Father's Day Every Day
By William Moyers Sunday, June 13, 2010, 07:51 AM EDT
One father's tragic loss of a son sparked another father's message to his own son that made for the best Father's Day gift I ever have gotten.
Ted Koppel's 40-year-old son, Andrew, was found dead in a New York apartment earlier this month. He had been drinking too much, and his death ended what was probably a long struggle with alcoholism.
I tried to help his family about a decade ago, after his father called mine seeking guidance.
Time has eroded from my memory the exact conversation. But I never will forget Ted's voice; it was that of an anguished father unsure of what to do, not the authoritative tone of a newsman whose "Nightline" broadcasts told millions of Americans what we needed to know. Addiction baffles even the most learned parents.
Last week, my father called to thank me for his 76th birthday present, 2 pounds of Caribou coffee, a package of chocolate-covered coffee beans and a mug with the leaping deer logo stamped all over it. Long ago, I gave up on slippers or shirts for my dad. Besides, I've cornered the market as his sole go-to source for his morning fix. It's hard to find Caribou coffee outside of where I live in Minnesota. And he loves it.
Dad left me a voice message: "Son, the contraband got through. Thanks. I will think about you every morning when I'm sitting on the terrace here drinking that good cup of coffee," he said. "I am counting my blessings this week again when I read of the tragedy involving Ted Koppel's son ... and I think how fortunate your mother and I are because of your resolve, your courage, your commitment to your recovery. I am so proud of you and grateful to you."
Over the decades, my father earned a reputation for openly sharing his creativity of the mind and his world of ideas. Having known him now for 51 years, I'm keenly cognizant that his private thoughts are not so easily exposed, even to his own family.
That's why I saved his voice message. I've played it every day. His words remind me that at some point in every relationship between a parent and a grown child, words of love are about the only bond that really matters, the bridge across the gulf of space, time and busy lives growing old or growing older. As earlier generations did with letters, we'd better take care to protect the voice messages, the e-mails and even the cell phone texts that fly at us with a ferocity met only by our uncanny ability to delete them without considering that they may be priceless one day. I don't think we are.
His message is a reminder, too, of what is possible when I stay clean and sober. There was a moment a long time ago when, at the bottom of my addiction, I heard Dad say, "I hate you." And I heard myself utter, "I hate me, too." At that moment, I wanted to die. Somehow I made it.
I not only made it but also lived, at least for the past 16 years, a sober life of imperfection for which I'm grateful and of which my father is proud. I've given him a great gift. In his voice message, he's done the same for me.
William Moyers is the vice president of foundation relations for the Hazelden Foundation and the author of "Broken," his best-selling memoirs, and "A New Day, A New Life." Please send your questions to William Moyers at wmoyers@hazelden.org.
Ted Koppel's 40-year-old son, Andrew, was found dead in a New York apartment earlier this month. He had been drinking too much, and his death ended what was probably a long struggle with alcoholism.
I tried to help his family about a decade ago, after his father called mine seeking guidance.
Time has eroded from my memory the exact conversation. But I never will forget Ted's voice; it was that of an anguished father unsure of what to do, not the authoritative tone of a newsman whose "Nightline" broadcasts told millions of Americans what we needed to know. Addiction baffles even the most learned parents.
Last week, my father called to thank me for his 76th birthday present, 2 pounds of Caribou coffee, a package of chocolate-covered coffee beans and a mug with the leaping deer logo stamped all over it. Long ago, I gave up on slippers or shirts for my dad. Besides, I've cornered the market as his sole go-to source for his morning fix. It's hard to find Caribou coffee outside of where I live in Minnesota. And he loves it.
Dad left me a voice message: "Son, the contraband got through. Thanks. I will think about you every morning when I'm sitting on the terrace here drinking that good cup of coffee," he said. "I am counting my blessings this week again when I read of the tragedy involving Ted Koppel's son ... and I think how fortunate your mother and I are because of your resolve, your courage, your commitment to your recovery. I am so proud of you and grateful to you."
Over the decades, my father earned a reputation for openly sharing his creativity of the mind and his world of ideas. Having known him now for 51 years, I'm keenly cognizant that his private thoughts are not so easily exposed, even to his own family.
That's why I saved his voice message. I've played it every day. His words remind me that at some point in every relationship between a parent and a grown child, words of love are about the only bond that really matters, the bridge across the gulf of space, time and busy lives growing old or growing older. As earlier generations did with letters, we'd better take care to protect the voice messages, the e-mails and even the cell phone texts that fly at us with a ferocity met only by our uncanny ability to delete them without considering that they may be priceless one day. I don't think we are.
His message is a reminder, too, of what is possible when I stay clean and sober. There was a moment a long time ago when, at the bottom of my addiction, I heard Dad say, "I hate you." And I heard myself utter, "I hate me, too." At that moment, I wanted to die. Somehow I made it.
I not only made it but also lived, at least for the past 16 years, a sober life of imperfection for which I'm grateful and of which my father is proud. I've given him a great gift. In his voice message, he's done the same for me.
William Moyers is the vice president of foundation relations for the Hazelden Foundation and the author of "Broken," his best-selling memoirs, and "A New Day, A New Life." Please send your questions to William Moyers at wmoyers@hazelden.org.
