Christmas: Journeying on . . .

   At the start of this year, 2016, our focus was on moving house, and delighted we were, when, within a fortnight of putting the house up for sale, we had a buyer. But what we could not have foreseen, was, that for all our planning something altogether more profound would happen: that in the space of 4 months, two of my brothers would have died: Kieran, age 64, from stage 4 cancer, and Brendan, who had just turned 70, and who had spent almost the last forty years of his life in hospital, in a state of total dependence on others.

   Though very successful in his career, Kieran was an introvert and something of a recluse. By choice, he lived mostly alone and in poor circumstances, and down the years he had little contact with his family. When he did appear, we enjoyed his company and wondered why he did not come around more often: but we saw him as a a private person, a modest man without materialistic ambitions, who was politically left of centre, who had found his niche: a style and way of life with which he was comfortable.  So, when I took an unexpected call from him in late February and we talked about inconsequential things: football, I knew that there was more to come. And when I asked why he had called and remarked that he didn't sound well, that gave him the opportunity to tell me that he had been diagnosed with bowel cancer and would be having major surgery in a few days time.

As I digested this news, and though of Kieran living and coping alone through months of trauma, I was overcome with emotion, but together we got through it, and I confirmed that I would respect his wish, which was, that he would tell each of his many brothers and sister himself. And when in response, they came from far and near to be with him, he expressed surprise, and regret: that in the past he had not made more of an effort to keep in touch. But Kieran was who he was, his own man, who, in bequeathing his considerable assets, distributed them as percentages and in proportion to the needs of each, so that those with the greatest need, got by far the greater share, while those whom he knew to have enough, were allocated an equal proportion of what was left.

   Now when Kieran was first admitted to hospital and asked if he was religious, (a standard enquiry in the UK,) he didn't give the conventional "yes"/"no" answer. Instead, he described himself as "a catholic humanist," which was his way of making the philosophical point, that while he might not have a religion, he was not without belief, and that what he believed in, was, - the universal brotherhood of man. Sometime later, when he was nearing the end of his life, and we were alone, I asked, if he would mind if I read a prayer, and as to whether or not he would like to be visited by a priest. Willingly he consented to the prayer, which I put in context, explaining that as man's ultimate relationship to God is one of praise, I would read the Divine Praises. When I had finished, and after a pause, he asked if I would read them again:

"Blessed be God.

Blessed be His Holy Name.

Bless be Jesus Christ, true God and true Man.

Blessed be the Name of Jesus.

Blessed be His Most Sacred Heart.

Blessed be . . . . . ."

Then, and when he scarcely had the energy to speak, his "no" to the idea that he might be visited by a priest, came not as a "no," but in these words:

"I must be true to myself."

   Now unknown to me at this time, was that Kieran, in what was to be his last Christmas, had already considered this question of his relationship to God; the evidence for which, was in the form of a tentative poem written in pencil on the face of a gilded envelope. As it stands, he was attempting to put his life, and his illness, in context, and from his concluding remarks it is apparent that he had an audience in mind:

"My voice is croaking and my legs are cold

'cos I didn't listen to the tales they told.

So now I'm tired and my voice is dimmed

I don't walk far and I listen to hymns

'cos I hope that Jesus still has a place for me."

After which, he is uncompromisingly honest with himself:

"I'd like to recover [record?] I'd like to find

The quality I had in an earlier time

But I can't do either 'cos I lost the gifts I had."

Then, in what follows, there is something of the ill defined in the sentiments as he expresses them, for having told us that he would like to recover those qualities that he had "in an earlier time," he goes on to represent himself as detached; unemotional: "I don't feel sorry," he tells us, "and I don't feel blame," after which he changes tack yet again:

"I want to share because I care

I want to learn and give concern

About how things are and about how they might be."

Why ?

Because, ". . .most of all you don't want to be like me"

As I read it, this tentative poem is an admission of failure, by someone who was not given to the expedient, even when the odds were stacked against him, as they surely were at this point in his life. But it was failure of a kind, which was why, when close to death, he was able to respond to to my question, in the same manner as he had when first admitted to hospital, not with a negative, but with a positive, and he was taking it with him:

"I must be true to myself!"

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   By contrast, Brendan who was qualified in hotel management, was an extrovert, who came across as bright, interested and interesting, and through whom I met my wife. He was well liked by everyone who met him and there wasn't a malicious bone in his body. But when on occasion we locked horns across the chess-board, more often than not I found myself battered and frustrated by his sheer mental agility. No sooner had I made my ponderous moves, (about which he never complained,) than he had made his.

But unlike Kieran, Brendan never found that niche or way of life with which he could be comfortable. Instead, and in an attempt to find it, he veered between extremes, on the one hand, to the flamboyant world of the amateur actor, and on the other, to "Moral Rearmament," a fundamentalist and evangelising religious movement, whose members, in their zeal, were oblivious to his fragile mental state, a condition that in the end required him to be "sectioned" (compulsorily admitted) to a psychiatric hospital. 

Now because of its complexity, Brendan's story is not so easily told, and the most tragic aspect of it was still to come. In a "cry for help," and while living under supervision, he overdosed on a cocktail of prescribed medications, and as a consequence, destroyed his "motor function." So for some forty years, and unable to speak, he lived in a state of total dependence on others. And here, (notwithstanding the tragedy,) is the good news.

In that time, day in and day out, the care that he received, within the NHS, was of the highest order, which was important in itself, but the more-so because Brendan knew who he was and where he was, and it was that quality of care that allowed something of the old Brendan to survive: his alertness and capacity for the mischievous.

As for Kieran, a truth that we all came to acknowledge in the last few months of his life, was, that while we loved him as a brother, we didn't really know who he was. But here too is good news: tangible evidence, that he was resolutely and practically on the side of the disadvantaged and the marginalised. For a number of years after he had retired, Kieran worked as a volunteer for the Citizens Advice Bureau, (CAB) and this appreciation, and insight, was given at his funeral by the Director under whom he worked:

“. . . over the last year or so he saw more than 150 people. The youngest was 24, the oldest 82. His cases included housing – he prevented homelessness in more than one case. Debt – he stopped bailiff action, renegotiated payments and stabilised clients finances leaving them better able to manage. Benefits – he helped clients gain benefits and challenged decisions from the DWP [Department of Work and Pensions]. He dealt with complaints to utility companies, wrote letters to employers, made phone calls . . . Some clients he would have seen just once, others several times.

“Kieran always struck me as an intelligent listener, a man of empathy, and those attributes will have been invaluable in identifying what people's problems really were and how best to help them.

“But Kieran did more for our organization than this. He was the volunteer staff rep and would attend meetings – and would speak up on their behalf on their opinions and issues.

“Kieran also volunteered, or maybe he was nominated for, extra projects for CAR. Recently a group was established to design and implement a new office layout – and to improve the environment for our staff, volunteers and clients. Kieran was instrumental in the success of this project. He designed a floor plan, he got quotes for the work. Someone identified some office furniture being discarded in a London office. Off went Kieran with a tape measure and soon a range of additional furniture was in our office – with Kieran organizing the location to meet his floor plan. This was a massive task and would never have succeeded without Kieran's input.

“My own personal memories of Kieran remind me of the twinkle in his eye – his dry sense of humour and wry asides. He was one of those people who see a need, and just knuckle down and achieve it – always consulting and involving other, but above all getting it done.”

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© Cormac McCloskey