The Month of May

When someone you love dies from an overdose and if that person who died has been struggling with addiction, the grief you might endure is different than grief felt by someone who has say, lost an aged parent, or lost someone due to illness. That statement is in no way meant to diminish the pain felt by those who have lost someone they love from something other than addiction and subsequently, overdose. Let me explain: my experiences growing up with a brother (and Dad) who was suffering and battling addiction from the time I was eight years old and he was 13, kept me in a state of “pre-grief” for 36 years, with the only reprieve being, when Steven cleaned up. It’s been fifteen months since Steven died. What it was like then: After my Brother’s and my Dad’s death, I drowned myself in gin and despair. I was grieving so intensely, that the consequences of my actions during that time, were of little concern to me. Everything was affected; my once thriving career, my income, my cred...

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? An...

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...