CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

My son continues to play a major role in my ongoing recovery by giving my life greater purpose. Darryl has been the one constant in my sobriety, because no matter what, he deserves a sober dad. My father’s suicide taught me how vital good parenting is and how I need to be there for my son. When I’m around Darryl, I understand just how pure life can be and how easily I could have missed the opportunity to watch him grow up. Being around for him has been worth every second.
When Jen and I decided to have a child, I hoped being a father would save my life. Before then, we were both out of control. In motherhood, Jen immediately became more responsible. My problems were more deeply rooted, and my toxic body and mind required more years of desperate living before I finally surrendered.
One time I was at a twelve-step meeting where a man with twenty-five years of sobriety talked about how in the first thousand days, a person is still a newcomer. It takes about that long for a person’s mind and body to fully comprehend sobriety, and it’s normal for newcomers to be full of mixed up emotions. At eighteen months sober, I sometimes felt like a brand new baby and at others like a wily veteran.
It took me six years of being a drunken daddy and eighteen months as a sober one to realize that children are truly our most precious gifts from God. My son and I spend enormous amounts of time together. While I’m with him, I sometimes see myself as a loving, beautiful man; at other times, I’m a chaotic madman with a messed-up brain. The big difference is that I now recognize my shortcomings. I’m learning to be the man and father God wants me to be.
One day it was my turn to take Darryl to see his asthma doctor. I picked him up at school with his usual snack of cookies and juice.
“Hi, Daddy, what are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m here to take you to the doctor, remember?”
“What are they gonna do?”
“You’re worrying about taking a shot, aren’t you? It’s just a checkup. They’ll check your breathing. No shots, bud.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
We arrived a few minutes early, so we sat in the car while I helped him with his math homework. It was a beautiful October day, unseasonably warm with the leaves bursting with color. I was with my seven-year-old son being a responsible, sober dad. Life was good. I thanked God I had made it that far.
Inside, the office was packed with kids. A nurse called us into an examination room. The doctor came in and asked a few questions about Darryl’s breathing and medication and listened to his lungs. I noticed a sign that said something about “flu shots,” and suddenly realized why the place was so busy.
Before I could ask about it, the doctor said, “His lungs sound good. We’ll test his breathing. Also, I’d like him to take a flu shot while he’s here.”
Darryl heard the word “shot” and looked me squarely in the eyes.
“You said I wasn’t taking a shot today, Daddy!” The tears started to come.
“I know, honey. Daddy didn’t know they were giving flu shots today. You need one because of your asthma.”
He put his arms around me and cried. I was deeply touched; somebody in this world needed me to protect him, to tell him it was going to be all right. Somehow, he knew I would. I almost cried with him. It was another moment when I realized God was showing me something important.
“It’ll be okay, buddy. They give smaller shots these days. You’ll hardly feel it.”
That was the best white lie I could come up with on the spot. The nurse reassured Darryl that they had a new device that presses the skin right before the shot to dull the nerves. Sure enough, he did fine. It was the first shot since his birth that I was enough in touch with my feelings to understand that this little boy needed me and trusted me with his well-being. I wouldn’t let him down. But I still had more to learn.
A few weeks later, I asked Darryl if he wanted to help me put up a new toilet paper holder. He liked home projects; Bob the Builder was a favorite cartoon character. We gathered the necessary tools, and I explained about the need to do things safely.
“Shouldn’t we be wearing our glasses?”
“You’re right! Go grab some for both of us.”
I laughed to myself. I had been trained on supertankers for twenty years to wear safety glasses, and here my kid was reminding me not to use a drill before donning some.
“This is the drill, and these are the drill bits,” I explained after we put on the glasses. “First we pick a size a little smaller than the screws, so when we drill the hole the screw will be tight.”
“Okay, Daddy. How about that one?”
“That one looks a little big. Let’s try this one.” I showed him how to tighten the bit with a drill chuck and how to reverse the drill.
“That’s the righty tighty, lefty loosey rule. Right, Daddy?”
“That’s exactly right. Good job, bud.”
I drilled the holes and mounted the first bracket. I eyeballed the second bracket as Darryl watched.
“Aren’t you gonna use the measuring tape?” he asked.
“No, I think that’s good enough.”
After the second bracket was mounted, Darryl watched as I tried to fit a toilet paper roll into the two brackets. It wasn’t wide enough.
Oh, the words you hear come out of a babe’s mouth. I knew they were coming, but didn’t expect him to be so eloquent: “I told you, Daddy, to measure it. Sometimes grownups don’t listen to kids. Kids have brains too, and sometimes they’re right!”
I laughed. I couldn’t believe my attempt to eyeball the distance had been so far off or that my son was reminding me about safety and advising me to use a tape measure. Our time together had proved more fruitful than I had imagined. I looked lovingly at my son. He was a godsend. God, I promise to do my very best each and every day. Thank you, God. Thank you, Jesus.
That year Halloween was another day when watching a child’s excitement was a beautiful thing. Jen brought Darryl over after school, and we hung out and did homework. Darryl cut out eyes and used a marker to make a mouth on an old white sheet. Jen helped him get into his ghost costume. He popped out with a loud “Boo!” Jen and I laughed.
Darryl and Jen had candy duty. Darryl’s friends came by, and he handed them one piece each. After they left, I laughed and asked him why he didn’t just give them a handful; we had plenty. I wasn’t sure if he was showing his friends who had control of the candy situation or if he had ideas about eating all the leftovers.
We had fun looking at costumes, talking to parents, and remembering when we were kids. Before Darryl left with Jen to trick-or-treat, I gave his costume a tug and kissed him goodbye through the eyehole. I told him I loved him, he said he loved me too, and off he went.
Just a few short years before, I had spent Halloween a bit differently. I was drinking Budweiser, dressed in a T-shirt that said “Yankees Suck.” Darryl and Jen came by. When the doorbell rang I suddenly realized I might be dressed inappropriately. The beer in my hand might not be the best example for greeting the neighborhood trick-or-treaters. I quickly turned my shirt inside out, hid the beer, and pretended not to be under the influence. How things have changed. Thank you, God. Thank you, Jesus.
Of course, I’m still a work in progress. One time I raised my voice to Darryl after he didn’t respond to my call to come to dinner. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, besides being allowed by his parents to watch too much TV. I threatened to take his TV away if didn’t pay attention to Mom and Dad. He started to cry.
I lost my temper because I’m ill, which means I have to work that much harder to remain even-tempered. Just as a person healing from a catastrophic injury might have to relearn how to walk, I’m relearning how to live life.
After raising my voice and making him cry, I went and held my little boy. I explained that some TV is okay, but too much of anything is bad.
“Sometimes you get focused on TV and nothing else,” I said. “And that’s not good for your little brain.”
Hardcore alcoholics—whether they’re under the influence or sporting a hangover, especially a cocaine hangover—use TV to keep their kids out of the way and to remove the nuisance. Now that I’m sober, I don’t use TV as a babysitter. Instead, I’m more aware how parents can both positively and negatively affect a child’s development. I’m also aware that I’m fighting my demons not only for myself, but also for my son and family.
At dinner, I told Darryl I was sorry. “Daddy is still trying to get well from drinking beer. You need to listen to Mommy and me, but no matter what, we’ll always love you.” I promised to do my best not to raise my voice and instead talk about what upset me.
Darryl said he understood and acted as though nothing unusual had happened. After dinner, I asked him to get out his Cub Scout Wolf Handbook. He had a lot to do to earn his Bobcat badge. I had done it as a boy, but didn’t remember the details.
We lay down on the couch and practiced the Cub Scout promise. He had already practiced it with Jen. After a little more studying, he pledged: “I, Darryl Hagar the Second, promise to do my best, to do my duty to God and my country, to help other people, and to obey the law of the pack.”
I was full of emotion. Was this doing him more good—or me?
I was learning what I had missed in Darryl’s early years: how to participate in my son’s life. Although I believe I was born with a propensity for addiction, I had been a willing participant. It was only when the pain outweighed the pleasure that I considered getting help. Booze and drugs had ruled my decision-making. My disease had told me that without continual excitement and chaos I’d be bored. I’m thankful that God stepped in and gave me an opportunity to slow down and be there for my son.
One night while I was attending a Bob Dylan concert, Darryl left an “important” message on my answering machine about losing a tooth. I was already on cloud nine from seeing an American legend in concert, and my son’s message just confirmed to me what I already knew: I never want to go back to my old way of living.
Not long afterward, Darryl and I were headed to bed one night. He asked if we could practice blowing bubbles with chewing gum, having tried many times without success. After a few minutes, he magically started to blow his first bubbles. His missing tooth must have played a role. He laughed hysterically after blowing each bubble. It was a treasure watching his pure delight in that small accomplishment. God, how can such a simple thing bring a dad such joy?