It was obvious to everybody who knew my brother,
Mark, that he would die from alcoholism. And he, also
knew it, and he knew it would be a slow and agonizing
death. He also knew his time was up and he no longer
would care for himself. His choice was to keep drinking
and his goal was to stay drunk.
My brother, Mark Drew Erickson, died on November
13, 2005. He died of alcohol abuse, cirrhosis
of the liver, cellulites"-a flesh-eating disease and
vascular failure, due to chronic alcoholism in its final
stage. He bled to death and his heart stopped beating.
A procedure was done with a needle to drain fluid
from his obese stomach. It failed, because it wasn’t
fluid, it was solid mass and organ damage. He was on
life support and he was unconscious. His prognosis was
fatal. The solution was to pull the plug and
administer large doses of morphine--and die. He had
choices in the beginning. He had no choice in the end.
He was only 55 years old.
When I first noticed the written sign of death on
Mark, it was nine days prior to his expiration date.
On this visit, I noticed all his blinds were pulled
shut"-this was out of character, and his television and
stereo were turned off--totally out of character. He was
sitting in his dilapidated, broken down, old recliner.
The mood was dark and silent. He wasn’t saying much to anyone, including myself. He looked so far away and
his voice was weak and wandering. I insisted he go to he hospital, but his stubbornness won out. When I
returned home, I advised his closest, childhood friend,
"you had better go see him soon, he’s about to die." I
saw his name in his gravestone.
This wasn’t the first time this has happened, but
it was the second to the last of his grand finale. Mark was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver in
the early ‘90s. His doctor, then, said "one more drink
will kill you." He was prescribed various medications to
halt the progression, and afterwards, his yellow-colored
skin would improve greatly. And when it did, he would
begin to drink some more. Mark was the type of chronic
alcoholic, that if he were gifted a new liver from a
generous donor, he would celebrate the event by getting
drunk and stay drunk. He was hooked on every kind of
alcohol imaginable. He even admitted to me, that when
he was out of booze, he would drink after shave lotion
and mouthwash if it had alcohol in it. His choice was
not beer, liquor was quicker.
When I visited Mark at his home, only three days
prior to his death, I barely recognized him. He had
blood all over him and in the area he was sitting.
His legs were swollen, the size of tree stumps, and
his flesh was rotting away. His stomach was grossly
obese, larger than a woman’s in full-term pregnancy.
He had sores all over his body. He was incoherent
and probably in shock. His picture was gruesome. He
understood me enough, this time, to take my advice and
have the paramedics take him to the nearest emergency
room. He wanted to wait until Saturday--but it was only
Thursday--and I insisted he go now, and he signed his
name for his approval to be admitted. The paramedics
wasted no time to hook him up to the necessary life-
sustaining equipment--on the spot--as they took him in.
In his earlier and sober years, Mark was a very
normal, good looking, intelligent and talented young man.
He taught himself how to play the bass guitar. And he
played it very well. He began joining garage bands and
later played for functions at dance halls. We had wonderful parents and a very happy childhood.
Mark and I began drinking about the same time, although he was almost three years my senior. He was about seventeen and I was fourteen. It all started out so innocently. About three or four years later, it started to be a habit with us to drive down to Ruston Way, in our hometown of Tacoma, Washington. Ruston Way was a secluded spot back then, in 1970, before it was the mecca it is today. There, we would guzzle down a quart of beer each. We had fun. It wasn’t too long after, we proclaimed to each other, "it seems to take more beer to get drunk," as we were now bringing down a half-case of beer, and later a case. Those words still haunt me today as I reflect back to the earlier days of our habits we shared.
I am no stranger to alcoholism. Today, I am a
recovering alcoholic. I have withstood many, many years
of drinking and came out of it reasonably healthy. I
have had nine DUI convictions, plus two more were
amended, and I ran away with two in another state,
after my arraignment there. I have been incarcerated to
a few jail terms. I have been on probation more than
three times. I have been in an inpatient treatment
center and outpatient counseling too many times. I was
very fortunate not to have caused any accidents or
hurt anybody physically during my long-term, addicted
illness. I have tried to commit suicide twice. I almost
burned up in a fire for leaving my overcooked food on
the stove top, then passed out. The fire department woke
me up. I found my oldest brother, Donald, dead from
suicide when I was high on angel dust. His brain
matter was splattered all over his walls. He was also
a chronic alcoholic, dead at the young age of thirty-
six. He, also, was brilliant and good looking. This
happened when I was only twenty-two years old. I have
had numerous relationships with girlfriends that failed.
There wasn’t much difference in Mark’s style of
drinking than mine, except he was a closet drinker and
I was a more public drinker. I believe the only
reason that somebody else hasn’t written my obituary
before Mark’s, is that I took better care of my health
and held down jobs that kept me busy.
I stopped drinking alcohol on July 4th, of 2003,
a very important Independence Day for me--my independence
from alcohol. If my wife, Bobbie, had beaten cancer,
she would have been so proud of me today. I lost her
in 2001. She is another reason I am living today and
writing this story. Since I had met her, my drinking became less frequent. She was my inspiration in seeding the root to sobriety.
I have made the tragic deaths of my two older brothers, a positive living example, for my brothers’ weaknesses, was--and always will be--my strength.
I will miss my brothers, Donald and Mark, the way
I use to know them while I was growing up, before the
stranglehold of this powerful addiction began to cripple
them and myself. My brothers burned many bridges with
family, friends and neighbors, but the one bridge they
won’t burn is the last one they both crossed--God’s
bridge in heaven. His bridge won’t burn. I believe in
my heart and mind, that Donald and Mark are both happy
now with their Maker. They are free of all disease--
especially the disease of alcoholism.
Earl D. Erickson is a grateful, recovering alcoholic. He has a passion for writing and photography. He currently is writing a book on his own turbulant life with alcohol addiction and recovery. His book is entitled Abstinence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder. He has authored other articles for Ezine
Articles and is an expert author. He owns and manages two websites. They are: http://sqwearlenterprises.com and http://BobbiesMountain.com
He lives in Tacoma, Washington.
