On Friday night I went to a moving memorial service for a friend's husband, and I was glad the speakers didn't shy away from talking about the illness that killed him at age 59: alcoholism. Fortunately the stigma of alcoholism has been reduced these days: I remember when newspaper stories would refer to someone as "an admitted alcoholic," as if it was some kind of an embarrassing moral failing rather than a devastating addictive disease.
One of the speakers at the service urged those present to contact someone if they thought they might have a drinking problem -- perhaps their physician or a self-help group like AA. "You are not alone," he said, emotion breaking through his words as he talked about the critical importance of seeking support.
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