From A Child's Perspective

Balboa Press

Contents

CHAPTER 1 - WHO WAS HE?.................................1CHAPTER 2 - THE HOME....................................7CHAPTER 3 - THE FAMILY..................................11CHAPTER 4 - THE HOSPITAL................................15CHAPTER 5 - THE FUNERAL.................................17CHAPTER 6 - THE NOTES...................................22CHAPTER 7 - THE END (... OR IS IT?).....................38

Chapter One

"Hi, my name is Bub Hersom, and I'm an alcoholic." I can only imagine that this is the way the meetings for alcoholics started out. Sometimes I feel like I can almost sense the gut-wrenching, twisting feelings that I can only imagine he may have felt in saying these things or even the embarrassment and humiliation of having to attend a meeting like this.

This story is being told "from a child's perspective." By that I mean, from my perspective, because I am the child of an alcoholic; though now an adult, I was raised in the home of an alcoholic. At any age, I will always be the child of an alcoholic, and the words you are reading are my perspective of growing up with an alcoholic father.

My father was born Wilbert Amos Hersom. He somehow was tagged with the nickname "Bub" early in his life. I believe it was one of those names that a friend started calling him on a random basis that just stuck, so his "known" name was Bub Hersom. In fact, many of his friends from later in his life may well not have even known his real name.

First of all, I want to say that my dad was a kind-hearted, do-anything-for-a-friend, kind of guy who never assaulted me or behaved in any type of violent manner like some may have experienced. Nonetheless, his addiction to alcohol eventually cost him his marriage, his relationship with his children, his relationship with his grandchildren, the destruction of his home, the loss of friendships, loss of respect, and ultimately ... his life. Basically, everything that at one point in his life meant the world to him, was given up for alcohol. Some may ask or say that if it all meant that much to him, he wouldn't have kept doing it, he would have quit, or it can't be that hard. I'm here to send you the message and to tell you that from my perspective and my experience, alcohol ruined his life on every level and then, ultimately, killed him. Alcohol stole my dad from me and from all of us who loved him at the very young age of only 54!

Is it possible that the alcoholic can't see this ... or is it that they see it, but they simply cannot or will not choose to get past it? In the pages coming up, I will show you that he knew exactly what he was giving up and still could not/would not change.

It was February of 1999. I was at home with my wife and four children. The telephone rang. I don't usually answer the phone in the evenings, but for some reason I did this night, instead of my wife or boys answering.

The person on the other end said something like, "Hello, is this the home of Lars Hersom?"

"Yes."

Somehow, some way, I think I knew or felt at that moment that there was something odd about this call, and I was privately, in some small way, praying that it wasn't about my dad. After all, I love this man, it just couldn't be! The person on the other end then introduced himself as a police officer and asked to speak to Lars.

I said, "This is Lars. What is going on?"

He told me, "I'm sorry to be the one to call, but your father passed away and was found at his home."

I dropped to my knees and cried out, "NO.....NO!"

I asked if they knew what had happened, and the officer politely told me that there appeared to not be a struggle of any kind and that Dad had passed away on the couch. This was horrible and—little did I know at the time—only the beginning of the eye-opening experience yet to come.

I was raised in a decent, clean home in a small, rural Iowa community of under 1,000 people. Our home was well-kept, and we were what I would consider a normal mom, dad, and two kids type family. Things that seemed normal to me at the time apparently are not or were not really normal. For example, when I would get home from a basketball, football or baseball game, I never went directly home. I would go to the bar because that is where my dad was. That is where he always was. I would play in pool (billiard) tournaments and cribbage tournaments at the bar, all of which I thought was a normal upbringing.

Some may ask how this has affected my life as far as alcohol goes. I have always taken the position of leading by example for my family and have tried to do the right things in my life as much as I can. With this in mind, I have chosen to not follow the same path as my dad. I am not saying that I never drink. I'm saying that it is rare and it certainly has no control of me or any aspect of my life.

Several years before the event of his death, my mother left him, and for good reason. I never blamed her for leaving. In fact, it makes sense when all is considered. I have to commend her for having the courage to stand up to him and make a decision to move on. I have to believe that she most likely had done all she could to help him and convince him to change. Perhaps the perception I had of our seemingly decent life was covered up ... or we, as children, were protected from the reality of these issues by our mother. Looking back, the addiction likely had an effect on my life well before I realized anything was wrong. I'm sure this blindness comes from growing up so close to the issue.

At one point Dad found some woman much younger than him to move in with him, which I never really understood, but I think it was likely due to the hurt that was left behind when he lost his love. This lasted for only a short period of time, and then he was alone again.

I felt sorry for him because I know he still loved my mother but just did not have the ability to make the changes needed to save his marriage and get things back in order. I wanted to help him and had many conversations, seemingly playing the reverse role as the parent trying to keep a child on the right path. From my perspective, I was worried and concerned and tried to help him move in the right direction. In the end, nothing I could say, would make a difference or get through to him. It is quite painful to learn that your words don't get through when you love someone so much and you want to help.

Any time I called to try to see about stopping by the house, it was never a good time for that. Once in a while, he would accommodate my family and me and meet us in a neutral town for dinner, but never anything at the home I grew up in.

After that heartbreaking phone call from the police, I called the funeral home and asked about where my dad's body was. I was again assured that it appeared to be a peaceful passing and that his body was with them. We went over the details as far as facial hair and how to cut his hair, glasses or not, what to wear ... what to wear??? My dad had no suit, and I wasn't sure what to do. The funeral parlor representative was a friend of our family and said that he thought he had an old suit we could use if I wanted it, so we did.

Then there were the flower arrangements, where to have the funeral, what about food, who can speak, what church did he go to.... did he even go to church anymore and so many more things that I was overwhelmed at some points.

We decided to have his funeral in the...