Update on Paul

It’s been a while and a lot has happened with Paul.  Unfortunately, nothing good. He has gotten progressively worse since January battling pneumonia, bladder problems, blood issues, a hospital stay - I could go on. He has lost about 25 pounds and all of his meals now have to be pureed. The most serious issue is his ability to swallow. It’s quickly disappearing. This accounts for the mushed meals and weight loss. Not a great scene truth be told. Apparently it’s due to the degenerative brain injury and the damage to his throat 26 years ago.

Feeding him now is no fun – not that feeding an adult man, your brother at that, ever was - but now it’s particularly difficult. He’s prone to aggressive outbursts and shouting – something unlike anything he has ever done. I’ve gotten a few smacks to the head (some likely deserved) just like the old days when brothers fought like brothers should. You share a bedroom with someone for 15 years and the odd racket is bound to happen. He was a good scrapper too who could handle himself back in the day. Tough as nails. Christ, that seems like forever ago.

Visits in general are getting more difficult too. Thursday was especially hard. He kept shouting, asking for Mom who’s been gone almost seven years now. Sometimes he knows this; most times he doesn’t. Music is rarely played anymore, a mainstay of our visits. That is likely the most difficult part of this. Music was so important to our relationship – the bind that helped me get through this shit - and now it’s gone. Jesus.

And the outlook isn’t promising, to be honest. It never really was I suppose, but now there’s an underlying sense of urgency. Things are deteriorating rapidly and they aren’t going to get better. When doctors and staff talk of feeding tubes and comfort care, you know tougher times lie ahead. I’m going to have to make some difficult decisions about his care.  I’m hoping later than sooner. For both of our sakes.

No More Donuts

To say blog posts have been sparse is an understatement. I’m shocked that I didn’t pull the plug a long time ago. Yet, it still exists and it still gets hits. A lot less now then back in the day when I posted on a regular basis. I’ve connected with a lot of good people through it – some of whom I’ve actually met. ;) To be honest, the only reason it’s still here is Paul. The urge to post - to write really - is a fleeting one at best, but one that is sometimes, somehow cathartic. A feeling difficult to explain. Creative outlet? Hardly. Venting? Maybe. Cathartic? Definitely.

Truth be told, anyone who posts does so for a reason. Political blogs are a good example. They are what they are. If you agree or enjoy the writing, you’ll tune in. If not, you’ll drop out. No harm, no foul. My blog has morphed from a random assortment of nothingness to an occasional I-don’t-give-a-shit anymore. This is how I feel – warts and all – and if you don’t like it, don’t let the virtual door hit you in the virtual ass on the way out.

As I said, the only reason the blog still exists is Paul. Plain and simple. He’s my brother and this is a way to deal with this shit. He’s well now - as well as a traumatic brain injury will allow I suppose - after six months of being sick with pneumonia, type A influenza and bladder problems. The no more blood in his urine is a bonus. But he’s losing his ability to swallow involuntarily - a big area of concern. He’s good for now but two weeks ago there was talk of tubes, comfort care, and comfort palliative care. WTF? But after further assessments, he’s good. No plans for tubes anytime soon. I won’t allow it until absolutely necessary. Once they go in, they don’t come out. But due to his inability to swallow, his meals are now pureed. So no more donuts. I miss that. I feed him yogurt or pudding when I visit. Yay.

And the music has died too - at least for now. We can’t listen to Clapton, Zeppelin or Stevie Ray and he starts crying. Fuck. I’m hoping this passes. For both of our sakes.

So there it is. Warts and all.

Paul's new digs...and getting it right

Sometimes, governments get it right. A cynical view perhaps, but when the electorate seemingly continues to get the short end of the stick – or worse yet, get poked in the eye with that stick – it’s hard not to be a cynic. Or angry.  Years of broken promises, corruption, endless self-serving photo ops – I could go on - tend to do that.
 
But as I stated, sometimes the right things are done. Specifically, the construction of the new state-of-the-art long-term care facility in the east end of St. John’s. It recently opened to replace the aging and overcrowded Hoyles-Escasoni complex. Somewhere along the way, someone got this right. And it was likely championed by a nameless mid-level public servant who recognized the need and put this on someone’s agenda.  It was long overdue. At this point, just which government decided to build the facility, Tory or Grit, is inconsequential. I don't know and I don't care. But taking credit in an era of self-praising press releases is the new norm. However, moral responsibility should trump political opportunism.

There is no question that our population is aging and the number of people requiring long term care is increasing. Governments have to be prepared for this. My suggestion would be to level the old Hoyles-Escasoni complex and build another facility like the one just opened. We’re going to need it.

And just as the population of senior citizens is increasing, so too, is the need to help those suffering from mental illness. Great strides have been made to make services available but the waitlist for those seeking help is far too long. As the brother of a long time Hoyles home resident – “resident” - Jesus, when you say it like that it sounds as if he lived in a high end retirement villa. But it wasn’t of course; far from it. He suffered brain damage as the result of a suicide attempt over 20 years ago and requires constant care. The residents on his floor have conditions of varying severity and - for a lot of reasons - it’s a tough place to visit. I can’t imagine the dementia ward.

But no long-term care facility, no hospital, no hospice has a suicide ward. There are no prosthetics to help those suffering from mental illness. Recent high profile accounts of deaths by suicide has brought the need for improved mental health treatment to the forefront. It’s our job to keep it there. The courage of those affected to step forward and speak openly about the loss of a loved one by suicide should be embraced. I don’t think this discussion would have occurred 10 or 15 years ago. At least not publically.

Mental illness is no longer a taboo topic left for gossip bags to whisper about in some corner. “The Launch”, a concert held recently to raise awareness of mental health issues, and news of a 24 hour mental health crisis team are positive steps.  The momentum to break the stigma and increase access to mental health treatment has never been greater. Although we have a ways to go, the ball is firmly rolling in the right direction. Governments can build on this and again, has a chance to get it right.

Groupies

Last Saturday, with Timmie’s in hand - 5 small coffees and 40 timbits ($14.03 Vicki Kaminski, if you’re reading this) - I dropped in to see Paul for my weekly visit.  I normally drop by on Thursday’s but had to wait until the weekend. I’m glad I did.

Saturday at Hoyles-Escasoni is a day when more families come to visit loved ones and there were plenty of visitors there last weekend. Some I had met before; others for the first time. It was good putting a family with a face, so to speak. Many knew who I was which was kind of nice. “Oh, you’re Paul’s brother. The guy with the timbits.” Guilty as charged.

The atmosphere was light and most of the residents and staff seemed to be in a good mood. The ladies for whom I brought coffee were tinkled pink. (Truth be told, I’m not sure if I do it more for them or for me.) As usual, Paul and I played and sang tunes from my phone. Clapton is always first.

“Who do you want to hear?”

“Eric Clapton!"

“No shit.”

It’s usually followed by some Zeppelin and Tull. Lately I’ve been playing songs and asking Paul who it is. He’s normally gets it right and even knows the lyrics. Pretty cool actually now that I think about it.

But this visit I brought my harmonica. Now, to say I “play” is a stretch. It makes noise. Some actually discernable, but mostly hit and miss. This explains the random blues riffs and trains I do. Always trains. When I mess up, which is always, I do something bluesy or a train which always seem to work. Like I know what I’m doing. Riiiiight. Let’s go with that. Needless to say, Neil Young is not shitting his pants.

Anyway, the ladies with said coffee hear this and come over – all giddy and pumped on caffeine.

“Play Harry Hibbs. Do you know Harry Hibbs?”

“Not personally, no.”

Paul chimes in, “Play some f%#@ing Harry Hibbs!”

Le sigh.

There’s not a chance in hell I’m doing Between Two Trees (or anything thing Harry Hibbs) on harmonica. But as luck would have it, depending on your point of view, I know the chorus and some verses of Black Velvet Band. Mom used to sing it when we were young – usually on Sundays when she was overcooking the pot roast.  We used to call it the rubber roast. “Is it really supposed to bounce when you drop it Jean?”

Anyway, I tell them I can’t play Harry Hibbs but I can sing one of his songs. All this time, some guy, who’s visiting a relative, is giving me this are-you-really-going-to-do-this kind of look. He can barely keep from laughing. To hell with it and I started in: ”Her eyes they shone like the diamonds…”

Thank-you. Thank-you very much. I’ll be here next week. Don’t forget to tip the staff and don’t try the specials.

Turns out the girls knew the song and Paul started singing too. When we got stuck, we just repeated the verses over again. We mangled a few more songs, mostly Irish-Newfoundland stuff, but it was a blast.  And YouTube is your friend here people. Trust me on this one.

When I was leaving one of the nurses said I now had a fan club. Fan club? You mean groupies.  I suppose they’re not technically groupies if you have to bribe them with food and drink. But I can always dream….and I am starting guitar lessons soon. Regardless, it was a great day.

Jethro Tull, Me and Paul

1984 seems like a lifetime ago. For many it is. 30 years.  Jesus, where does the time go?  I wasn’t yet 20, carefree and really naïve - truth be told. Party hardy; university would take care of itself. I had a girlfriend, a driver's licence and I could buy beer. Living the dream. It’s a wonder I’m still here, I was that fucking stupid.

Like all of the crowd I hung around with, music was a big part of my life. It still is today. It’s a thread in a fabric that still weaves through my life. Clapton, Zeppelin, The Who, The Stones, Pink Floyd – all considered legendary back then, certainly today. And rightly so. A few of us had different tastes, but it was all good. I was, and am, unabashedly in love with the blues. I didn’t know much but I knew what I liked. Muddy Waters, B.B. King, Howling Wolf, Bo Diddley, John Lee Hooker, to name a few, topped my playlist.

I also liked folk rock. Dylan, Van Morrison, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Yes, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young – especially Young - got ample play time.

And we all had a favourite album. Zeppelin III is mine, although the Allman Brothers Live at the Fillmore East is a close second. But Jethro Tull’s Benefit album holds a special place – bittersweet that it is. While most associate Aqualung with Jethro Tull, for me, Benefit is the quintessential Tull album.

I stumbled upon it by accident really. I had borrowed Deep Purple’s Machine Head album off my then girlfriend’s brother and it was one of those “double” cover albums with just one piece of vinyl. But jammed in alongside was Benefit. It was love at first sound.

I listened to it a lot and while some of my friends weren’t into it, my younger brother Paul was. Cat, as the boys called him (Juice to me), was three years younger and was a shitload of harmless trouble. Athletic, bright and easy on the eyes, I called him the complete package. That aside, we both fell in love with the album. We’d be in the house or outside somewhere – likely having a beer – and I’d sing a line and he’d sing the next one. And we’d laugh our asses off. It used to drive Mom nuts. Priceless.

But the album had to be returned so I got the cassette, which I still have today. We played it along side of a seemingly endless array of music in carefree days.

Fast forward six or seven years - I can’t recall to be honest - and my phone rings. It’s the call. The one everyone eventually gets, the horrible call. Death of a parent, grandparent, friend – that call.

“Paul was found hanging from a tree in Victoria Park. “

I can’t recall who phoned but I can remember my reaction. It wasn’t good. I’m not sure how long it is before my girlfriend drove me to the hospital. Benefit was playing on the car stereo.

Paul survived but was left permanently brain damaged and today needs constant care. He was 22.

Mom and Dad took care of him for a little over seven years until he moved into the long care facility at Hoyles-Escasoni. Both are gone now and I think the time they cared for Paul took a tremendous toll. Neither were the same after the accident – none of us were – but trying to care for your suddenly disabled son is a pain no parent sure have to endure. He’d be awake at all hours and had to be spoon feed most times. It was, and still is, fucking horrible. They had respite workers come and take him out but life was never the same. Dad worked full time and it was his escape from this, but the pain was evident in his face. What a wonderful man. I miss him dearly. And while Mom and I didn’t see eye to eye on everything, we did get much closer in later years - for which I’m really grateful.

Once Paul got into the home, life for Mom and Dad improved. Dad visited a lot but I couldn’t. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I didn’t visit for many years. I’d see Paul at my parent's house when he came to visit but it was extremely difficult to be with him. 

After the accident, my love of music waned. I’d still listen but like a lot of things, it wasn’t the same. When my turntable broke I never had it replaced and my albums collected dust. But in recent years, after I mustered the courage to visit Paul on a regular basis – once a week now I’m happy to report – music became a bigger part of my life. I digitalized most of my albums, CD’s and cassettes and this past Christmas I got a new turntable.  Hello Fred’s. I started buying albums and the first one was Benefit. It was used and only cost 12 bucks but when I played it and heard the crackling of the needle on the vinyl, it was 1984 all over again.  I was happy and sad at the same time.

I continue to buy albums, CD’s and DVD’s and am slowing rebuilding my collection. Jethro Tull gets a lot of air time as does Zeppelin, Clapton and Pink Floyd. But with every spin of Benefit, I think of Paul and of a better time and a better place.

Weekend Update

It’s been a while…..again. No excuses, but the urge to post is not what it once was. Not by a long shot. And I’m not sure why. Life gets in the way I guess. It’s like my get up and go has gotten up and left. Same can be said of a few things in my life that I don’t do as much as I used to – going to the gym, golfing, showering, (kidding, kidding)…I shower once a week whether I need to or not.  

But all is not lost. While the past month has been busy at work – started a new job but still in the same place – I hope things will start to settle down soon. Although this week is going to be bat–shit crazy.

A few updates for those who follow this “blog”.

Paul: things have never been better. I visit once a week, timbits in hand - I’m hugely popular with the other patients at Hoyles - Escasoni. Not sure why though J I’m getting to know many of the patients on a first name basis. All have different conditions and illnesses, and a wide range of ages. It’s not a place for the faint of heart, but you get used to it. Embrace it really.  Like Paul, they love seeing me come and I don’t care if it’s because of the timbits or doughnuts.  It makes me – and them - feel good. And I’ll take what I can get in the friendship department.

He’s still the same; in a wheelchair, although his gross motor function is slipping, but he can walk on his own.  His voice is okay and we still manage to belt out a few tunes – mostly Clapton, Jethro Tull, ZZ Top and Zeppelin. Always Zeppelin. Eerie how he can remember the lyrics from 20 odd years ago, but can’t recall my last visit. He knows my birthday (July 16^th *cough cough*) but he can’t recall that he has two nephews – I guess because they were born after the accident. Now I find leaving to be the hardest part where the thought of going caused so much anxiety and stress in the past.

The home front: again things are good. My oldest starts university in September and youngest starts junior high. I didn’t realize just how big the age difference was but it was driven home again last night – youngest had a sleepover; oldest slept over to a cabin, sans parental guidance. He’s a pretty level headed kid, much more responsible than I was at that age. Truth be told, I wonder sometimes how I’m survived my youthful stupidity. I mean there’s no reason to have to spend four nights in the lock-up. (But that’s a story for another day).

My uncle was diagnosed with cancer a few months back but he’s holding his own. He’s such a great guy and has a wonderful outlook. If anyone can beat this thing, he can.

Run for council: still on the fence, but I’ll likely run. I’m working on an op-ed piece for the Telly. I actually submitted it a few months ago and they called to say they would publish it (and to confirm authenticity) but I asked them to hold off. I’ll submit again when (if) I declare. The CEEB has an online story today about younger people getting involved in municipal politics. That ship has sailed for me and I’ll just add to the greying demographic. Sigh. But hats off to anyone who steps up to the plate and puts their name on the ballot.

Reading and writing: Much too little of each I’m afraid. Although summer vacation normally means more time for both. I have 5 or 6 books on my to read list. I’m also going to start writing more – short stories mostly, but a play is in the works, believe it or not.  I’ll put an entry or two into this year’s Telly Cuffer competition. Apparently, I now have two new editors. (see below)

Finally, music. I recently rediscovered my love of music, a relationship that had been on shaky ground for a long time. You know like the one you have with your mother-in-law. It’s there, but meh. Still love music but it was on the back burner so to speak. I credit this musical renaissance   to a new friend who has a wonderfully eclectic taste in music – similar to mine. She’s very bright, has a wicked sense of humour and apparently knows every person living in St. John’s. We also have a mutual friend who is into music which makes for some great trash talk.  He’s also a talented musician and writer.

Well, that’s about it for now. I will start to post on a more regular basis given that I may throw my hat into the political ring. Feel free to drop by anytime.  And perhaps cast your ballot in September (I have no shame).

A Beer With Paul

Last week, I did something I had not done in a long time – twenty one years to be exact. I had a cold beer with my brother Paul. I have written about Paul on several occasions on this blog. In the early nineties he attempted suicide by trying to hang himself. No one saw it coming. As a result, he was left with permanent brain damage and for the past 14 years has been residing at Hoyles-Escasoni in St. John’s. He had spent several years living with my parents, but the toll was too much for them. Dad made the decision to put him there and as difficult as it was, he made the right call.

I have freely admitted that I did not visit Paul at the home for a long time as it was so painful, but several years back I mustered the courage and started to visit him on a weekly basis. Some visits are better than others, but all are good. I’ve even started to get to know some of the residents. (I think they like me because of the doughnuts and timbits I bring.)

Two weeks ago I asked Paul what he wanted me to bring on my next visit. Without hesitation, he said “beer”. I knew he used to drink Black Horse - although I don’t know why - so I said I’ll see what I can do. It’s difficult to describe how Paul really is. He has gross motor function and can walk for a few steps but his voice box has been damaged so talking is very difficult. His memory is okay but it’s hard to know what he’s really thinking. Does he know exactly what’s going on? I’m not sure.

Anyway, back to the beer. Last Friday was sunny and somewhat warm so I dropped into Brown’s Store on Torbay Road and picked up some Bud Light. No Black Horse in cans. I took Paul outside and snuck a cold beer from the car. We sat in the gazebo and I poured a beer into a cup for with. He needed a straw but he really seemed to enjoy the beer. I had one as well and it brought back a flood of memories. We used to do have a beer at friend’s parties and downtown all the time many years ago. While that won’t happen again, I’m grateful he’s still here and we can do it again. All in all, it was a great day.

Sleep...Precious Sleep

It’s early on Saturday morning and I can’t sleep. I should be able to after a long week, but I can’t. And I’ve had more of those days (or nights) recently than I care to remember. At first blush, you’d think it’s a bad thing, but I have been able to use the early morning hours constructively. Although, blogging hasn’t been one of them. Not that posting is unto itself constructive mind you, but it can be somewhat therapeutic.

No, I’ve been busy. And I think that sometimes when we are busy, we tend to dwell on things that may keep us awake or preoccupied - for lack of a better word. How busy? Busier that a bayman with two wood stoves busy. Last weekend, I bought a new laptop. Well, my wife bought it for me. It’s still in the box on my office floor. It’s a top of the line something or other, so I’m told. I really should boot it up later today.

In other news, I’m lead to believe that I’ll soon be a published writer – not that I deserve it. I entered a provincial short story competition and while I won’t win, I was told that my story would be included in a soon to be published anthology. When I look at some of the names of the other writers – not that I consider myself a writer mind you – I’m honoured. And knowing that Wise Web Woman – now there’s a writer – over at The Other Side Of Sixty is on the list, I’m humbled. Check out her blog if you get a chance, it’s well worth the read. She’s a gifted writer, I’m just lucky.

Despite my lack of posts over the past few months, I have found that blog traffic is still strong, which is somewhat surprising. A big thanks to those who regularly drop by. Sorry for the lack of posts, but like I said….

I have still been perusing some of my favourite local blogs. Peter over at Polemic & Paradox recently posted a fine piece on the Black Dog and how metal health issues have affected him and his family over the years. It’s a powerful, courageous post. These issues are ones that no one is immune to but few openly talk about. I know first hand how devastating mental health issues can be and have posted about my brother Paul on numerous occasions. I have a cousin who took his own life and my dad – one of the strongest people I knew – was hospitalised for depression many years ago.

Speaking of Paul, I’m still dropping by to see him on a regular basis, despite my busy schedule. I’m lucky to have him as a brother. Anyway, time to get the paper – a Saturday morning ritual for me. Hope to post more soon

Happy Birthday Paul

This past Tuesday was a difficult day. (And no, not because Mark Watton lost the by-election in Humber West but congrats to Mr. Granter.) It was difficult because it was my brother Paul’s birthday. I’ve posted about him on a couple of occasions, and how difficult it has been to deal with the affects of his suicide attempt almost twenty years ago. He’s in a long term facility since he needs round the clock care as he has been left disabled because of a brain injury resulting from an unsuccessful suicide attempt. I never got that phrase – unsuccessful suicide attempt. As opposed to a successful one where people actually succeed by killing themselves?

I posted that I felt extremely guilty since I hadn’t seen him as much as I should have. And, as much as I tried to rationalize why I didn’t visit, I knew it was because it was too difficult. Seeing him in a wheelchair, unable to walk and talk clearly, is a hard thing to deal with. But I mustered up my strength and went to see him.

When I walked in, he realized me right away and smiled. He was in the common room where patients gather for recreation facilities. I sat next to him and felt so awkward, I didn’t really know what to say or do at first. I’m sure some of the staff – who are exceptional by the way – were wondering who is this guy - Paul has a brother? Cue the guilt.

We sat and I gave him his gifts and his card that he struggled to read, but he read it aloud and seemed to grasp what it said. I wondered how much he could understand and if he knows how long he has been this way and how many lonely days he has sat waiting for me to come. Cue the tears.

The staff and other patients knew it was his birthday and had a cake for him. We both had a piece and while he can feed himself, he has difficulty and can make bit of a mess. I ended up feeding him his cake – not an easy emotionally experience. But I did it, and in the end was glad I did. I don’t really know how others in similar situations feel, but I find it overwhelming. That’s one of the reasons I haven’t seen him as much as I should have.

One of the patients was kind enough to give him a can of pop, which he seemed to enjoy. And he seemed quite popular among the staff and patients. Typical Paul. We sat for over an hour and I asked him if he knew how old he was. He didn’t, but he knew how old I was and even knew when is my birthday is. He knew my wife and remembered his friends and that mom and dad couldn’t come anymore because they “are in heaven”.

When it was time for him to go back to his room to get ready for supper, I came along with him. I tried to leave three or four times, each time with a hug and tried to reassure him that I would be back much more often. I hope he could understand that.

And I know I’ll be back soon. Perhaps next time I’ll bring my lunch and we can sit and eat together. While it was a difficult and very emotional day, I know most things in life aren’t easy. But it was a big first step for me on a long road to make amends and to get to know my brother again. One I’m so proud of.

Suicide Is Not Painless

Last year I started to write about my younger brother Paul and how his suicide attempt left him permanently disabled. He tried to hang himself and was left brain damaged. Doctors said at the time that he would be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life and my parents agreed that he should be taken off life support – a decision no parent should ever have to make. To everyone’s amazement he survived and even started showing signs of improvement. This was short lived however and his health deteriorated to the point where he needed constant care. He can’t speak well as his voice box was damaged, but he does have gross motor function. Gross motor function. It’s difficult to write that. He did live with my parents for over seven years, but they finally decided that he needed more care than they could provide. And taking care of him was taking a heavy toll on Mom and Dad - both physically and emotionally. How they managed those seven long years is still hard for me to fathom.

In the earlier post I spoke of the guilt I felt at that time and still feel today. But it’s a guilty feeling that’s difficult to describe. I’m sure many of us who have gone through something like this blame ourselves for not seeing it coming or doing something to prevent it from happening. But we can’t blame ourselves. I don’t. My guilt stems from my inability to just visit and talk to him. It’s not something I’m proud of. But it’s just so damn hard to see him they way he is. When I do visit, he smiles and tries to say my name - which is extremely emotional. He’s aware of his surroundings and that Mom and Dad are in heaven now and can’t come to visit anymore. I stay for a while and we chat, but when I leave, I’m always upset and angry. And guilty.

I ask myself why I don’t go to see him more often and try to rationalize with some stupid reason like I’m too busy or I’ll go next week. But I know these are just lame excuses for being afraid. I often picture him sitting alone waiting for me to come. I wonder if he knows that he has two nephews that know nothing about him. My oldest knows of him, but I haven’t spoken with either of my kids about their uncle Paul. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Paul or what he did, but more ashamed of myself really.

This past December I gathered up the courage to call and inquire about the Christmas dinner as I had attended the one in the year previous. I was a week too late. At first I was disappointed, but deep down I was relieved. But then I thought of the dinner with the other patients and their family members knowing that Paul was alone - again. Cue the guilt. In an attempt to make it up (to me more so him I guess) I planned to bring him some clothes for Christmas. Well Christmas came and went and his clothes are still in their wrapping paper. Some. Fucking. Brother.

This is at least the forth or fifth attempt to follow up on the earlier post on Paul. It’s not easy to write about but I felt I had to. Next Tuesday is Paul’s birthday. I wonder if he knows that it’s his birthday or how old he is now. One thing I know is that I have to go and see him. For both of our sakes. And, as strange as it may sound, this post is a small step in that difficult journey.

Blogging Lite

Things have been hectic this week as work is back in full swing. I'm hoping to be back to the blog by the weekend.

My next post will touch on the clusterfuck at the new Paradise Elementary. We're grateful for the new school, but there's no parking and no cafeteria or gym until at least Christmas. CBC Radio interviewed some parents about it yesterday. They were pissed, it's so dangerous.

I'll also try to continue my post on Paul. Thanks to those who emailed encouragement.

And speaking of clusterfucks, I'm also looking to post more on the plebiscite on the proposed fire hall here in Paradise.

Paul

Note: I gave this post a lot of thought. I struggled with whether to write it since it is a very personal issue for me.  They say narrative therapy is good and who am I to bash postmoderism. I wrote it a few weeks ago and have beed struggling with whether or not to post it. Here's part of it.

Paul is my younger brother - younger by four years. We were pretty close growing up. He was, as Mom called him, "the real boy" - athletic, handsome, popular and not a care in the world. I used to call him the complete package  :)

We got along great too. But, like all brothers, we did have our occasional differences. I recall one difference that left me with a black eye and him with a bloody mouth and fat lip. I remember it because it was my first year at MUN and I had to walk into class late. But that’s all part of what brothers do I guess. Many of my friends also had younger brothers who hung around with Paul. A great bunch of guys who I still see on occasion.

And the laughs me and Paul used to have. Both of us were quick with our tongues – sometimes a little too quick for Mom’s liking. I was a little faster with the one-liners, but we’d always have each other in fits of laughter. His description of the movie “Out of Africa” as a three-and-a-half-hour boil up, is classic.

I just realized that I keep using the past tense. Paul is still here, but he’s not the same Paul I grew up with. The one I spend 16 years sharing a room with. (No mean feat, let me tell you.) A lot of times we would crack a joke and we would laugh ourselves to sleep.

No, things changed about nineteen years ago when Paul tried to kill himself. It’s like it happened yesterday and hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about it. I didn’t see it coming, nobody did. And I feel guilty about that.

But that pales in comparison to the guilt I felt and still feel, in how I handled what happened to Paul afterwards. The suicide attempt left him permanently disabled – he has irreparable brain damage and is in long-term care. The guilt I carry began soon after the accident. "Accident". That’s what I always called it. Not that I was ashamed or embarrassed of Paul or what he did, it just that it was easier to say accident.

Paul was found hanging in a tree in Victoria Park. I don’t know who found him, some kids I think, but I know it made the news. We were told that he had been clinically dead for several minutes and his chances of survival were poor. The doctors told us that if he did survive, he would be in a vegetative state connected to machines for the rest of his life. Mom and Dad made the decision that no parents should have to make for their child - they decided - on the advice of doctors and after some agonizing soul-searching – to disconnect Paul from the machines. As difficult as it was, I agreed with what they decided to do.

We waited for the inevitable but Paul continued to survive. Not only that, he started to show signs of improvement. The doctors were astonished. We were over joyed, but cautiously optimistic. Everyone was. Soon he was talking, albeit slowly and stared moving his fingers and toes. Next he moved his legs and arms. Soon he was sitting up in bed. He was nowhere near what we was, but he was. (I used to say that to myself a lot.) And he appeared to be getting better each day.

(I’ll have to stop for now. This is harder than I realized and it’s going to take a lot more time than I thought.)