Every parent knows that when the phone rings early in the morning (or late at night) that it’s probably bad news.

I got that call last week.

“Alex died this morning,” Lynn Saltzgaver said.

Alex is my son. Lynn is his wife. Allison is their daughter, and our (Maria and I) granddaughter.

Alex had been struggling for the last couple of months with the medical ramifications of too much alcohol for too long. It’s a hereditary thing, as those who know me well can understand.

I had been out to Colorado a couple of weeks earlier when he was sent to the hospital – ICU – for some serious internal bleeding. I don’t need to go into detail, but last week was a repeat times 10. He made it to the hospital, but nothing could be done.

I could go through the cliches of how parents aren’t supposed to bury their children, how he died too young, the tragedy of a teenaged girl losing her father – and all that is true. Alex is my only natural child, and the loss is hard to bear.

Is it stupid to feel bad that my male bloodline ends here?

I’m blessed to have Aimee, Charlotte and John, Maria’s kids, who I consider my own. Lynn and Allison will forever be my children, too.

But Alex is dead.

I’m mad at him. Or more accurately, I am mad at the demon that ensnared him, then killed him.

I’m mad at myself. I don’t know why or how I missed the signs of alcoholism, and I, of all people, should have been able to do something about it before the demon messed with Alex’s mind and decimated Alex’s body.

Alex died when he was 47 years old. I got sober when I was 47 years old – after nearly 30 years of drinking. The difference? I think it was God.

So where was God for Alex? He was there for him too, and, I pray, He believed Alex had fought and suffered enough. But believing that is hard, especially when I look at Lynn, and Allison.

I will be forever grateful to Maria for her love and support through this. His death was hard on her too.

The love and caring response from my work family at Sunstone and my amazing community of church and friends in Long Beach will be forever in my heart.

But I’m still mad.

Some of you know that I published a book last January. It’s called No Walk in the Park; Newspapers, Booze and God.

It’s the story of my alcoholism and how God saved me to serve the community. My sobriety date is Sept. 13, and this Sunday will be my 25th sober anniversary.

I sent Alex a copy of the book right after it came out. I waited for a couple of months for a response. I finally broke down and asked him what he thought.

“I can’t read it,” he said.

That set off alarm bells. When I tried to get him to talk about drinking, he refused.

I had written the book in hopes that it would help people suffering through addiction to find a way out, and here I wasn’t even able to help my own son.

I didn’t push hard enough. I should have forced him into rehab while there was still a chance.

Except if there has been one thing I’ve learned through my walk in alcoholism, AA and rehabilitation, it is that help isn’t going to work unless the person wants that help.

And I could not make him want it. Did I try enough? I don’t know. I’ll never know.

So what I have left is the Alex who was the real Alex. I can picture his grin when as a 12-year-old he figured out how to throw the curve ball I showed him. I can see him in a blue graduation gown at Carbondale High, and a black gown four years later at the University of Colorado.

I can remember the golf trip where we met at St. George, Utah, (where my dad lived) and he conned me into playing 36 holes two days in a row, all in 100-degree heat.

I played golf with him again the morning of the day I married Maria aboard the Queen Mary. He was, of course, my best man.

I have a picture I took of him holding Allison a few hours after she was born, the culmination of a multi-year trip for Alex and Lynn to have a child. I remember a good man.

If you are still reading this, thank you for putting up with my attempt to express my grief. Death, and even death of children, is mankind’s lot. I grieve with all mothers and fathers who lose their children to disease, war, drugs and more.

There is no way for me to understand God’s will. I’ll admit, I’m having a hard time accepting it right now.

But Alex is in a better place, and that’s something I can and will accept.

God bless you, son.