CBA Record May-June 2022

35 TH ANN I VERSARY OF THE CBA RECORD

Mydad, PatO’Brien, lovedbeingatrial lawyer, asevidencedbyhisendlesscacheofever-evolvingcolorful storiesabout his courtroom legal battles over his 50-plus year career at Mayer Brown, LLP. If you had the good fortune of knowing him, you undoubtedly were a recipient of one or more of his stories because he was never accused of being shy. He passed away peacefully on August 11, 2006, the day after returning from our cherished annual family vacation in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, where my parents, my siblings, their spouses and all of the 13 grandchildren spent every meal together at one long table. The following article, written by my dad for The Chicago Bar Association, was a source of pride for him because The Lawyers Assistance Program, of which he also served as president, and Alcoholics Anonymous were anchoring supports for him during his last two decades of life. He wanted others to join the ranks of these programs if similarly in need. He also was cognizant of the fact that it was rare, if not unheard of, for an attorney to publish the fact that he was an alcoholic, let alone provide the details. Themassive turnout of people at my dad’swake included several who stood in line for hours to tell my siblings andme about howour dad, through his goodworkswith LAPandAA, saved their life. Hewould be very proud to knowthat this article – his labor of love published 23 years ago – still resonates today and may even save a life.

Judge Patricia O’Brien Sheahan

CBA RECORD ARTICLE, September 1999 BOOZE, LAP, THE DEB AND ME “The Lawyers’ Assistance Program helps lawyers with emotional or substance abuse problems. I am its President. I was once its target .”

By Patrick W. O’Brien

T his story is about LAP and the Deb (my wife, Deborah, a/k/a Debbie) helped me to banish booze from my liquid diet. It is in three parts as is the custom at “program” meetings: “What it was like, what hap pened, and what it’s like now.” What It Was Like I grew up in Evanston, Illinois with a Mom, a Dad and two brothers – one older, one younger. The respective birth dates were Dad (1898), Mom (1903), older brother (1925), me (1927), younger brother (1930). My father – baptized “Maurice” – was called “Red.” He also grew up in Evan

ston where his father had located after emigrating from Canada. My father was the only one of his six siblings to gradu ate from college. He flew reconnaissance airplanes in World War I, smoked Camel cigarettes from 1917 to 1957 and was, so I was told by his former boss, “the best goddamn steel salesman of his time.” (1922-1963) His preferred drinks were bourbon on the rocks and boilermakers. After a few of either or both, the sparse hairs on the top of his head curled and rose from his scalp. On some drinking occasions he might recite Irish poetry in a truly abominable English accent. He declared “he was incapable of bursting into song.” But the one song he might “fight his way into” was “I Wish I Could

Shimmy Like My Sister Kate.” I have no memory of ever seeing him drunk, but my brothers’ memories are to the con trary. My always beautiful and well-groomed mother, “Nell,” came from Maple Park, Illinois where she was brought up in a household consisting of a father and one younger brother. Her mother died when she was about eight. Pictures of her taken when she was a little girl always included one or more of her Aunts: grim farmer ladies in poke bonnets who appeared lip less. Her father, James Fitzgerald, oper ated a general store and was proud of being one of the few democrats in the county. He would occasionally sneak off to Chicago for a weekend of vaudeville,

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