The Month of May

The Propofol drip was stopped a few times over the past several days to assess Steven's brain functionality and admittedly, things didn't look good. Around day 10, I arrived early as usual, to what I by this time affectionately referred to as "Steven's Place". Yesterday, a meeting was scheduled by Steven's Doctor, to discuss the options for him. I would have to digest the doctors words, which I translated in my own mind as this: essentially, Steven's brain stem was keeping him alive. That stem was responsible for keeping his lungs and organs working and if the decision was made to remove his breathing tube, he "could" be kept alive in a full-time care facility and that based on the barrage of tests that had been conducted on him, the personality which made Steven, Steven, would very likely no longer be there. More crushing news, albeit, news I kind of expected. His sis was 100% unequivocally positive that her Bruv would quite literally rather di...

By the third day, word had got out to family members and both my and Steven's friends that he was in the ICU. I had made the dreaded call to Steven's adult daughter, kept my Dad (he was ill and couldn't fly. He passed away less than a month after MyBruv did) steadily informed of any progress or lack thereof and answered all 1,295,885 texts and calls. Obviously, this number is a complete exaggeration, but let me tell you, the voice and text updates were nearly as exhaustive as the situation itself. I felt like every time I looked down to answer a text, I would miss something. Anything. And it was nearly anxiety inducing.  I seldom left his side. It’s not that I didn’t wholeheartedly appreciate all the concern, but I was in a state I had never been in. I felt an intense feeling of hope, mixed with crippling worry. I was hyper-focused on Steven.  I just wanted to sit beside him and intensely analyze any movement. I had never really studied another person like this before: ...

***Dear Reader: inserting many photos in this post really messed up the formatting... sorry about that*** I'm going to take a break from writing about Steven dying in the hospital. I feel it's necessary to write that his addiction certainly did not define who he was. You see, Steven struggled with addiction almost his entire life. Drinking booze and taking a myriad of psychedelics on the regular starting at the age of 13, to eventually using heroin and anything else put in his path by his early 20's. Over the years he'd clean up for six months to a few years, then I would notice the tell-tale signs that he was using again: he would come around less, he would start borrowing money again, his appearance would change from genuine smiles and full cheeks, to sallow skin, thin stature and simply stated: he'd lose his spark. The cycle was mentally and emotionally exhausting; not just for Steven, but for me as well (I will not speak on behalf of other family...

May 13, 2018. Only one thought consumed me as I groggily walked the 30 steps it took from the waiting room to Steven's room: is Steven awake? He's got to be awake by now. He wasn't. I wasn't groggy any more, rather I was alert and ready for answers. I was in fight mode: flight mode was for people who aren't Steven's sister. I've got this. I wanted to know everything. Some questions I asked in that monotone voice and others I asked myself in my head. I was cut and dry and to the point. I remember telling the nurse that she could, "tell me things she normally wouldn't say to family members in this situation". I wanted to see the toxicology report. What time did the ambulance get to him? Who called for the ambulance? I wanted to know every detail. I wanted to know where the fuck his Vans were.  Was someone so deplorable that they would take his shoes while he was laying there dying on the floor (the answer to that is yes. But I got those Vans ba...

It was about 4:00 pm on May 12, 2018 when I received an unexpected phone call from my somewhat estranged Dad who was living in Edmonton. "Hey Dad", I nervously answered. He then explained that he had just received a call from St. Paul's Hospital in Vancouver and that Steven was in the ICU from a drug overdose and that he was in an induced coma. He told me to call my mum. He may have said more, but that's all I heard. A hot, electric flash buzzed through my body as I sat there stunned; the hair on my head felt prickled at the roots. I was looking at my then nine year old son laying on the living room floor as he was building lego. My energy must have been felt by him, because he looked up at me and asked me what was wrong. I replied in a monotone voice, "I have to fly home to Vancouver, right now". I ended the call with my Dad and called my mum who lives in Vancouver. She answered, I told her I had to tell her some scary news and to sit down. I relayed my Dad...