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My Brothers Weaknesses Are My Strength

© By: Earl Erickson

This is a short story on the addiction of alcohol. It reveals the deadly disease in a true, powerful delivery. This happened to my family and it was almost going to happen to me. Somehow I was saved--by God, my higher power. I hope this story will drive home the message that alcohol is exposed as a real demon. If you don't remedy it, it will kill you...

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HTML Version	<h1>My Brothers Weaknesses Are My Strength</h1> © By: <a href='http://fileblogs.com/index.php?page=author&author_name=Earl+Erickson' target='_blank'>Earl Erickson</a><br><br> <br> <p>It was obvious to everybody who knew my brother,<br>Mark, that he would die from alcoholism. And he, also<br>knew it, and he knew it would be a slow and agonizing<br>death. He also knew his time was up and he no longer<br>would care for himself. His choice was to keep drinking <br>and his goal was to stay drunk.</p> <p>My brother, Mark Drew Erickson, died on November<br>13, 2005. He died of alcohol abuse, cirrhosis<br>of the liver, cellulites"-a flesh-eating disease and<br>vascular failure, due to chronic alcoholism in its final<br>stage. He bled to death and his heart stopped beating.<br>A procedure was done with a needle to drain fluid <br>from his obese stomach. It failed, because it wasn’t <br>fluid, it was solid mass and organ damage. He was on<br>life support and he was unconscious. His prognosis was<br>fatal. The solution was to pull the plug and<br>administer large doses of morphine--and die. He had<br>choices in the beginning. He had no choice in the end.<br>He was only 55 years old.</p> <p>When I first noticed the written sign of death on<br>Mark, it was nine days prior to his expiration date.<br>On this visit, I noticed all his blinds were pulled <br>shut"-this was out of character, and his television and<br>stereo were turned off--totally out of character. He was<br>sitting in his dilapidated, broken down, old recliner.<br>The mood was dark and silent. He wasn’t saying much to anyone, including myself. He looked so far away and<br>his voice was weak and wandering. I insisted he go to he hospital, but his stubbornness won out. When I <br>returned home, I advised his closest, childhood friend,<br>"you had better go see him soon, he’s about to die." I<br>saw his name in his gravestone.</p> <p>This wasn’t the first time this has happened, but<br>it was the second to the last of his grand finale. Mark was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver in <br>the early ‘90s. His doctor, then, said "one more drink<br>will kill you." He was prescribed various medications to<br>halt the progression, and afterwards, his yellow-colored<br>skin would improve greatly. And when it did, he would<br>begin to drink some more. Mark was the type of chronic<br>alcoholic, that if he were gifted a new liver from a<br>generous donor, he would celebrate the event by getting <br>drunk and stay drunk. He was hooked on every kind of<br>alcohol imaginable. He even admitted to me, that when<br>he was out of booze, he would drink after shave lotion<br>and mouthwash if it had alcohol in it. His choice was<br>not beer, liquor was quicker.</p> <p>When I visited Mark at his home, only three days<br>prior to his death, I barely recognized him. He had<br>blood all over him and in the area he was sitting.<br>His legs were swollen, the size of tree stumps, and<br>his flesh was rotting away. His stomach was grossly<br>obese, larger than a woman’s in full-term pregnancy. <br>He had sores all over his body. He was incoherent <br>and probably in shock. His picture was gruesome. He<br>understood me enough, this time, to take my advice and<br>have the paramedics take him to the nearest emergency<br>room. He wanted to wait until Saturday--but it was only<br>Thursday--and I insisted he go now, and he signed his<br>name for his approval to be admitted. The paramedics<br>wasted no time to hook him up to the necessary life-<br>sustaining equipment--on the spot--as they took him in.</p> <p>In his earlier and sober years, Mark was a very<br>normal, good looking, intelligent and talented young man.<br>He taught himself how to play the bass guitar. And he<br>played it very well. He began joining garage bands and<br>later played for functions at dance halls. We had wonderful parents and a very happy childhood.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>I am no stranger to alcoholism. Today, I am a <br>recovering alcoholic. I have withstood many, many years<br>of drinking and came out of it reasonably healthy. I<br>have had nine DUI convictions, plus two more were <br>amended, and I ran away with two in another state,<br>after my arraignment there. I have been incarcerated to<br>a few jail terms. I have been on probation more than <br>three times. I have been in an inpatient treatment<br>center and outpatient counseling too many times. I was<br>very fortunate not to have caused any accidents or<br>hurt anybody physically during my long-term, addicted<br>illness. I have tried to commit suicide twice. I almost <br>burned up in a fire for leaving my overcooked food on<br>the stove top, then passed out. The fire department woke<br>me up. I found my oldest brother, Donald, dead from<br>suicide when I was high on angel dust. His brain<br>matter was splattered all over his walls. He was also<br>a chronic alcoholic, dead at the young age of thirty-<br>six. He, also, was brilliant and good looking. This <br>happened when I was only twenty-two years old. I have<br>had numerous relationships with girlfriends that failed.</p> <p>There wasn’t much difference in Mark’s style of<br>drinking than mine, except he was a closet drinker and<br>I was a more public drinker. I believe the only<br>reason that somebody else hasn’t written my obituary<br>before Mark’s, is that I took better care of my health<br>and held down jobs that kept me busy.</p> <p>I stopped drinking alcohol on July 4th, of 2003,<br>a very important Independence Day for me--my independence<br>from alcohol. If my wife, Bobbie, had beaten cancer, <br>she would have been so proud of me today. I lost her<br>in 2001. She is another reason I am living today and <br>writing this story. Since I had met her, my drinking became less frequent. She was my inspiration in seeding the root to sobriety.</p> <p>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.</p> <p>I will miss my brothers, Donald and Mark, the way<br>I use to know them while I was growing up, before the<br>stranglehold of this powerful addiction began to cripple <br>them and myself. My brothers burned many bridges with <br>family, friends and neighbors, but the one bridge they<br>won’t burn is the last one they both crossed--God’s<br>bridge in heaven. His bridge won’t burn. I believe in<br>my heart and mind, that Donald and Mark are both happy<br>now with their Maker. They are free of all disease--<br>especially the disease of alcoholism.</p> <br> <p>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 <i>Abstinence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder.</i> He has authored other articles for <i>Ezine<br>Articles</i> and is an expert author. He owns and manages two websites. They are: <a target="_new" href="http://sqwearlenterprises.com">http://sqwearlenterprises.com</a> and <a target="_new" href="http://BobbiesMountain.com">http://BobbiesMountain.com</a><br>He lives in Tacoma, Washington.</p> <br><br> Read more Articles on <a href='http://fileblogs.com/Addictions&category_286' target='_blank'>Addictions</a> at <a href='http://fileblogs.com' target='_blank'>FileBlogs.com</a>
Plain Text Version	My Brothers Weaknesses Are My Strength © By: Earl Erickson It was obvious to everybody who knew my brother,Mark, that he would die from alcoholism. And he, alsoknew it, and he knew it would be a slow and agonizingdeath. He also knew his time was up and he no longerwould care for himself. His choice was to keep drinking and his goal was to stay drunk. My brother, Mark Drew Erickson, died on November13, 2005. He died of alcohol abuse, cirrhosisof the liver, cellulites"-a flesh-eating disease andvascular failure, due to chronic alcoholism in its finalstage. 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 onlife support and he was unconscious. His prognosis wasfatal. The solution was to pull the plug andadminister large doses of morphine--and die. He hadchoices 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 onMark, 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 andstereo were turned off--totally out of character. He wassitting 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 andhis 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." Isaw his name in his gravestone. This wasn’t the first time this has happened, butit 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 drinkwill kill you." He was prescribed various medications tohalt the progression, and afterwards, his yellow-coloredskin would improve greatly. And when it did, he wouldbegin to drink some more. Mark was the type of chronicalcoholic, that if he were gifted a new liver from agenerous donor, he would celebrate the event by getting drunk and stay drunk. He was hooked on every kind ofalcohol imaginable. He even admitted to me, that whenhe was out of booze, he would drink after shave lotionand mouthwash if it had alcohol in it. His choice wasnot beer, liquor was quicker. When I visited Mark at his home, only three daysprior to his death, I barely recognized him. He hadblood all over him and in the area he was sitting.His legs were swollen, the size of tree stumps, andhis flesh was rotting away. His stomach was grosslyobese, 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. Heunderstood me enough, this time, to take my advice andhave the paramedics take him to the nearest emergencyroom. He wanted to wait until Saturday--but it was onlyThursday--and I insisted he go now, and he signed hisname for his approval to be admitted. The paramedicswasted 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 verynormal, good looking, intelligent and talented young man.He taught himself how to play the bass guitar. And heplayed it very well. He began joining garage bands andlater 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 yearsof drinking and came out of it reasonably healthy. Ihave 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 toa few jail terms. I have been on probation more than three times. I have been in an inpatient treatmentcenter and outpatient counseling too many times. I wasvery fortunate not to have caused any accidents orhurt anybody physically during my long-term, addictedillness. I have tried to commit suicide twice. I almost burned up in a fire for leaving my overcooked food onthe stove top, then passed out. The fire department wokeme up. I found my oldest brother, Donald, dead fromsuicide when I was high on angel dust. His brainmatter was splattered all over his walls. He was alsoa 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 havehad numerous relationships with girlfriends that failed. There wasn’t much difference in Mark’s style ofdrinking than mine, except he was a closet drinker andI was a more public drinker. I believe the onlyreason that somebody else hasn’t written my obituarybefore Mark’s, is that I took better care of my healthand held down jobs that kept me busy. I stopped drinking alcohol on July 4th, of 2003,a very important Independence Day for me--my independencefrom alcohol. If my wife, Bobbie, had beaten cancer, she would have been so proud of me today. I lost herin 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 wayI use to know them while I was growing up, before thestranglehold of this powerful addiction began to cripple them and myself. My brothers burned many bridges with family, friends and neighbors, but the one bridge theywon’t burn is the last one they both crossed--God’sbridge in heaven. His bridge won’t burn. I believe inmy heart and mind, that Donald and Mark are both happynow 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 EzineArticles and is an expert author. He owns and manages two websites. They are: http://sqwearlenterprises.com and http://BobbiesMountain.comHe lives in Tacoma, Washington. Read more Articles on Addictions at FileBlogs.com
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My Brothers Weaknesses Are My Strength