September 27, 2017 –
My brother passed away yesterday.
He was a complicated man. He was a self-proclaimed troglodyte who eschewed social media and owned a flip phone. Yet he was immersed in the world of technology. He didn’t suffer fools lightly and was not shy about sharing his opinions. He had many opinions – some I agreed with and some I did not. But I admired the passion in his voice and the conviction of his beliefs.
The softer side of my brother was visible in the art that he created; scenes inspired by places he had visited in his travels or in his mind. He didn’t paint on a regular basis – only when the spirit moved him. He said he always had canvas and paint ready because he just never knew when inspiration would come. I think he knew how good he was but, when I suggested that he should have a show or sell his art, he replied that the art was for his wife to do with as she pleased. It was his gift to her for supporting and standing by him throughout their life together. As an aside, the art on the program is Dan’s.
I was fortunate to spend some time alone with my brother shortly before his death. He was sedated and the doctors said he wasn’t aware of his surroundings. We thought differently – he was nodding and wiggling his feet. As I sat there, he opened one eye and I said “It’s just me. Can you hear me?” and he nodded yes. I told him what the doctors said and he pulled his head into the pillow as if he was motioning “Say what????”. So I began talking. There were things I wanted to ask him, yet, in the end, all I did was ramble on – holding his hand and filling the time until the doctors told me I had to leave while he was prepped for surgery. Occasionally he would fall asleep and the room would fall silent; with the exception of the humming and beeping of machines. He’d wake up and look around and I’d say, “I’m still here.” And I’d begin talking again. Every once in awhile I’d ask him if he wanted me to stop talking and he’d shake his head “No”. I rattled on about local politics, my dog, my job, and anything else that came to mind to fill the silence.
My brother overcame a lot of challenges in his life. He told me that he stopped having reconstructive surgery on his hands because the amount of pain he had endured was not worth it – he would adapt. And he did. He pushed himself. He became an accomplished musician – playing stringed and brass instruments, the keyboard, and the drums. He could type as fast as I could. When his heart started giving out, he adapted his way of life so that he could still contribute. Velma said he would dip his toe into a lake, cross the lake, step out and move on to the next lake.
My mother and sister Lynda encouraged me to move to Calgary two years ago. It enabled me to reconnect with my brother. The man lying in the hospital was not Danny, the brother of my childhood, who taught me how to tell time or grilled me on multiplication tables and wouldn’t let me stop until I got them all right. He was not the brother of my youth who insisted on making us watch StarTrek. Although, in retrospect, that was a good call. It took me a long time to realize that his intentions, while sometimes not obvious or what I agreed with, were what he thought was best. That was Dan. You could choose to agree or not.
I look around this room today and I see the people here as a reflection of who my brother was today. The brother that I came to know. He was a loving husband, step-father, son and brother. He was a member of the community and a supporter of the arts. He was a good neighbour. He was a respected member of the Masons.
My brother was a proud man. He showed a silent grace as we came together to be there for him and each other. He allowed us to be with him when he was at his most vulnerable. He knew the odds of surviving surgery were 50/50. He survived to show everyone that he could beat those odds – a kind of “fuck you” to the doctors. After all, his whole life was about overcoming obstacles and adapting so that he could do what he wanted to do and on his terms. He wanted to show us that one last time.
Our life lessons are not the easiest. But they can be the most obvious.
Diary of a DOW 