Dealing: Part 1

On the train home today I was listening to Sixx:A.M. It got me thinking about an event that always sits in the back of my mind. It's something I talk about occasionally, more and more as the years pass, but something that I'm not sure I've ever really dealt with properly. We all cope with death in different ways and pretty much everyone I know has lost someone through cancer, suicide, a car crash, or simply old age. A lot of us have lost people to drugs. Now that isn't all about how "drugs are bad". People take them, I've taken my share, I knew the risks. Preaching is not an objective here. This is just an attempt to work through stuff.
Back in 1999 my uncle died of a heroin overdose. I don't think I ever really dealt with his death properly. When it happened it was such an earth-shattering shock that I was rather numb. I'd know about the heroin, through second-hand information from Dad, that wasn't so shocking. The finality of the incident was.
Many people look for a "Why" when someone dies. I don't. I don't believe in God, Allah, Buddah (as a supernatural entity), Jehova, Odin, Zeus or Gaia. I don't believe in fate or destiny. I'm an athiest and I don't feel a need to look for "whys". I am, however, interested in potential, cause and effect. I can't help wondering what might have been, had he lived. How would things have turned out?

I was asleep, in my room in the place on Thomas St in West Perth. My mobile rang and Dad was on the line. I no longer remember the exact conversation, but it went something like this;
"Are you awake?" he asked
Of course, I didn't want him to think I was being an unemployed bum and still sleeping at 10am. "Yeah, sure. What's up?"
"There's been... Can you come in to Acorn?"
You see, I used to work for my parents. At this time I wasn't any more, so being asked to come in at such short notice was a surprise.
"Um... Ok. What's wrong?" I asked. Dad explained that Steve hadn't shown up for a gig. Mum had been unable to contact him for a few days, which was not unusual, but when she heard about his non-attendance at the gig she knew something was up. She got his friends to bust into his flat, where they found him. Dad wanted me to come in because Mum was a mess and he didn't know what else to do. The strange part is, I agreed. There I was, just having found out that the one relative I had who I thought had any chance of really understanding me had checked out and I'm getting ready to go in and run an office. What the hell? Anyway, Dad called back a bit later to apologise for dumping that on me and told me to stay home. I didn't think an apology was needed. I probably would have done the same thing in Dad's shoes.
The next few days are a bit hazy. I know I wound up getting royally drunk a few days later. Singing "Sweet Child O Mine" in a goth club, ordering a salad just so I could get another drink, trying to set fire to the house, chewing up a foam esky. All on one night, apparently.
Later there was the funeral. I was asked to read a eulogy, written by one of his best friends. Of course I agreed. I had to do something. We went to this little memorial hall, some of Steve's favorite music was playing. There I was, in the closest thing I had to a suit, trying to keep it together. Not for myself, but because I had Mum, Fiona and Grandma there. I felt I had to be the strong one. The shoulder on which they could (and did) cry. Delivering the eulogy was one of the hardest things I'd had to do up until that point. I just had to get through it, not break down. I had to do it for Steve and for my family. Maybe I didn't have to, but my own psychological makeup insisted that I was under an obligation to stay strong when everyone else was falling apart. The only part I remember is getting to the end of what was written, having been so sure I could come up with something of my own to add. Something personal that would sum up how I felt. At the time I thought what I added was weak, but looking back it was exactly what I wanted to say;
"Goodbye Steve, you were one of the good guys."
We held a wake at Dad's place. It was exactly the way he would have wanted it, we all got exceedingly drunk and had a party. I got told over and over how much I reminded people of Steve. That was nice, but also kinda hard to deal with at the time. It still is. Perhaps that goes some way to explaining why I drank so damn much. The point is; I didn't cry. Through that whole process, I barely shed a tear. The tears came much, much later.

When all this happened I was not in a great place in my life. I was unemployed, trying to maintain a long distance relationship with someone who, in retrospect, really wasn't that into me. I was planning a move over to Sydney (by way of Melbourne initially) and trying to figure out what I was doing with my life. I'm still trying to work that out.

The original idea had been to ditch Perth, hit Melbourne for a week or two and hang out with Steve for a while. He'd always been that slightly odd uncle who listened to rock music, dyed his hair odd colours and showed up in Mum and Dad's wedding photos with extremely long hair. He had cereal bowls with little feet on them, like in the old Rice Bubbles ad. I still remember going to visit him when I was really small and being excited by those. He introduced me to Frank Zappa and educated me on the finer points of Led Zeppelin. The only real time we spent together as adults was just after my 18th birthday. I spent a week at his place. He took me to see Dick Dale, gave me lessons on being a pool shark and took the sofa bed when I passed out on his bed when I smoked pot after drinking vast quantities of beer. Then he made me clean up my vomit in the bathroom the next day. He was an idol of mine. The last time I saw him was when I was about 21. I'd gone over to Melbourne for a week or so (another long distance relationship) and we went to have dinner with Steve and his girlfriend. Less that 18 months later he was gone.

Some of my close friends already know this story. At least this part. There's more but not right now.