Seeing his father in himself reminds Brian Shea of the things he’d rather not inherit.
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As the son of an alcoholic, I probably pondered the mysteries of genetics far earlier than most. My father’s slow spiral to destruction through drunken rages, followed by periods of numb detachment from all around him, echoed a pattern among Shea men tracing all the way back to Kilkenny, Ireland.
It was not always alcohol, but it was always some toxic force of Nature that magnetically pulled them away from their families. Some chose cold neglect, including my ancestor who passed his days obsessively writing letters to the Queen of England before vanishing into the mists, leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves. Others sought to silence the storm in their heads with alcohol, deliriously pulling their own kin into the darkness to begin the cycle again.
Like many children of alcoholics, what inclinations lie dormant in my DNA is a source of worry. But unlike my ancestors, I can deposit my saliva in a plastic tube, mail it to a laboratory, and for a reasonable price, log onto a website to view my complete DNA profile. When I recently received the results of such a test, one data point came into ineradicable focus.
“Substantially higher odds of heroin addiction.”
As hard as I have fought to avoid the abyss that eventually swallowed him, I have always known that my father resides in my very skin. We share two peculiar brown spots in the left eye. A narrow space separates our two front teeth. And, there are the hands. By my forties, my hands had settled into the squarish shape of my fathers’, including the same delta pattern of veins that cross the bones in all the same places. When I look down at them, I see his.
Seeing addiction coded into my very being tempts a voice in my head to explore to it, perhaps the same voice that has whispered in the ear of the many males who preceded me. I share my father’s low tolerance of alcohol, a deadly accompaniment to a disposition to alcoholism. And, I knew how very little alcohol was needed to slur the speech of a Shea man before I’d ever tasted a drop.
I chose not to drink alcohol many years ago, but not because I thought its ravages were my inevitable future. It is precisely because I knew they likely weren’t. Nascent alcoholics need little encouragement to abandon vigilance when science can convince them that the wolf is not at the door after all. Science brings knowledge, but knowledge does not always bring control. And the man who most thinks he has control is often the first to lose it.
When I was a child, my father once told me that alcoholics often continue drinking even after they know they are addicted. But like his Kilkenny forefathers, my father would eventually succumb to his conditions and vanish into the mists, leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves.
Recently, word arrived that my father had died alone somewhere in Australia. It was oral cancer, likely a result of his incessant drinking and the pipe that always hung from his jaw, emitting his favorite Mac Baren’s “plumcake” tobacco that announced his entry to a room.
My father’s younger brother once said that every generation learns a little bit more than the last and I certainly know that fate is not always encoded in our DNA. Proclivity does not mean probability; heroin is not alcohol and environment also shapes one’s inclinations in good measure. Science has also relieved us of the centuries-old belief that alcoholism is the result of a man’s moral failing, not a medical condition that can be treated.
Addiction has asserted itself as an antagonist in my family’s story, likely more than I realize even now. But I am hopeful for my DNA’s future. Proclivity does not mean probability.
My Kilkenny ancestors once boasted 13 children in the 1800s, our family tree being whittled down to only three today. In the end, my young niece stands alone as a single blond point on the inverted pyramid of my family diagram, listed below long, horizontal lines of Irish names no longer used. Most of their stories have been forgotten, in some cases deliberately, and my niece carries their DNA.
But that DNA does not only carry darkness and its encrypted messages are not all ominous.
My niece demonstrates benevolent and productive qualities that also travel in our blood, some of which remained unfortunately dormant in my own makeup; a near-perfect balance of an artist’s eye with a scientist’s precision. When she is not playing her violin, she can be found visiting the rare blue lobster at the local maritime science center, pondering its mysteries. Someday, she may have sons and their generation will hopefully know more than those preceding it.
By my current age, my father’s alcoholism had already claimed his future.
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By my current age, my father’s alcoholism had already claimed his future. I still don’t feel the urge and perhaps that’s where environment comes in. Perhaps it works both ways; watching the horror long enough can recast the synapses to reforge one’s nature.
I know that it’s harder for some to combat addiction than it is for others. I also know that some people lose that fight.
But despite the sad chords that tether me to my ancestors, I don’t believe in fate. The beacons of our past occasionally penetrate the fog of time to remind us of their presence, or perhaps, warn us. Like a voice in the rain, their messages may come to us in muffled pleadings and fading impressions throughout our daily lives. But we can hear them if we listen.
“Every generation learns a little but more than the last,” my uncle said.
Perhaps some distant descendent of the Sheas of Kilkenny will have inherited my curiosity and will be listening for these beacons. Perhaps he will even find these very words on whatever the Internet has transformed into by his time and he will download his DNA profile directly to his personal electronic device on his way to work.
As he looks down at the information, I only hope that his hands remind him of someone he once knew who loved him and who taught him well.
Photo—Elvert Barnes/Flickr
Moving.
You’re not the only one, don’t worry.