Carlo was given the same medication that an extreme schizophrenic I know is prescribed . it made his hair fall out, including his eyebrows and lashes. It changed his body and face shape. In one of the last photos of him from Alberta he has the same big ole grin and that's how you recognize him. it's not any better in other provinces. He was turned away at the hospital there the evening before his suicide. First time I've said that. His suicide. I've said once or twice he killed himself but now it's a title. his suicide. The suicide that he owns, that is his. See how I'm getting so morbid about it? I usually accept things better than this. I usually have a gentler attitude about inevitable feelings.
It's the turning away. The turning away that Claudette is talking about and how it's becoming so common. it's in the turning away that the ripping in my heart and the anger in my head won't quiet. They were turned away at the last straw of their very lives. What's that old christian parable, "no room at the inn", jesus gotta be born in the barn. the moral of that parable is the best of humanity gets turned away from the comfort and the nourishment and shunted to the stable all carpeted in manure.
Does the human being that turned Heather away know what happened? Does the human being that turned Carlo away know what happened? How do they live with it? Are they essentially getting away with murder? Hope they had a great time xmas shopping with their blood money. Probably got a nice xmas bonus too.
Carlo's mother is really serious about his friends not getting political about the events leading up to his suicide. She is very specific about us concentrating on the beauty we had with him and on keeping his soul dear to us. She cannot stand the idea that entangle his memory with anger or politics. It detracts from her memories of us as innocent children and growing adults. She needs to keep that pure. She is a powerful and beautiful woman with a singing voice that transcends. I was standing with her when she read his goodbye poem., reading it alongside her. The sky fell. The weight of the sorrow passing through her body and the force of the tears that came. The energy of her pain hit me like mack truck and knocked the breath right out of my body. if I could take that impact of sorrow and drop it into the bodies of those that did the turning away there would be no more need for politics.

Two days before Essen died he went to the emergency room. He knew everything was wrong in his body. He had been living in traumatic fear for at least two months knowing everything was wrong in his body. He was acting out and people didn't know how to take him. He was crying a lot because he knew he was going to die and nothing was going to stop it. He went to the doctor and they booked him tests for 5 months down the road. He was a severe epilectic with a tendency towards grand mal seizures in his sleep. He went to the emergency room when he knew everything was very wrong in his body. He was weak and disoriented. The emergency doctor said he had no proof he was epilectic, talked to him condescendingly and sent him away with no care, no medical attention at all. He came back in tears. We talked to him about going back the next day when a different doctor would be attending. He was so weary he wanted to sleep. The next night I talked to his room-mate and we made the plan for three of us to go to emergency with him when he woke up the next morning to argue for his care. But he didn't wake up the next morning, he woke up sometime during the night and made it halfway to his bedroom door before the aneurysm in his brain exploded and he fell to the floor dead. As far as I understand from the post mortem examination the aneurysm would have been noticeable from an EKG scan and if the emergency room doctor had have provided care there at least would have been the opportunity for surgery, a risky surgery but at least that extra bit of chance for his sake, the sake of his two sons and for the sake of his friends and family who live without him, knowing how badly he had wanted to live.
I've had this secret desire to sit his two children in front of that emergency room doctor and say " explain it to them, please, why you didn't do your job, and look in their eyes while you do it"
What would he say? "listen kids I'm just a resident, I saw a lot of patients that night and frankly your dad looked a little rough. I thought he might be a street bum or a drug addict and we don't invest a lot of our tax dollars into that kind of healthcare here in Nova Scotia, we like to take care of the tidy people whose children will be doctors and lawyers and politicians. Your Dad, well it never occurred to me that he was a Dad or a son, or a brother or a friend of anybody important , he just seemed kind of out of it and anxious and angry. Jeez kids, that's a tough break, listen if you have trouble dealing with it as you grow into young men without his love and input just go down to Abbey lane and talk to one of our fine mental health representatives there..."
to all the fine mental and physical health representatives here in Nova Scotia that failed Essen, failed Heather, failed Carlo, and failed who knows how many other beloved people FUCK YOU. To all of the politicians and economic advisors that have turned our health care providers into factory workers FUCK YOU. To all of the little red tapers along the way and to everyone that turns a blind eye in their relative comfort FUCK YOU. And while I'm at it to all the racists and classists and sexists and homophobes and ignorants throwing their selfish sticks and stones into the cogs of the evolution of our society FUCK YOU.

Waiting for my ride outta here for New Years. See y'all next year.

I can't stop thinking about suicide. Not for myself, that's not my path. It's the moments after the decision is made that haunt me. I want to know if the relief comes or if it's just pain pain pain until the very end. I'm worried that there is regret when it's too late. I'm wondering if just one more good solid show of care would've changed things. I'm trying to figure out the neuro linguistics of it all. Here and there. Alive and not. Better and worse. Worse and better. I don't know. When someone just doesn't want to do it anymore, when they really and truly believe it is not ever going to be a viable option to exist here and now or evermore do they also believe the next existence is easier? Are they given the gift of knowledge of the other side? Or is it the only curiosity left that matters...
I can't be very deep or eloquent about it. My philosophy on it has become quite naive and simplified over the past couple of months. I'm getting morbid about it. My old philosophies no longer apply, interrupted by my emotions. No poetic waxing. I feel sick when I think about Heather and I'm selfish to be spending so much time thinking about what she has chosen. I feel sick because I saw her as a woman of possibility. I feel sick because I believe she could have surmounted the odds against her. I feel sick because there is no turning back. I feel sick because 7 would love her through every fault and error and triumph. I feel sick because I can't figure out if all the things she hated about society have won or if she has somehow won. I feel sick because there are a lot of suck ass people on this planet and she was not one of them.

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