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... almost to the very hour, that I stood beside my elder brother Brian's hospital bed having to tell him that he was dying ... that there was no possibility for hope ... and that he and I had best bury the hatchet and make peace with one another whilst we still had time to do it.
I had had no contact with my brother for nigh on 5-years at that point. Not since he had threatened my life, in his and mine home, in front of half-a-dozen witnesses.
His then closest friend, in response, immediately proclaimed that I didn't live there any more, packing me, my two dogs and whatever we could carry out the door. This generous and kindly man provided me and my brood shelter for the next three weeks, helping me come to grips with the reality of now being homeless for the first time in nearly 10-years.
A year into my brother's and mine estrangement, I suffered what should have been for all pretense and purpose a fatal myocardial infarction; the end result of this being, whilst still alive, I had been struck instantly blind. Through some miracle, and the good graces and auspices of procedures then being developed at Guy's Hospital in London, my vision was completely restored a little over two years after my heart attack; better, in fact, than it had ever been, for you see I had been a life-long contact lens wearer (more than 40-years) prior to the loss of my vision, whereas once restored, I now, two years even further removed from my near demise, have almost perfect uncorrected vision for the first time, ever.
But, I digress. I was there, standing over my brother, because his eldest daughter had called the 1-800 number I had given her mother to call in the event they needed my assistance in getting treatment for my brother and his unremitting alcoholism and abusive behaviour. She had called because they, she, her younger sister and her mother all needed my help. They didn't know what to do. None of them could tell him the truth about his condition; all had unresolved issues of their own with the man who was my brother, and their father or estranged husband.
All of those intervening years I had resided in Wyoming, maintaining a nominal residence (unknown to all) shared with my eldest son Alan, here in Toronto.
This as all so déjà-vu. 24-years ago, I had stood beside the hospital bed of my then ailing father Thomas, and most recently like that of my brother Brian, I too, had to tell my father that he was also dying, and that as with my brother, there was no possibility of hope for him either. Both tasks were distasteful to me; but, no-one else wanted the chore, and in both cases responsibility for the task fell squarely upon my shoulders.
As with my father Thomas and his passing away, I was required with my brother Brian (largely because of all those unresolved issues between him and his daughters and estranged second wife) to decide when to pull the plug, and remove him from life support.
My brother Brian Richard Ellithorpe Austin passed away this past Thursday at 15:08 EST, in the City of North York, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, and sadly will probably not be missed one iota. Not by me, likely as not, by his daughters Lijà and Renée, not by either of his estranged wife's Gillian and Carol.
I am the last of my family alive who carries our true and full surname, not-withstanding that we dropped the hyphen as pretentious well over one hundred years ago. The fifteenth generation, my brother and I, of our family in Canada. Neither of his daughters, the sixteenth, carry the first half of the surname, as their mother wasn't able to pronounce it so it was omitted from their birth certificates, and neither of my adopted sons carry either name at all. Frankly, I wanted none of this. Moreover, I had thought ... no, make that more strongly than that ... HAD PRAYED that I would predecease him, in order that I might never be placed in the position I now find myself in. My brother should have been spitting on my grave, rather that I faced with the prospect of my doing so over his.
The man I saw Thursday lying in that hospital bed is not the man I want to remember; but, then again, he hadn't been that man for the better part of 40-years or more. I refuse to remember him that way, instead I'll chose to remember the patient, thoughtful, supportive and loving older brother he was as a teenager, all of the rest simply wasn't him.
Warren C. E. Austin
Toronto, Canada
[Updated on: Tue, 20 January 2009 20:09]
"... comme recherché qu'un délice callipygian"
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My thoughts are with you, Warren, and my commiserations. You seem to have had a much worse time with your family than I had with mine and to have survived it better too.
But you are going to get through this well. You've done so many harder things!
Something about what I read made me look at previous posts from you to this forum. I take off my hat to you!
Love,
Anthony
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... and yes, certainly there were harsh moments as is wont in any family.
I came out of the closet wearing "fire-engine red" diapers, and frankly my family really never knew me as anything other than being "gay", although in the 1950's it wouldn't have been called that; nor would they ever, ever, have acknowledged the fact, to me, or anyone else for that matter.
Jon, ironically, or rather the emergence of Jon in my life, was the catalyst that altered the then prevailing status quo, not the countless indiscretions and dalliances I put them through whilst attending an all-male parochial school.
I had returned to the family home in Montréal with Jon in tow after my having been to visit him at his own family home outside of Des Moines, Iowa, both of us summarily evicted by his father for our heathen behaviour. My father, to his credit, asked no questions when I frantically had telephoned him to apprise him that I would be coming back sooner than expected, and that Jon would be accompanying me, arranging air passage for both of us out of Chicago that same day.
It was only after our arrival, the entire Austin clan gathered that the showdown occurred. Father ranted and railed, both against my homosexuality and my stupidity for having gotten our family involved in such a mess.
My grandfather Sampson, then nearing age 100, stepped into the fray and told my father to mind his own damn business; that I was considered an adult by the family and therefore old enough to know very well what I was doing, and what the implications all round would soon be. As grandfather was the eldest living male in the family, no-one, my father included, would over-rule him. Thus began the quiet truce between my father and I which would prevail until 1985 when he asked that I move home to care for him as he was unable to do so for himself, nor was my mother able.
That day Jon was welcomed into our family with little or no reservations; but my father did require of us that we sleep in separate bedrooms for appearances sake. This quickly became both impossible and impractical, resulting in Jon and I decamping to our own premises; premises arranged, bought and paid for by my father, his only stipulation being that it could not be anywhere in the province of Québec, where the majority of our extended family then resided.
Throughout the intervening years, it would be my father's lawyers who would deflect legalities, criticism and outright malice from befalling either, or both, Jon and I, with he making infrequent visits to our home to make certain of that. Despite this father and I found it would be best dealing with one another through the intermediaries of either his lawyers, his Executive Assistant or Secretary, or better yet, with one-thousand miles, or more, of telephone cable between us.
This not-with-standing, my father continued to pay the taxes and maintenance fees on our condominium, and otherwise provide for both of us whilst Jon and I attended the local high school, and later financed our entire university education.
I do have to tell you that although Canada had decriminalized homosexuality in March of 1967 (just in time for the April opening of expo'67, and being the very first in the world to do so), it would be another 5-years before the police and other jurisdictions of competent authority fully got with the programme. Jon and I, as minors (the age of majority in Canada then being age-21) suffered endlessly at the hands of mindless bureaucrats and others, all of whom were put on notice by my father's lawyers, allowing us to tidily motor on largely unaffected.
For one reason or another all this attention, or reverse attention, given to me and Jon by my father, fostered great enmity in my brother. To this day I have never known why; especially given that any financial gain I, or Jon may have derived from my father's (begrudged) patronage, was more than adequately applied equally to his needs as well; but, then again he knew my father in ways I could never have, I had been far too young to understand any of the why's and wherefore's in father's and mother's divorcing three times and their having married four times during the ten year period prior to my eleventh birthday. My brother, too, suffered unmercifully at the hands of my father's anger fueled largely by alcoholism; a situation which resolved itself with the fourth marriage and my father never again in his lifetime taking a drink of anything stronger than a cup of coffee. So you see, I never knew the father my brother knew; but, I would have thought my brother would have reveled in the "new" man that my father had become during his teenage years. I guess he never did.
It should be noted here too, that after that fateful day in Iowa, Jon never again saw, spoke to, or otherwise had any contact with any member of his own family. I did infrequently run into Aiden during my trips to the U.S. on assignment, and it pained him sorely that Jon would not speak to him or ever again acknowledge that he had any brothers (there were in fact eight, six younger and two older, the youngest, Gabriel, born two years after Jon's death, and to whom, in the fall of 2000, I passed all of his remaining personal effects - those I had not already given to another brother Aaron in 1988 - when he, like Aaron before him, came looking for answers about the older brother he had never known, and of whom his father would never allow anyone to speak; this made possible only because Jon's father had himself passed away that spring.
Warren C. E. Austin
Toronto, Canada
[Updated on: Wed, 21 January 2009 03:20]
"... comme recherché qu'un délice callipygian"
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e
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On fire! |
Location: currently So Cal
Registered: May 2002
Messages: 1179
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It does sound as though it was difficult. If not for the loss of your brother, then for the strain, stress, and burden placed upon you. For that you have my sympathy, prayers, and blessings.
Think good thoughts,
e
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Warren, everything you write amazes me more. You have quite a life story there and mine does not compare. But I left school at 19 in December 1952 and discovered my sexuality the next year. I never had a lover I committed to or who could commit to me and I REALLY didn't want to be gay.
And I got married in 1963 after I had told Sylvia about my homosexuality and we are still together and live within three miles of our daughters and four grandchildren. They all know I'm gay and it doesn't faze them. But I never told my parents (though I can't believe they didn't realise).
I thought I'd say this much so that you could see why I respond to you. And like you, I sail under my own colours; my nickname is my real name abbreviated the avatar is really me and I'm happy to tell people where I live and so on.
Love,
Anthony
[Updated on: Wed, 21 January 2009 09:34] |
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Cameron
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Toe is in the water |
Registered: January 2008
Messages: 70
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e wrote:
> It does sound as though it was difficult. If not for the loss of your brother, then for the strain, stress, and burden placed upon you. For that you have my sympathy, prayers, and blessings....<
My sympathies also.
I have a sister that hates me. Hates all gays. I guess if she were gay and posted here and as eloquent as you are, Mr. Austin, she would probably write something similar about me after my demise. I'm not criticizing you, but it seems wrong to speak ill of the dead, them not being here to defend themselves and all. I apologize if I offended you, it was not my intent.
[Updated on: Wed, 21 January 2009 14:54] |
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Like the car, Cameron, like the car!
But why is it wrong to speak ill of the dead? Quite a lot of the dead deserve it and quite often it needs to be said for the sake of the living (who, after all, are far more important).
I don't see that anything said about the dead can affect them one way or the other. Even if you believe in an after-life (I don't) there's no way of knowing whether the dead in such a life can learn what we do on earth or if they could, whether they would care.
Surely criticising wrong-doing is something we should all do and shouldn't stop just because the wrong-doer is dead. Hitler is dead, for goodness' sake!
Am I to pretend that it isn't worth saying that it was wrong of my grandfather to have so many illegitimate children and then to fail to provide for them? Of course not!
"de mortuis nil nisi bonum" is a rule to be honoured more in the breach than the observance. [I mean it's a rule we ought to break.]
Love,
Anthony
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Cameron
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Toe is in the water |
Registered: January 2008
Messages: 70
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You are probably both right, it just doesn't seem the kind thing to do. If you haven't spoken in five years, why speak out now when he can't answer?
In any case, I really was just stating my opinion and I tried to put it in a way that wouldn't be hurtful. If I have offended you or Mr. Austin, I'm sorry.
I just see myself being torn up like that after I die. I'm sure my sister will convince all who will listen how much I deserve it, too. If it's just her circle of friends, not mine, they will all sympathize with her over her awful brother.... You see what I mean? No matter. I guess it just hit a nerve.
[Updated on: Wed, 21 January 2009 14:53] |
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I myself had written:
>The man I saw Thursday lying in that hospital bed is not the man I want to remember; but, then again, he hadn't been that man for the better part of 40-years or more. I refuse to remember him that way, instead I'll chose to remember the patient, thoughtful, supportive and loving older brother he was as a teenager, all of the rest simply wasn't him.<
My brother was a man of many parts; not the least of these being the man he would become in middle age. Unfortunately, his middle-aged self by far and away overshadows all else he had truly been, and that he might have been.
I have chosen to keep half-a-dozen, or more, photos of him (one or two of which also feature me as well) each glorifies the teenager and young adult that I will always remember him as being; notably several of him in gymnastics gear performing the iron cross on rings, or traversing the high bar or hand-stands and whatnot on the pommel-horse; him high atop Mount McKinley, arms akimbo with a smile as wide as the horizon; he changing my diaper, he teaching me to ride a bicycle and to play darts. This is the man I WANT TO REMEMBER, none other; because the others (and trust me there were many) were never memorable to begin with.
Sort of ironic too, that each of these photos, as are others not mentioned here, were all taken by our father.
Warren C. E. Austin
Toronto, Canada
"... comme recherché qu'un délice callipygian"
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timmy
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Has no life at all |
Location: UK, in Devon
Registered: February 2003
Messages: 13800
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I think one can say conclusively that the fact that a person has died does not mean one must start to lie about their being liked, or pleasant. Nor does it mean one should not express one's opinions.
We even grieve for those we dislike, and this is a full part of grieving.
Author of Queer Me! Halfway Between Flying and Crying - the true story of life for a gay boy in the Swinging Sixties in a British all male Public School
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Yes, Cameron, and I'm sorry if I hit a nerve back.
I, too, had a brother that I didn't get on with. He died of a heart attack at 59 and I went to his funeral. I'd rather remember him as Warren remembers his as a pleasant young man - but mine was younger than me and my mother bullied me to play with him to relieve her of the problem.
As Philip Larkin had it they fuck you up. But the things my parents did that I regret can safely be regretted in public now they are dead and bottling it up won't help them and might make it harder for me so why bother?
Love,
Anthony
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Re: It's been a week now ... 
