Two Lives One Lifetime tells a story about generational addiction, written in a way to pique the interest of all generations. Two Lives One Lifetime chronicles the life of each individual family member and how addiction is the thread that weaves through their lives and intertwines each one. You will be drawn into how upbringing, successes, and failures shaped their lives, all written through the author's perspective as she lived it. When the cycle of addictive devastation is finally broken, emerge with Pat into a new life of struggles, decisions, and gifts that change a life through a spirituality which passes all understanding.

Two Lives One Lifetime

By PATRICIA A. REIHL

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2012 Patricia A. Reihl
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-6302-2

Contents

Chapter I. The Father..............................1Chapter II. The Mother.............................11Chapter III. The Child.............................23Chapter IV. The Husband............................31Chapter V. The Children............................39Chapter VI. The Struggle...........................55Chapter VII. The Decisions.........................61Chapter VIII. The Road Forward.....................71Chapter IX. The Gifts..............................77

Chapter One

The Father

Mine was not a horrible childhood. There were no beatings or physical cruelty, just no real communication. I guess that could be labeled psychological abuse. I'm not sure; it was always like that. In the early years, before the separation that alcoholism created in the family, there was a connection of sorts.

My father was a periodic alcoholic. At first, when I was a little girl, these periods of his alcoholism happened months apart and would last for a week or more. During those "dry days"—the days when he wasn't drinking or in the middle of another "bout"—he would take me places. In the winter, on Friday nights, we would go out for fried shrimp and a movie. When spring came, we would go to Coney Island on a Saturday and ride the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round and eat Nathan's hot dogs and custard. We would also take trips to see his friend "Frenchy," who owned a barber shop in Rockaway Beach, Queens. Frenchy was the nickname of Henri LeGrand, a Frenchman my father met after he served in the First World War and entered the vaudeville circuit.

Frenchy would come to our house for dinner every Thanksgiving and on these occasions ask my father to enter a sober lifestyle with him. The answer was never definitive, and the change never happened. (I mention this in relation to our trips, as it has great significance later in this work.) At some point, the companionship between my father and me just stopped; I'm not certain when or why. That is when the memories became dulled. The vivid ones involve his more frequent bouts with alcohol, the staggering, and my fear of his falling. As a family, we would go to visit my mother's relatives, who all lived in Long Island. As there was just our little family of three, we would spend holidays with them. During my childhood years, we took the subway from Brooklyn into Penn Station in New York to catch the train, and I remember being terrified that my father would stagger and fall off the subway platform. Sometimes he would take me to Sunday Mass and stand in the back of the church, weaving and smelling of alcohol. I was always conscious that someone would know. It was similar to my fear of bringing friends home, wondering if he would be drunk and had perhaps fallen and was lying on the floor.

When I wanted to bring a friend to our home, I had a signal set up with my mother: I would ring the bell twice, and if she answered with only one ring of the buzzer, it meant "do not bring anyone up to the apartment." These problems were the wall that began to separate me from others.

My father grew up as a middle child in a staunch Irish Catholic environment, with two brothers and no sisters. The elder brother died of tuberculosis in midlife, lying in a state hospital in Staten Island, New York; the younger went on to be a successful New York banker. Their lineage is very interesting. My grandmother's family came from County Caven, Ireland, and came to the United States, settling in New York. My grandfather's family came from Scotland. My paternal great-grandfather came to the United States via Ireland, also settling in New York. He became a Fenian, a member of the group fighting for the Irish cause. When he married my great-grandmother, they had ten children, my grandmother being the second youngest. She married my grandfather, who studied marine engineering at Cooper Union in New York. When my father was still very young, his father—who had purchased a tugboat in New York City—died in a tragic accident on the East River. He had two partners, and they were just starting the business when the tug was hit by an ocean liner leaving New York Harbor. My grandfather was below decks with one of the owners, and they both drowned. The third partner was above on deck and lived. Even though my grandmother sent divers down, his body was never recovered. That left my grandmother a single parent, living in an apartment in Brooklyn, raising three boys: Wiley, the eldest; Walter, my father; and Lester, the youngest. When Wiley died, my grandmother raised his daughter, my cousin, Virginia. To my knowledge, there was no alcoholism problem in the early years in this Irish Catholic family. However there is a question about Wiley's drinking, the disappearance of Virginia's mother and later my cousin Virginia's wine problem.

My grandmother was a lovely lady, as was my cousin. She kept an impeccably clean home, and Sunday dinner was a treat in that house. Even though it was just the two of them, every Sunday, they took the good china, silverware, linen, and crystal out of the closet, and promptly at 2:00 p.m., dinner was served. As a young child, I spent many a Saturday night at the house, as they would babysit for me, so I was often a part of that Sunday delight—roast beef with all the trimmings and luscious desserts. This is a tradition I carried into my children's family life for many years. One of the positive aspects of my life, I have learned as I write, is a sense of gratitude for those happenings and that relationship, which were free of tension and alcoholism.

I called my grandmother Nanna, and my memories of her are filled with warmth and love. She lived to be eighty-seven, and she died when I was eighteen. My cousin, Virginia, cared for her in her old age, grieving her death to the point that she suffered a mental breakdown. At the time, we were both working in a bank in Manhattan, thanks to our uncle Lester. Virginia was executive secretary to the chairman of the board, but she had totally lost touch with reality. I would see her leaving work walking, talking to herself, and wringing her hands. My mother was very good to Virginia and would have her over for dinner many nights. Sadly, however, by this time, my father's alcoholism had progressed to the point where he paid very little attention to Nanna's death or my cousin's grieving. I am also sure that at some point, his entire family was affected by his drinking.

The family never discussed feelings in my father's childhood home, and so silence became his method of communicating pleasure and displeasure. When his alcoholism became more prevalent, he disappeared physically, mentally, and spiritually. Although he never left home permanently, he stopped coming home for dinner, which had a profound emotional effect on me, as there were no siblings, and my mother's behavior was becoming inconsistent. He was a marine underwriter for an insurance company in Manhattan, and so it was easy for him to go to the bar after work. I remember as a young girl sitting on the stoop of our fourth-floor Brooklyn walkup apartment building, waiting for him to return from the day's work. The subway was four blocks from our building, and I would keep looking to see if he was coming. I would sit for long periods of time, and that situation marked the beginning of my memory of the emptiness I felt in my life, what I later called "the hole in my soul."

Many years later, I found myself doing the same thing in my marriage—sitting in the window of our lovely house, waiting for my husband to come home.

Abandonment takes many forms, and the absence caused by my father's alcoholism had a devastating effect on this only child. The void of not having a father's support creates a pattern of psychological damage. Living with addiction in the home was like living in a world apart from others, always seeking solace in the lives of others' families, to avoid the dysfunction of my own. I loved it when friends would ask me to stay for dinner or I was invited to sleep over. I spent a great deal of time away from the house to avoid going home.

Having grown up without expressing his feelings, how could my father ever impart them to his daughter? And so it progressed—less communication, shorter periods between longer drinking bouts, until finally one day, the wall went up, and the emotional tie was severed.

This sounds like a very bleak picture. That is because looking back, the negative seems to come forward first. But there are good memories too. My father was an impeccable dresser, actually something of a "clothes horse." Everything matched and was kept in perfect condition—a positive attribute he passed on to me. When he was not drinking, I always felt proud to go out with him. He had a winning smile and personality. People always commented what a "nice guy" he was, but as I look back, I recall that he said very little and was basically non-committal, revealing nothing about himself.

Many years after his death, I realized what a closed book he was. That always kept me watching him and wondering what he was thinking. But there was also a gentleness and kindness about him when he did smile and pay attention, especially to me. Actually, even with his emotional removal when the drinking increased, as a little girl, I knew he loved me. Even today, I believe all that lack of communication simply seemed to be his family's way. After reading a letter from my cousin, I was reminded that my father's family originated from Ireland's County Cavan. While in Ireland myself, I learned that the men of Cavan are notoriously incommunicative, making it hard to know what they think. But as stated, there was a gentleness about my father, grandmother, uncles, and cousin that was unmistakable, even though communication was never one of their skills.

He retired at age sixty-five and drank himself to death. He had only been drinking daily for about 3 years when he died. He would sit in his chair day after day and just drink. Eventually, he made no more trips outdoors, just days spent wearing pajamas, directing occasional bursts of anger at my mother. It was sad to hear them go at each other. She would say something hurtful to him, and he would retaliate by raising his voice to her. There was never any physical abuse, just hurtful words. I was now an adult and was so shut down emotionally that it had little effect on me, other than inspiring a desire to get away. I was there the day he was taken out on a chair to the hospital after suffering several strokes. He died two weeks later. I went to visit him several times, but he was barely coherent. My first child was three months old at the time, and I wonder if my father even knew of him.

As stated above, I know he loved me, and I regret not loving him back in those later years. By the time he was gone, I was into my own addiction, so it was not until years later that I was able to put it all in perspective and realize the devastation addiction has on a family and the fact that no one is to blame.

Chapter Two

The Mother

How and where to begin with my mother is difficult. I have so much information about her, even though she believed her life to be devoid of excitement. She was a very integral part of my life, and many dynamics influenced both our lives.

She was born in Singapore, to a mother who was a nurse in a tubercular hospital. At the age of seven, she was sent to a convent in England to begin her education. As my knowledge of my ancestry is very vague, I have no information on why the family resided in what was once called the Federated Malaya of Singapore. Perhaps it was because my grandfather was captain of a trade vessel that ran between Singapore and Liverpool. I find it interesting that both my grandfathers were involved in shipping; just another coincidence in my family history. From the little I remember of what my mother told me over the years, my grandmother had several sisters, one a spinster—as they were once called—who sent for the seven-year-old, bringing her out of the convent and across the Atlantic, by ship, to New York.

My mother did not have to come through Ellis Island, as she was sponsored into the United States, so it became of interest to the press that a child of that age had traveled alone by ocean liner all the way from Europe. There is a 1907 newspaper clipping of this little girl, holding a doll— the first child to cross the Atlantic Ocean alone. New York welcomed her with open arms.

The New York household consisted of the aunt known as "Daddo" and another sister's daughter, Kay, who at fifteen was eight years older than my mother. In those days, it was commonplace for relatives to raise other relatives' children, in order to give them a better life. This was certainly the case in that Morningside Heights, New York, house as Aunt Daddo was a theatre critic, working for a very wealthy man and well connected to the theatre. When Daddo's employer died, her position changed, and money became scarce. That was when Daddo's connections in New York assisted her; the two young cousins began to perform and eventually became accomplished actresses, performing in a variety of plays. Then began the traveling, on and off the road. In this era, show business people were not accepted into mainstream society, so it was difficult for the girls to become integrated into the community. As I recall my mother explaining, she had no friends except one little girl, and they remained friends till the day my mother died.

The cousin became pregnant and could not perform, so they put their careers on hold and left for England on tour, staying there until the baby was born. This totally disrupted my mother's life, as she became the caretaker of the child while her cousin returned to the theatre. They finally came back to America, and eventually the cousin returned to the baby's father, left the theatre, and raised two lovely daughters.

I should say more about that cousin, whose name was Kay, as she became one of the significant people in my life, as did the woman who remained friends with my mother from childhood. These were strong, gracious women who raised families and, in this child's eyes, lived normal lives. I had few relatives, so I became very close to both and to their families. Kay was definitely one of my role models over the years, and her family became the closest and only relatives on my mother's side that I interacted with over my lifetime. This has been a blessing throughout the years. Today I have a wonderful relationship with her younger daughter and her family. The older daughter died several years ago, and she also had a marked influence on my life.

After the cousin's departure, my mother continued her theatrical career. She was very talented and appeared in many plays, musicals, and vaudeville. It was during one of the times between performances that she took a job in an insurance company and met my father. By then she was in her twenties.

They courted for thirteen years, under the strict and controlling supervision of the maiden aunt, Daddo, who was very possessive. Daddo had taken total control of both nieces, and she had a way of making their decisions— probably through a process of guilt—so neither was totally free to make decisions over the years. My mother and father finally married. I do not know any details about how and where they had a wedding or much about their early lives together, but I do know my mother never saw her new husband drink a drop of alcohol until they moved into their first apartment. It must have been a terrible shock, as he was a periodic alcoholic who lost control very soon after he picked up the first drink. How very sad.

My mother did not see her mother again from the time she left Singapore until she was pregnant with me. Her mother came to America, but the details of that meeting were never explained; just that it happened. As I have heard it told, they met in a restaurant in New York for an afternoon lunch. I cannot imagine the sadness each felt at that brief encounter and the mental issues that the situation evoked. That was the only meeting they would ever have, and it is very unclear where my grandmother and grandfather died. This is another gap that most likely occurred due to lack of interest on my part through the drinking years and failure to ask questions about my heritage.

My mother's life was not easy; so many negative variables stifled her psychological and emotional stability. Although she had many good experiences, she remained insecure and never developed a healthy self-esteem. My mother had one sister and two brothers, but little is known of the boys. Something remains in my mind, telling me that they ended up in Australia. Her sister married and settled in California, giving birth to several children who reside in the western United States. One of my cousins and I made an attempt to find the men, but to no avail. My mother was thirty-five years old when I was born, and my father ten years her senior. He seemed to have more parenting skills than she and helped her when she let him. He would help me with my homework and often teach me things. He exposed me to his family, and actually I have more information about his background than about my mother's. But she did try. My father provided a safe place until addiction took over. Looking back, it is no wonder she was at a loss regarding parenting.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Two Lives One Lifetimeby PATRICIA A. REIHL Copyright © 2012 by Patricia A. Reihl. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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