Articles

THE GENTLE TOUCH

by Lorraine Williams

My cousin Donald died of heart failure on Ash Wednesday this year. He was 82. My husband and I were with him as he took his last breath. Because Donald's only sibling was confined to a seniors care centre in Western Canada, we had the task of cleaning out his cluttered subsidized senior's apartment in a dicey area of Toronto's downtown.

     Where would we start? The walls were totally discoloured with sickly yellow nicotine stains from his chain-smoking. Cigarette smoke had permeated every single item in that bachelor apartment, even the envelopes and computer paper in his desk drawer. The kitchen contained a few cracked dishes and blackened pots and pans. The arborite dining-room table was peppered with sticky tobacco flecks. The pullout couch was open, facing a surprisingly decent TV set. I envisioned Donald lying in bed watching his beloved Toronto Maple Leaf games as his strength declined over the last couple of years. The most honoured spots in his humble dwelling, however, were reserved for two large bookshelves crammed with volumes, and a huge desk with computer and dot-matrix printer, both unused over those same declining years.

     Coincidentally, about this same time The Social Edge ran an interview with a quote from Henri Nouwen's book Can You Drink the Cup? It read: "A life that is not reflected upon isn't worth living. It belongs to the essence of being human that we contemplate our life, think about it, discuss it, evaluate it, and form opinions about it...Holding the cup of life means looking critically at what we are living...When we drink the cup without holding it first, we may simply get drunk and wander aimlessly." As my husband and I became intimate with Donald --more so that we ever had in life-- through the days we spent sorting and cleaning out his apartment, I realized that that passage perfectly captured Donald's journey through life to death. I also realized from contact with various neighbours who constituted the community (in a real sense) in which Don spent the last 20 years of life, that he'd been living a "hidden life" of which all of us had been unaware.

     The term "hidden life" is one normally associated with Jesus, describing our lack of knowledge about Him from age twelve, until the beginning of His public ministry at age 30. Well, Donald was no Christ. But as we learned, he was Christ-like in the last part of his life. And the age of 12 was a very critical one for him as well. His father died, and his widowed mother, a woman of refinement and deep faith, was left penniless, wondering how to support him and his older sister in the Depression years. The focus was of necessity on basic survival, not on the emotional needs of a developing adolescent. Donald soon learned to get attention by skipping classes, being "lazy," and eventually dropping out from school entirely. His aim was to be a journalist and writer --and he strode into the Toronto Star office with great hopes. "Sorry you're too young," they said. He was ushered out.

     Undeterred Donald took off for the Windsor-Detroit area, and never looked back. His rising journalistic career took him all over Canada, first to an important position on the Montreal Standard and then to public relations work for Expo'67 in Montreal. Finally he did speech writing for John Turner (a future Prime Minister of Canada) and John Wintermeyer (former leader of the Ontario Liberal Party). He spent time in France and England too, writing short stories for British publications.

     Unfortunately, this promising future was finally compromised. Increased drinking led to late bylines, growing debt, and ill health compounded by inadequate nutrition and sleep. He described this addiction in a poem he wrote after being a member of Alcoholic Anonymous (AA) for several years:

REMEMBER WHEN

The night will end.
The heavy, black, concealing
Darkness: wine-loaded
And absorbing raucous sound,
Will fade before the ghastly dawn.

Beard-stubble, empty, butt-filled
Bottles. Carpet stains
And hardened Chinese food.
Beyond the sofa the inert
Body of some fool
You thought had gone.

You blink eyes that ache
Against the hint of light.
And seek: The water tap;
The toilet bowl, comfort, darkness,
Gaiety or death. You grope your way

Down to some hidden reserve
Of strength. Behind the
Furnace, nestled on a
Cellar beam. Your life. Your blood. Salvation. Resurrection.
Deep. Drink deep. Then
Stagger to the window. Greet
The bright new day.

Broke and alone, he finally returned to Toronto. He showed up one night at my parents' home. He asked my father, his paternal uncle, if he could stay with us for a weekend, until he "got settled." That weekend turned into a year! During that entire time, he was careful never to give out his (our) phone number or address, because he was on the run from debtors and failed relationships. But my father loved him as a son, and we laughingly called Don "The man who came to dinner" --the eternal "house guest."

     Don joined AA and eventually his life returned to some normalcy. My father gave him a job as a salesman, and Donald turned out to be a reliable and good employee. He eventually worked himself up to Sales Manager over my father's large Canadian sales force.

     The last half of Donald's life was a fruitful one. He carefully avoided old --and tempting-- haunts and friends. He dug deeply in the Twelve Steps of AA, particularly Step 9 --making "direct amends to those persons whom we have harmed wherever possible." He re-established social contact with long neglected relatives. But more than that, he practiced compassion for his fellow apartment dwellers. He was the one they could talk to, could get a loan from, and the companion when trying to beat a drug or alcohol habit (but no one tried to talk him out of his tobacco and root-beer addiction). He was the friendly face of that building at Halloween time when the kids came round to the lobby for his Smarties or corny magic tricks.

     Don's "critical" (as Nouwen put it) reflection on his life resulted in the amazing development of his latent exceptional intelligence. He strove to become what Lonergan termed "the authentic subject." A true Renaissance man, he devoured philosophy, earning his diploma at adult courses at University of Toronto. His bookshelves contained the complete works of Plato, T.S. Eliot and Will Durant. There were also audiotapes on Freud and Jung and Glenn Gould. He began to write again, listening to tapes of his favourite singers --Sinatra, Billy Holiday, Sarah Vaughan-- singing songs often reflecting lost love and loneliness. His major opus was a detective novel --The Eternal Coachman (a line from T. S. Eliot)-- featuring a protagonist who was an AA member. He sent the manuscript out to three publishers, got good feedback, but no contract. By this time he didn't have the physical strength to make the revisions he knew it needed.

     Donald worked hard on the third step in AA --the necessity of turning his life over to God "as he knew Him." He was spiritual, but not a churchgoer. He died two days after receiving the Sacrament of the Sick, and one hour after a prayerful visit by the hospital's Catholic chaplain. We found this poem he had written among his papers --a fitting summation of his life.

COMMON CLAY

By Don O'Donnell

I know there is a God.
I found Him in myself;
An eternal rose
Blossomed in a dung heap

I, who have labeled
His existence but a dream
Fathered by Man's wish
And lonely pain,
Have felt His gentle
Touch fall soft but true
Upon my brain.

I, who have gloried
In Man's wisdom as we boast
Bravely of free thought
And will's release,
Have found this Captor
Named, not Tyranny,
But Hope and Peace.

I know there is a God
He is still within myself
This hardy rose.
Now blooms in common clay.

Goodbye, dear Donald, and rest in peace.

Lorraine O'Donnell Williams is a retired psychotherapist and marriage counsellor in the Toronto area. She is the author of two books and specializes in the human condition and travel.

     A contributing editor to the Catholic Register, Williams has written for numerous publications and is a member of the Writers Union of Canada, Catholic Press Association, and American Society of Travel Writers. This is her first article for The Social Edge.