Dear Roy, More than 21 years ago I entered the program you founded, and I have wholeheartedly appreciated your dedication to us ever since. Our meeting was already using a sobriety definition clarification similar to that which years later was adopted in Cleveland. This definition made perfect sense to me.
I had been in the program for several years before I finally met Roy K., although I believe we talked over the phone during those first years. I remember Roy’s passion for spreading the message, his courage, and his principles. Those qualities came through clearly in his conversations as well as his writing.
I attended my first SA meeting in 1988 at a Methodist church in Nashville, Tennessee. At the time, Roy had nine years of sexual sobriety. Back then, the definition of “old-timer” was three years of sobriety. Roy was years ahead of the “new” old-timers.
I remember when I first met Roy, in 1983. He appeared nervous around me, but not nearly as nervous as I felt around him. I expected to find a number of sober women who could tell me how to stay sober. I found only a few women, and none of them had six months of sobriety in our program.
I first met Roy—at a distance—when I attended my first international convention in Oklahoma City in December 1985. I had about four months of sobriety back then. Someone pointed Roy out to me but I did not formally introduce myself.
The first I heard of Roy’s death was from a message on my voicemail. I felt a sudden and deep sadness to hear of his passing. For the past 25 and a half years, my life and my recovery have been interwoven with Roy’s. I was first introduced to the concept of sobriety through the SA brochure that he had written.
I would like to share my memories of Roy K., who was perhaps second only to my father in influencing my life for the better.
Mark told me once that no one ever died from sex. He said, “Alcohol, on the other hand, will kill you. It's a chemical fact. If I drink I’ll die.” What Mark didn’t say was that he was going to die anyway.
My father was admitted to the hospital in June 2008. The doctors said he needed a heart valve in order to live. He risked the surgery so that he might be around longer for his grandchildren. It didn’t work out so well: he was in a coma between life and death for six weeks. It was hard to see him so powerless.
I had just arrived at the Nashville airport when I got a voicemail from Jim. The message was “I just got back from the doctor and he told me I have six months to live.” Jim was dead within two weeks. After receiving the message, I immediately called him. I told him how much I loved him and how he was always the brother I never felt I really had.
