5 weeks after Cary, my baby brother’s passing, his orphan best friend — SOLO — is still working on trust.
My oldest brother, wife Leanne, and “cat whisperer niece, Danielle, adopted Solo during our sorting and emptying his home, a rental unite with a busy street east at the T-Intersection of a unique corner of Canada with its motley, eccentric crew of neighbours that conjure stories of their own: washed out faded youth marked by lines telling their story of hardship heartbreak and disappointment with what cards did they have dealt.
As if on cue, as though Cary himself was sending his goodbye message, Solo his beloved sidekick appeared.
For the past four days, upon my landing in Vancouver, the day after my younger baby brother had died in the hands at the care of the Hospital responsible for his care. Where less than a week ago he had undergone the removal of his right leg, amputated above the knee. He was in recuperation mode. Just being introduced to being fitted with a prosthesis otherwise known: a fake leg. He’d hardly woken up when he had to face up to another part of him taken from his body.
Losing a limb couldn’t have been easy for anyone, far less easy for Cary who was anything fake.
With the determination and perseverance inherited from our parents. That explosive combination of far opposites as possible, joined in marriage for those fifty plus years anniversaries they shared. I remembering wondering whether they would have been better if they had divorced.
If some notorious scholar had examined our childhood, they would follow how much of an impact your upbringing determines your path.
The new scientific researches on genetics is popular.
Is that the thirst for knowledge pushed by the MILLENNIAL CREW to the life reflections from the Baby Boomers and surviving war era octarians born in the 1930s. My mom was born in 1935 and recalls her eldest brother returning broken from fighting in a war for his country.
Maybe Solo reflects how my brother saw he fit into the world: from looking from the outside in; wanting to go in and be loved as much as he has known.
His adopted brother’s white fur represents his chilly reaction to having his space and human parents shared.
It was his niece, Danielle, who painstakingly researches and followed a disciplined regimen in building trust between the two male cats: one the usurper orange prince and the king of the north crown with its pure white regal fur.
While my remaining siblings and I sorted his belongings, we fussed with where Solo had disappeared to? He knew mother who cared only about who would take the cat–Cary’s loyal companion during his remaining years.
When I left 5 weeks ago, both cool cats were eating from both sides of the door–explained to us would expose each other’s scent in a non confrontational setting like eating. I recall the cat host coming up among us and my brother Greg chuckled at his cats look of disgust at being forced to share his kingdom.
Like Cary, Solo loves with all his heart. Likely taught that no matter how others saw you, you were true to yourself your ideals and had the gumption to speak with conviction, you were being the best version of yourself.
It was hard knocks and diminished hope that stripped him of any outward falsehood, except losing a limb destroyed his outward reflection and sure enough killed him in the hands and care of our fine FREE medical care here in Canada.
On the day he died, as a nod to what he would have wanted to say, I tweeted Justin Trudeau that he should be FIRST take care of Canadians since it was our electoral result to place him in power. To stop photo ops with immigrants when the opioid crisis just took another victim.
In his final days, I had no way of suspecting would be his last, I set up a blog, sending an email with the password to the blog and maybe even Twitter identity, as THE REAL CARY BEAR.
I promised him that I would guide him holding his hand or him dictating his voice to put his thoughts into words.
The child of perseverance, loyalty and commitment to be the best version of themselves, Cary, wanted to share his experience with the government agencies, medical field treated him.
He knew he’d been labeled an addict at the hospital he was rushed because the skin cap of calloused heel fell off and gangrene set in.
He spoke of fearing he’s considered the very bottom of the foot chain and the lowest citizen because of his addictions developed, evolved from his treatment by the very system that vowed to protect him every time he voted.
That’s the exchange between the electoral tribe and it’s celebrated democratic nominated leader.
TO BE CONTINUED…