He died May 21, 2001, at 60 years old, at Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas, partly from complications of alcoholism.
He, like many in our family, had issues with alcohol and drugs. The difference with my brother, though, was that he didn't think he had a problem.
When we'd talk about recovery he'd say "I'm not like those guys." And he was referring to the people in 12-step meetings.
Yet he spent years putting away a case of beer a day. Along with the marijuana he grew in the desert behind his house in California. Once in a while he'd mix in a little speed.
But the reality was that he was just like them - and worse. He lived a life of denial. Even when he ended up homeless he somehow could blame it on bad luck or something else.
And the sad thing is that he could have lived many productive years. He was a talented singer and guitar player. He built houses. He read everything. When he was sober he could do stuff.
Yet, he never had the blessing of realizing that he had a disease. Because I know that - had he recognized it - he could have worked through his anger and resentments.
He would have been able to see his children mature and have children of their own. He might have found the peace and serenity we find in recovery.
