, a
born bullshitting salesman would have been proud.
I want to put what i said at his funeral. 8 of us
were there. Mortlake Crematorium. No-one from post 1987. Another example of how
alcoholism robs you of life. A vivid example. It was a long slow suicide. A
living death. A textbook case of alcoholism. The long slow suicide.
Here are the words i wrote and said at the funeral
as we got him cremated to the sound of Welsh Male Voice Choir singing Abide with
Me, and also the Theme Tune to Minder, signifying The last time we were together as a family. A happy nostalgic memory
before the alcoholism took over.
Here are the words i shall end this blog with.
And if anyone is struggling to accept alcoholism as a disease read on. If anyone
wonders why I'm a passionate supporter of AA read on. If anyone wonders why i
believe David Michael Evans to be a powerful example in death then read on. He
is an inspiration for me. The reason i do marathons for Action on Addiction and want sobriety and want
to do great things. I don't want a long lonely alcoholic death. Sometimes i
don't feel good enough. Don't know what it is to be man. But in this time i felt
a man
Here it is;. I knew what to do. I felt God. I felt compelled. I felt at
peace. Here are the words from the funeral. Thank you for reading ;
David Michael Evans – 1944 – 2009 – My Father.
My memories of my father
are slightly faded. I last saw him when his Grandaughter was born
18 years ago in 1991, I was 18 myself. I think that is why i have felt so warm
and protective of my neice. He was dressed all in green, though I don’’t think you
could call him the green goddess. I saw him for 20
minutes. Before that, I last saw him
when I was 14 years old.
It seems strange talking
about my father – when all my memories I have of him are as a kid. The builders
bum, the endless mutterings, the dodgy DIY, the stash of adult mags, the
Farah's, the B&H, the Ford Granada's, the beard, the accent, the size of
him, the nose, the eyes, the stare.
He was a big man, both in
size and character. He was funny – swore like a trooper, was terrible at DIY and heavily skidded his pants. But I used to draw the line at his corned
beef hash and marrow fat peas.
He reminded me of a cross
between a Welsh Jack Regan from the Sweeney, all cheap nylon suits and
Celtic charisma.
But then there was the drinking, Secret. Progressively worse. Violent. Horrible. Scary. He was my Dad and I
loved him but we lost him to the booze. King alcohol. John Barleycorn himself took him.
My brothers and i went to visit him in the Salvation Army to plead with him to sort
himself out, to stop drinking, to be our Dad again. He couldn’t and didn’t – he
was ill. I remember feeling so sorry for him and so sad that it was tragic – and
now years later that is the overriding feeling I have now. Sad and tragic .
Then my thoughts of my
father were as a boy – But Now I am a man, and I still feel that hurt today, it's just duller. To
see his last few years and how he lived makes me sad. All that talent, all that
love. Such a shame. That is the tragedy of alcoholism. A wasted life.
He missed so much in that
last 20 years. His son’s growing up, his granddaughters. His
Sisters, 4 Welsh grand slams, my 1st comedy gig, my London
In many ways he was a
stranger, a distant Dad over the past 25 years. But he was my dad, our Dad. And
in his sad death he becomes alive in us all – his family and
friends.
Death is sad. A loss,
however it can do good things – and that can happen out of his death. It has
reconnected us with him, with our past, it has put him back with the ones who
loved him. Today we are here, together to honour, to remember, to pay our
respects even when you didn’t know you had any to give. To complete the circle. To close it.
He is an example. An ambassador for alcoholism like millions more who have fallen or will fall just like him. It ripples out and affects so many. But in his death can come life. Of recovery. Of sobriety. Of a reason to live.
He was ill, he was lost, he
was alone and now he isn’t. He is here – with us, with his family and friends - he is going home, to Llanelli, to
Wales
So Dad, it has come full
circle, all the things that we didn’t get the chance to say then – we can say
now. I forgive you, We forgive you, I love you, We love you - you are my Dad and
you will always be so in my heart, in my head and in my life. Stay with us Dad
this time and never let go – you are missed even if you never thought you were –
We never stopped loving you.
The pain is over for you.
It is time to let go. To find peace – we are reunited and I hope and pray that
we all pause for 1 moment to think of a good memory of David Michael Evans & all the fallen soldiers of alcoholism (or
whoever you miss or have lost and loved) , a funny moment that will make you
smile……Mine is him trying to fix a bulb with his arse crack showing, getting it wrong and shouting 'fucking arseholes' repeatedly.
I love you Dad. Goodbye –
May God love you forever and Rest in peace now and for fucks sake ask the good lord upstairs for an orange juice and leave the Tenants alone
xx
For more information contact www.actiononaddiction.org or email me at itsevo@hotmail.com for a natter if you have similar experiences.
No comments:
Post a Comment