Mark Davis

I met Nate at work. A gifted artist, he was one of the young newspaper designers I thought would bring his passion to the career and one day make a great teacher or editor. He was also an outdoorsman, and that’s how we became friends.

On a fabulous fishing and camping trip at Joe Creek on Lake Sharpe in South Dakota, Nate and I had our first chance to share our goals and dreams. He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind and spoke confidently about his goals. He also shared his heart and admitted for the first time that he was infatuated with a coworker.

She was dating someone else at the time and he asked, if it were me, would I approach her. She wasn’t engaged and her boyfriend wasn’t all that tough-looking, so I said I would if I were him. Like many men I have known in my life, he feared rejection.

He didn’t give me the details, but he ignored his fears and told her how he felt. About a year later I volunteered to photograph their wedding. Another year later they had their first child. I was proud of the family and was thrilled for Nate. His dream had come true. Had he never expressed his feelings, I believe, he would have regretted it for the rest of his life.

I trusted Nate like a brother. Without hesitation I would’ve introduced Nate to one of my own sisters. He was an Eagle Scout, had a college degree and ambition without being brash.

It was time for me to move on. We headed to the Chicago/northwest Indiana region (about eight hours from Omaha), yet Nate and I stayed in contact. On occasion he would ask for permission to use my wildlife photos for art references. I always agreed.

He had asked me to send some photos of bighorn rams in 2022. I had intended to do so, but the request fell through the cracks as life threw some challenges at my family. Sadly, It would be our last conversation.

What I didn’t know was Nate had been drinking. He had been in and out of treatment for alcohol dependency and failed on several attempts. The addiction was the main reason for losing his family. Dana, Nate’s wife, couldn’t allow their daughters to be exposed to a side of Nate I had never seen. He never mentioned the divorce, let alone his trouble with alcohol.

He died alone at 42 in his apartment and was found a couple weeks later. I can’t imagine what the entire family went through discovering his body, let alone the loss of a son and father.

When the details of how my friend Nate was found dead emerged, I became unexplainably angry.

I couldn’t understand how alcohol came between Nate, his wife Dana, their two beautiful daughters, and the rest of his family and friends. Nate was smart, talented and dedicated — until he wasn’t.

I’ve held onto the anger until recently when I started to learn more about alcohol dependency. That education came through a chance meeting with Jackie Fales, program director of the Park County Court Supervised Treatment Program (of which she is a graduate) and founder of the nonprofit Active In Recovery, which connects people and families to treatment for substance use disorders.

I wanted to interview her for a controversial story. She refused to participate — not because she had something to hide, but rather because she protects her clients with the strength and viciousness of a momma grizzly with cubs and she didn’t want a controversial story to make her clients nervous about receiving treatment. There’s already enough barriers to receiving help.

Before meeting Jackie I thought alcoholism was a choice. I was disappointed in those who chose the poison over their families and friends.

Then I got it through my thick skull when Jackie asked me, “If a friend got cancer would you be mad at them?”

Of course, I said no.

She explained that alcoholism is a disease, just like cancer. Then she added, “If your friend went into remission and the cancer returned, would you be angry?”

Of course, I said no.

She asked, then why would you be mad if, after treatment, someone’s substance use disorder returned?

I am ashamed to say I have walked away from several friends who couldn’t control their drinking. I think of myself as a compassionate person, but to the contrary I was quick to walk away. Even worse, in what I thought was a sign of my devotion, I practiced what I called tough love. Looking back I am ashamed of my former stance: just quit.

After long-term use of alcohol, a sudden withdrawal can kill the person. It’s called alcohol withdrawal syndrome. I learned this fact last month while trying to help yet an other friend. On the bright side, this old dog is able to learn new tricks.

That’s probably why Nate never discussed his drinking with me. He hasn’t been the only friend I’ve lost to my abject insensitivity.

I abandoned my oldest friend Scott. I played with him in the crib and we spent our formative years as best friends. But when he screamed at me for sharing beer I had brought to a party, I went out and bought him another case of Old Style and then left him there, never looking back.

His sister told me afterward that he’d drank himself to death. He left behind four children and two grandchildren at the early age of 56. I never met any of them after abandoning him 30 years earlier.

I’m ashamed it took me more than 60 years to understand this devastating disease and I am mortified realizing that kindness — something I have preached like I own it — might have saved them. All I’m left with is regret and shame. There is no way to turn back the clock on my obvious hypocrisy.

The permanence of death and the shame I live with haunts me. It’s one thing to be forgiven for your sins, but it’s an entirely different thing to forgive yourself.

I aim to humbly move forward seeking to practice what I preach: kindness.

For more information: activeinrecovery.org