I was only about two years old, but I do remember my aunt babysitting my sisters and me while my mother visited my dad in the hospital.

Years later, as my uncle retold the story of my father’s near-death, I suddenly felt fortunate that this was the only thing I could remember from my first memorable experience with the dangers of alcoholism, or alcohol abuse.

We were in Wisconsin for our annual family reunion. My father had been drinking all day, and each drink inflamed his anger more at having had to come to his wife’s reunion. It was late afternoon when his anger finally caused something to snap inside of him, and he jumped on a nearby motorcycle and roared off down the rural roads.

But not before my then nine-year-old cousin, Randy, jumped on the back of the bike behind my intoxicated father.

A half hour later, Randy came running back down the road, screaming for help and clutching the side of his head. As my uncle grabbed him, he noticed that the side of his son’s head was bloody and bruised. His ear was almost torn off.

As my aunt frantically pulled Randy into one car to take him to the hospital, my uncle jumped into another and took off in the direction that his son told him they could find my father. He drove for about three miles until he finally saw my dad. He couldn’t see if my father was hurt because my dad’s back was to the road, but he assumed that my father was alright because he was standing, trying to lift the motorcycle upright. As my uncle leaped out of the car to help my dad with the bike, he stopped in amazement — my father was lifting the motorcycle up off of the ground to set it erect. (Later, the doctor said my father had been in shock, and people have been known to do some incredible things while in this condition.)

Stepping forward to give my father a hand, my dad finally turned toward my uncle — and almost put him into shock.

My dad’s shirt was soaked with blood from his torn neck, or what was left of his neck.

My dad had been racing down the road, when he hit the gravel on the shoulder. The motorcycle flew off of the road and into the neighboring field. My dad saw the barbed wire fence, but only had time to shove his nephew off of the back of the bike before he hit the wire. The motorcycle took most of the blow — just enough, thank God.

That wire had just missed my father’s jugular vein. The vein that has the disease called alcoholism running through it to this day, even though my father hasn’t had an alcoholic drink for five years.

Grief and a great deal of relief were evident in my uncle’s face when he retold this story, but there was one other emotion I saw in his eyes which really surprised me. My uncle was also angry.

At first I couldn’t understand this anger, but the more I thought about the incident, the more I began to realize just what it was that stirred the emotion.

My father had risked a lot more than his life that day, but, unfortunately, it took another 14 years of this abuse before he realized everything he was risking.

Think about it.