The Doom That Came to Cowtown

I don't normally remember my dreams. When I do, they often feature pieces of my childhood - specific rooms of the house I grew up in, or the lot the house was on. Often, it only bore a symbolic likeness to these places. For example, it would always be a house that was the second to the corner, but not the actual corner. Or it would be a room very like the back room of our basement, but not actually that room. Still, I recognized it for what it was.

My mom and dad would often be a part of these dreams, but my brother and sister would not. I'm not sure why that is - perhaps they simply didn't make as big an impact on my life. However, that's changed over the last few months. Recently, my brother has started appearing in my dreams. However, the fact of his death was usually a component of the dream. Like, I'd be talking with Bill, and it would occur to me, "How can I be talking to you? You're dead." was one thing I thought in a dream.

On the other hand, my still-living sister has not been in any of my dreams of late.

I suspect my subconscious is working through thoughts of my mortality and using my dead family members as a proxy for my own death. It will be interesting to see if Trish appears in these dreams when she goes. However, I hope she has a long and healthy life, so I'm not anxious to find out.

My brother killed himself yesterday. I'm still processing this. Mostly I'm sad for his family, who over the last twenty years got to know him far better than I ever did.


(The earliest picture of Bill that I have. Taken in the 70's I imagine)

We were never close, as I was seven years younger than him. We were never together at any age where we could really relate to each other. When I was old enough to want to hang around with my brother, he was of an age where it was deeply uncool to have your kid brother hanging around. I was an over-serious nerd, he was one of the kids who hung out with the bad crowd. That got so bad that my parents ended up sending him to live with family in Vancouver, where he straightened himself out. That sounds like some sort of weird military-school-exile-thing, but I'm pretty sure Bill was in on it, recognizing that he needed a clean break from the crowd. I remember shouting matches in the house, but not over that.


(Cadets. Bill is the one standing farthest to the right in the second row)

Due to his moving when I was a kid, we never got to know each other as young adults. He was living his life in Vancouver when I was in high school. He eventually moved back when I was in University.

We had different educations, life experiences, political views. He helped raise a family, and I'm a bachelor. But for all that I say we have nothing in common, it's not actually true.

We had similar senses of humour. Bill got most of my jokes and vice-versa. Mom and Dad certainly raised us in similar ways. We had a similar legacy from that. The values that were instilled on both of us were very strong.


(This picture of Bill reacting to a sour note was taken by a Calgary Herald photographer. They were kind enough to send us a print, since I doubt we still have the actual newspaper anymore)

Later in life we bonded to a small extent over our shared burden - my sister. I grew to simply write-off her antics, but Bill took them more and more personally as time went on. Partly that was simply because he had a lot more contact with her growing up as well as when they were adults, but mostly it was because he was often the target of her BS.


(Bill, Maxine, and Gordon Cyr. This was taken in Vancouver's Gastown during Expo86)

It wasn't until yesterday morning when my Aunt broke the news to me that I realized we shared one more thing: Depression. I'm guessing here, but if my brother felt he had to kill himself, then odds are he was depressed, and probably had been for a long time. I've been there, and I've felt the urge to kill myself. It got bad enough that I sought help for it. If only Bill had done that.

Depression lies. The worst lie that depression tells you is that there is no hope. Don't believe it. I'm living proof that you can, if not beat depression, at least negotiate a truce with it. I haven't thought seriously about suicide in years. My depressive incidents have become fewer and of shorter duration due to the mental tools I learned in therapy. And I know that there is help if I need it. My friends will support me and there are professionals out there who can help me.

If you are feeling suicidal, you can walk into any emergency room in this city and get help. "I'm thinking about killing myself" is what I told the triage nurse. It was the first step, and I'm glad I took it. I wish my brother had taken that step.


(Bill and his new bride Becky, at the Justice of the Peace office in the Palliser Hotel)

The last time I spoke to my brother was a year ago at the family Boxing day party. He left me a voice mail on my birthday, and I wish I'd done at least that much for him on his. Would it have mattered? Probably not, but who knows?

Right now, My brother's widow Becky is devastated. His children, Thor, Ruth, Russel, and Bill have had the carpet yanked out from under them. I am so very sad for them. I wish I had the words to help them through their grief, but that is beyond my ability.

http://www.mhfh.com/cyr-william-bill-randolf-2/

...Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Anyway, I was chatting with one of my Aunts today and I asked her why some of my Uncle and Aunts (on the same side of the family) had different last names. The older ones have the surname Cyr and the younger ones have McGillis. I mentioned that a guy I used to know had McGillis as a last name and his family was also from Winnipeg, so maybe we were distantly related. At that point I also asked if McGillis was the name of a second husband, or if it was Grandma's maiden name.

Turns out that Grandma liked men - really really liked men (which elicited the comment from me "She was ahead of her time") - She was pregnant with my father when she was 14 or 15. Grandpa Cyr was her first husband. She then married a man who claimed to be named McGillis, but he was apparently a bigamist! So the guy I thought I might be distantly related to? Not so much, or at least no more distantly related than anyone else.

Anyway, Bigamist!McGillis could apparently keep a secret for a long time since my five youngest aunts and uncles shared that name. His real name was something like Valiquette or Valignat. Not sure of the spelling since I only just learned this today.

Grandma's maiden name? Durand. Meaning bungle_lord takes _thwap_'s place as a potential relative.

Just another reminder that complicated relationships are not a recent phenomenon. I always liked Grandma McGillis - she was the fun grandparent.

I got the phone call at 1:40 AM this morning. My Mom had passed away.

She had been admitted to the Agapé hospice on Saturday and everyone assumed that she would be there for several weeks. As it turns out, it was actually really quick. Monday night we got a call from the hospice staff telling the family that Mom was fading fast. We all rushed to see her.

Needless to say, she was not at her best. My Mother was never particularly healthy, but to see her in the hospice bed, nearly skeletal from the wasting of cancer, and largely incoherent from pain killers was easily the worst thing I've ever had to do. But I'm glad I did it because it gave me the opportunity to say good-bye.

There were times when Mom regained consciousness. It was during one of these spells that I managed to say what I needed to.

"Mom, it's James - We're taking good care of Dad. Don't ever doubt that I love you and I'm going to miss you."

Her eyes turned towards me and for just a moment she focused on me. I knew then that she heard me and understood.

I have a lot of regrets and wishes. I wish my Mom had seen the condo she helped me to buy. I wish that she could meet my future wife and children. I wish I could remember what her laugh sounded like.

Tuesday night we visited again and this time she was out of it the entire visit (though according to my sister Trish, she was coherent in the afternoon when some her siblings - my Uncles and Aunts - came to visit). All she was getting at this point was painkillers. No saline, no water - she was now quite literally at the end of the line.

I wasn't there when my Mom died. I had to take care of my Dad. My sister was there, and bless her for that - As terrible as it was for me to hear that my mom had died, I can't imagine what it must have been like to be holding her hand as it happened. But I'm glad Trish was there and Mom wasn't alone during her last moments.

It fell to me to tell my Dad the bad news. But he had hear the phone and my end of the conversation (My Father may have an excess of ailments, but his hearing is not among them - he can hear a spider crawl up the wall) and knew what it meant. Of all of us, my Dad is taking it the hardest.

Well I cried long and hard - eventually I cried myself to sleep. Sleeping helps - today I'm still sad, but I'm keeping it together - it's like the sleep has turned this into grieving day two, instead of grieving day one. Tomorrow we're going to make all the arrangements for the memorial service and cremation. Today was a day for being together as a family. In addition to my siblings and in-laws, my Uncle Rick and Auntie Sharon also came by to lend their support. I'm glad they did.

Writing helps too. I've felt a little numb today, and writing this entry has helped me to get some of my feelings out in the open. This means frequent breaks as I reach for the tissue. It's hard, but it's something I promised myself I'd do. This page, and the hardcopy/album I'm making from it, will be a sort of remembrance of my Mom. Not the best start though because I want to remember my mother they way she was when she was before the cancer, rather than the shell of a woman I saw last night. Naturally the first thing I did was described how she was last night. Time to start describing her, rather than what she had become.

For me, the perfect year for my mom was 1995. It was my last year at home. They were growing old, but weren't yet unhealthy. My Dad had not yet had the stroke that brought the great man down and forced my Mom into a life of servitude. They were both enjoying the first year of their early retirement, with flush cash, no debts, and a moterhome capable of spending three months in Arizona (which they did!). In short, they were enjoying the rewards of a lifetime of hard work.

It would have been beautiful if it had lasted.

There were so many things about my Mom that I just didn't know until recently. I intend to find out more as time goes on.

Mom was the youngest child in her family. The other kids called her "buttons" growing up - I only found out about this from my Auntie Ev two nights ago.

She saw Bambi when she was a child and the forest fire scene scarred the daylights out of her. She cried when Bambi's mom was shot.

Until only a year ago, I though my Mom had had scoliosis growing up, which resulted in her having a hump on her back that I never really noticed. It wasn't scoliosis - it was polio. I found this out when we were discussing chiropractors, and my assertion that they're quacks. Turns out that my Grandfather had sent her to a chiropractor when she was young because they claimed they could cure the curvature of her spine that was brought on by the polio. What she really needed was a back brace and physiotherapy. Physiotherapy being largely nonexistent in the 40's she didn't get the proper treatment. She did come away the experience with the same opinion that I have: Chiropractors prey on the gullible and their treatments are as effective as doing nothing, with the added bonus that they may actually make you worse.

She went to St. Mary's High School right here in Cowtown where she was taught by the nuns. Being shy, she had a lot of the same experiences growing up that I had - namely being picked on. Ironically, in many of the same places as I was.

I inherited my sense of humour from my mother - though being Generation X, my sarcasm is much more acute. There was a time (when I was a teen) that My Dad was, very tongue in cheek, trying to illustrate the difference between Cyrs (my Dad's side of the family) and Agnews (my Mom's side of the family).

"We should have a coat of arms describing showing how much better we are. On each side there would be a clenched fist showing how strong we are"

Here my Dad demonstrated with the standard Hulk pose, clenching his fists towards each other.

"But we're also smart, so between the fists there would be a brain. Brains and brawn, what do you think of that?" he said.

"Squish!" replied my Mom as she giggled to herself.

There is so much more I want to write, but I think it's time to sleep again. I hope I dream of my mother in happier times.

Maxine Lorraine Cyr (nee Agnew) May 8, 1935 - May 21, 2003.
I will miss you until the end of my days.