Skip to main content

POST SIX, The Aftermath: Well, This Sucks!



My experience with how my life has carried on after my Bruv’s death is anything but passable. I had a thriving, successful real estate business in Ontario, prior to May 11, 2018. Upon arriving back to Ontario from Steven’s bedside around June 1, I listed a house the very next day and sold a few and listed a couple more over the three months that followed. I literally can not remember a single event from June to September, really. There I was, walking around conducting business in a complete and utter fog. It was as though my head was stuffed with cotton batten, but I was still able to drive, answer questions and see with my eyes. I was numb, except for the tireless throb of sorrow and grief. 

My Dad died three weeks after my Bruv died and I flew out to Edmonton for a week to be there with him in his last days. FUCK ME. As I write this, I feel tremendous sorrow and unbridled anger at the both of them for fucking leaving me…still. It’s March… why do I still feel this way? Anyone? Words of wisdom? Am I feeling sorry for myself? Gross. 

I packed up a UHaul on August 27th, slapped on a nicotine patch (can’t smoke with my son in the car) and began my trek back to Vancouver. Nothing like a couple deaths to hurl you into a state of breakdown, eh? Fuck my job, fuck everything I had worked SO damn hard for, fuck the house I lived in, fuck everything. I just felt an unprecedented need to be home, where my two eldest sons and mum are. 

I picked up my best sister-friend in Toronto (I'll call her Elle), who had flown in from Vancouver, so she could drive across the country with Jase and I. I had my Dad's ashes on the back seat strapped in with a seat belt. Along they way, Elle and I scattered some of his ashes into various bodies of water and other places I thought he'd like to hang out at. There I was, with a 1/4 measuring cup and a box that contained my dad. On a side note, my Dad used to party a LOT in Kamloops, where he would go for "business trips" back in the late 70's... so I thought it would be nice to leave some of him there. Elle was driving... I decided to scoop up 1/4 cup of my Dad (Chris) and set him free out the passenger side window only to hear Elle exclaim, "Ohmagawd, your Dad's in my mouth!" and a simultaneous whelp from my son, "Owwww! My eyes!!!". I look around and there's Chris; a swirling cloud of ash landing in every crevasse in my car, in Elle's mouth and Jase's eyes. I shit you not. 

We arrived in New West on September 1. I unpacked, visited with family, cooked a lot of family dinners and I drank a ridiculous amount of gin (still managed to not smoke cigarettes though). I quit drinking on December 18 because trust me when I say, excessive grief with nowhere to leave it but in my own psyche and high-end gin do NOT go well together. 

I’ve been busting my ass with work, trying to get into the real estate game and I know, I know… things HAVE to get better. My life has taken an unexpected downward spiral both financially and spiritually. I’m plagued with loneliness and a feeling of loss every day. Steven should be walking through my door for visits on the regular… and he’s not here. 

Still, when I hear sirens, I can smell Saint Paul's Hospital, hear Steven's breathing and I feel panic.... only for a few seconds. 

Fuck fentanyl and the horse it rode in on.

Chris and his 1/4 cup.



Labels:
Location: New Westminster, BC New Westminster, BC, Canada

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

POST ONE: The First 24 Hours

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...
1 comment
Read more

POST FIVE: Breathing Tube Day and Donation Discussion

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...
2 comments
Read more

POST THREE: His Addictions Did NOT Define Him

***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...
Post a Comment
Read more