Remembering My Brother Gordon.
Tomorrow is my brother Gordon’s 59th birthday. March 22nd was the 30th anniversary of his passing when he was only 28.
Thirty years is a long time to be without him and not see his sweet smile, enjoy his laugh, dance with him, and feel his kindness. It’s also a long time to wonder about what could have been. I always imagined Gordon happily married, with a couple of kids, living on a farm with many animals, and using his astute mechanical mind.
Gordon was a devoted son, loving brother and uncle, loyal friend and boyfriend, and hardworking employee. We all learned the importance of kindness from my mother, and Gordon also had her oversensitive heart, which made him cry easily. He was so compassionate and empathetic that he went out of his way to befriend individuals who were teased, ignored, bullied, and alone.
He also struggled with heroin addiction for many years, which contributed to his early death. His use was manageable until it started interfering with his job, and eventually, he was told to get treatment or be let go.
He went to an inpatient treatment centre, and after detoxing, he complained of severe headaches, which, unfortunately, the treatment centre did not investigate. After 28 days in treatment, he was discharged and immediately relapsed, partly because he returned to the environment that contributed to his use, and the heroin eased his headaches.
After many months of feeling unwell, he ended up hospitalized and received brain surgery because he had hydrocephalus, the cause of his headaches. He seemed to be recovering, but I believe that he was not strong and healthy enough for the surgery, and he passed away two weeks post-surgery.
It was beyond tragic, and I believe his death could have been prevented. However, I don’t want to dwell on this dreadful time; today, I want to think about the beauty of Gordon’s story. He was adorable, and with both of us being the youngest of four kids, he was my constant companion and playmate throughout our childhood.
I have so many fond memories of how we entertained ourselves living in Nobleton, a small town north of Toronto. Our mother involved us in swimming, baseball, and figure skating, but we also had to find other ways to fill our days, especially during the summer.
One summer, we started a spy club. I was the president, Gordon was the vice president, and a neighbourhood kid was a spy in training. We made little spy kits and roamed the fields behind the houses on our street, and for weeks, we didn’t discover anything. My god, our neighbours were boring. Until one day, we witnessed Katie and Billy (names changed), two teenage neighbours, vigorously necking in someone’s backyard. It was worth the wait.
Another summer, we devised the ridiculous idea of making and selling perfume. We put together a makeshift chemistry lab in the basement. We created vats of water, soaked rose petals, added a few drops of our mother’s Chanel perfume and food colouring, and came up with corny names for our perfumes like Blue Sky and Evergreen.
Once we had at least five bottles, we dragged a beat-up wooden table to the end of our street and set up shop on the bustling Highway 27. We added a few grey and dull rocks to our inventory, hoping their presence on the table would help us sell more perfume. An older teenage neighbour, Norman, took pity on us and bought a bottle of perfume and one rock. Another young neighbour purchased a perfume bottle, only to have her angry mother demand a refund a few hours later.
We sat in the hot sun for hours. Many cars pulled over, obviously intrigued by the brightly coloured bottles, and asked us how much for the cold drinks. When we proudly told them that we were selling perfume and rocks, they looked confused and drove away, shaking their heads.
Our lack of entrepreneurial abilities was apparent when we didn’t switch to selling lemonade. What money we could have made! After days of making our perfume concoctions and patiently sitting and waiting, we only sold one bottle of perfume and one rock. Thank you, Norman. Our defeat moved to despair when our mother discovered we used her expensive perfume for our watered-down food-colouring potions.
There were endless other adventures, including exploring abandoned barns, collecting rocks, biking for hours, getting lost in corn fields well after sunset, and being chased by a herd of cows because we got too close to Gordon’s favourite bovine, which he named Lucky.
Many Halloween shenanigans included my brother Tommy and me making Gordon sing “Show Me the Way to Go Home” so we could score more candy and the repeated years of being a ghost because my overwhelmed mother only had time to put sheets over our heads and cut out circles for our eyes. No white sheets were left for one year, and Gordon had to wear a yellow sheet, which was devastating for him. He spent most of the evening crying, causing him to fall into the ditch. He was a jaundiced mud-covered ghost, and no amount of candy helped him feel better. His sad little face tugged at our hearts and forced us to shorten our trick-or-treating and take him home.
These stories of my youth helped me manage the chaos of living in a home with a challenging father.
Gordon’s death was an extreme loss for my family, and I don’t think my parents were ever the same. He was deeply loved and is profoundly missed by my siblings and me, my extended family, and his many friends.
There is no closure or moving on with such a loss. I’ve learned to move forward with it, and the void has become a part of me. Gordon’s short presence had an impact on anyone who knew him. I’m grateful to have shared so many magical moments with him and do my best to focus on them. I miss him.
Be well.
Anita
