Whispers from the Myth Teller

My friend Emru Townsend passed away tonight just before 10pm, taken from us far to young, far too early. He was surrounded by family when he took his last breath and many of his friends gathered in other places to be with him in spirit. He died in the same way that he lived: surrounded by love, integrity, and friendship.

Godspeed, my friend. Head for the third star to the right and straight on until morning.

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
-- Mary Elizabeth Frye

I just got the call from a friend back home. An old school chum of mine from Quebec city committed suicide last night.

I'm reeling from waves of reactionary emotion about this. Of course, I'm devastated to hear that my friend is dead (he was in his late 30s), but I'm also furious about how selfish and self-centered this course of action is. He's suffered from a few setbacks in the past year, but he had strong family support, long-term friends to lean on, and he had first-hand knowledge of the many services available to the public.

Instead, he chose to end his life in his parent's house with a pistol.

I can't imagine what must have driven him to this, but I just want to shake him and cuff him about the head. He had so much to live for, so many friends and family that loved him, and hundreds of kids who looked up to him (he was a vice-principal of a high school).

I feel bad and guilty for feeling this way, but I'm just so angry at him right now. I'm way more angry than sad, although I'm sure that will change with time. This suicide is such a betrayal of every thing he was, everything he stood for (in my mind). He could've reached out to any of us, and we would've been there to help. Instead of facing his demons, he ran away from them. He took the coward's route.

Yes, I know. It is bad form to speak ill of the dead, but these are the emotions I'm struggling with right this minute. Maybe we'll find out more of what his demons were exactly and somethings will make more sense. Maybe nothing will make sense.

Good night Guy. I'll light a candle for you tonight to guide your troubled soul. It's the least I can do for you in death since I didn't know how to help you in life.

It's over. The funeral was today and very well attended, I'm happy to report. The last two days have been a marathon of old friends and relatives turning up to bid farewell to my father.

My mother and sister are well, but relieved it's all over (as am I). I even managed to slip a few coins into my father's breast pocket so that he could pay the ferryman on his journey. I wonder what will happen to them during the cremation process.

I spent the last few days writing my father's eulogy (you'll notice I recycled some of what I posted previously), which I delivered during the mass blessing and honoring my father. I managed to keep my composure through the entire reading, only getting a little choked up at the end. I even pulled off an impression of my father, which got a few laughs from the audience (and comments later).

One of our family friends offered to print the eulogy as a souvenir to those who attended. Although I found this to be a little overboard, she insisted, so I emailed her the eulogy the day before the funeral. She printed 50 copies, rolled them up, and tied a bow onto each one. All but 10 of them were taken, to my great surprise.

Now I'm just enjoying a quiet evening on the patio at my parent's house and I'll be heading home soon. Must get back to the life I left behind.

Because some people have requested it, I'm posting Dad's Eulogy. I think I managed to capture his essence, but I can only hope I did his memory justice.

At 10am today, my father passed away at the Hotel Dieu. Unfortunately, none of us where there to witness his passing, but our thoughts were with him constantly.

I'm on my way to the hospital now. Thanks for everyone checking in. I will post the funeral notice as soon as I know.

This has been a post that I've been struggling with for days, weeks. It's been a struggle because I don't know where to start, although I know how it's going to end.

My father is dying of cancer at 64.

I look at these words and they make no sense to me.

My Dad's liver cancer is untreatable. His body is slowly shutting down as the cancer spreads. Because the treatments would be so painful, unpleasant, and useless at this stage, the family has agreed to simply let nature take it's course and make him as comfortable as possible.

I just spoke to my mum and asked her how much time my Dad has left. She said she wasn't sure, but it would probably be measured in days, maybe weeks. But she also said that Dad has accepted what is happening and is at peace with it. The staff at the Hotel Dieu are being wonderful with him; they make him laugh and in turn, he's making them laugh. Amazing.

I've never thought of my father as an old man. He retired in 1998 from Bell Canada, but has stayed relatively active since then. He's done some renovation work, mostly volunteer, some paid. He built a solarium extension to the house, he finished the renovations on the cottage. He and my mum travel 3 to 4 times a year (they just returned from Italy about a month ago). He had energy and enthusiasm and was making the most of his newly retired life.

When I went down to Quebec city to visit him a couple of weekends ago, I had never seen him so weak. He spent the two days shuffling from room to room, mostly sleeping. When he spoke, he had something in his voice I had never heard before. I almost couldn't recognize him. He sounded old. It was painful to see, painful to hear, tragic to watch him slip away from us like that.

My father is a good man and I have always admired him. Everything that is good about me comes from him and the example he set for me. He taught me about honor without ever using the word. He taught me about loyalty without ever pointing it out. He taught me the meaning of friendship, generosity, and that there is great value in being a good person, being compassionate, and being true to yourself.

He didn't sit me down and teach me these things formally; he taught me these things by living and by being true to himself. My father is a great man, not because he invented the wheel, climbed a mountain, or made a million dollars, but because he loved his family, his friends, and his children.

I can only aspire to be my father's son.

Ms. Carotte broke her ankle slipping on the ice on her way to work on Monday morning. You can read about it on her journal.

This week is off to a bad start. My uncle passed away on the weekend after a long illness. I went to the wake tonight and then to visit Ms. Carotte at the hospital. My family have reached the point that the only times we see each other are at weddings and funerals.

My aunt had a strange reaction with me when I came to give my sympathies. When that article about paganism appeared in the Gazette, she emailed me and asked since when I had become a WARLOCK. I emailed her back saying that Warlock wasn't the right term (since it literally means "Oathbreaker"). She wrote back and asked what oaths I had been breaking lately, but I didn't respond to that.

When I saw her tonight, while saying good-bye to folks, she pointed at my medallion (a Cernunuos figure) and said "You're lucky we didn't have a cross over the door!"

I laughed and replied "It burns! But seriously, I'm still not an oathbreaker."

"That's not what I heard." Confused, I asked her what she meant by that, but she said this wasn't the time or place for it.

This worries me. I'm going to give this a few weeks (let the death of my uncle settled down) and then email her back and see if we need to speak over tea. I would hate to think that there's bad blood simmering in my family.