Leaving the world better off

Some carry Chopin in their hearts, others thoughts of revenge. Gunther Grass

He is 60. Big man. Big hands. Big heart. He smokes. A pack a day. He doesn't drink. Quit that. Gave it up. It wasn't fun anymore, he tells me as we sit in his apartment on a quiet street across the river from the downtown core.

I listen to him tell his stories, walk me backwards in and out of his life as my emotions wash through me, sadness, joy, melancholy, ebullience, laughter, consternation...

He is dying. And he's okay with it, he says. I've lived a life and a half. Done things I never should have outlived anyway.

It was the cough that did him in. It wouldn't go away. Persisted. Resisted any attempts to dislodge it.

He finally sought professional counsel. The verdict was fast, swift and final.

Cancer. You'd best get your affairs in order, the doctor told him.

He was stunned. Angry. Frustrated. Disappointed. But never scared, he says. We all gotta go sometime. I'm just a little bit clearer on when mine will happen.

He just wasn't quite prepared for it to be this soon.

I spent three hours with him yesterday morning. Listening. Making notes. I had a video camera with me. Set it up as we chatted and he shared his ideas on what it really takes to 'end homelessness', something he's intimately familiar with having spent many years drifting from town to town, worksite to worksite, under the influence of alcohol and forces of nature he couldn't contend with.

I'd ask if he was willing to talk about his philosophy on life. Share his wisdom, his thoughts, his journey. Sure, he'd replied. Not sure how comfortable I am about the camera, but I always love chattin' with a pretty woman.

He's a charmer. But not the slippery kind. Sincere. Boyish. Thoughtful.

In the end, the camera didn't work and so, we chatted. I listened. He talked. I asked a question here. There. He talked more.

I've been making it on my own since I was five, he told me. After my mom put us kids in an orphanage for awhile, I pretty well had to take care of everyone. Pause. Even after she came back to get us. Taking care of drunks does that to ya'. Putting them to bed. Hiding the booze. He smiles. You become a good caretaker.

He was fifteen when he formally left home. Big kid. Blond. Blue-eyed. Handsome. I coulda' been a great thief. But it wasn't in me, he says. Blue eyes twinkling despite the gasps of pain each breath ensues. He cracked a rib a few weeks ago. Coughing did it. The bones, riddled with disease couldn't sustain the force of his cough. He needs oxygen to breathe comfortably. I smile at the contradiction of the oxygen tank and his cigarettes. He smiles too and continues with his story. I didn't want to steal from people. I wanted to do good in the world. Don't know if it's nurture or nature.

He thinks a moment. Lotta it was nature. I was good at conning people. I just never wanted to hurt nobody.

Doing good got mixed up with alcohol. Being a father got mixed up with not feeling good enough, with feeling like whatever he did, someone always got hurt.

Last time I saw my son he was 17, he says. He gasps as he takes a breath and pain ripples through his ribcage. I was already looking at a better man than me.

It's been 18 years since he saw him. I want to. I mean, I would if I didn't feel like I might be messing up what's going good for him now. I don't want me to be the reason he goes off track.

He is a big man. Big hands. Big heart.

He's lived a life. Big life.

How did you lose the tip of your finger, I ask him and he tells me a story that has me laughing and crying about working on the rigs and a flying wheel and carrying his glove into the hospital with the fingertip still in it.

It's the authority figures that always got his ire. The lack of good intention.

There's three things we need to teach our kids, he says.

1. How to lead so they never have to follow.
2. How to stand up for themselves so they never have to fight.
3. How to be humble so they always know it's not about falling down. It's always about learning from what's happened so they can take the next step.

We all have a duty to leave the world better off than when we got here. We all gotta do our bit on changing the state of affairs. We all gotta take steps to create value.

His next steps are limited. They haven't given him much time. Haven't given him much hope -- 5% chance of killing the cancer. 0% chance of coming out of it alive.

And still, he is at peace. Putting his life in order. I've never been too good at the paperwork, he says. Never been too strong on the 'getting it done' without a whole lot of procrastination.

Pause.

I know I'm just filling in my time with the busy work as a way to avoid doing what I gotta do about my son.

Laugh.

The biggest game is me fooling myself.

Pause.

I might be willing to write a letter. Maybe even do a video message.

He points at the camera. Silent. Unmoving. Not-recording.

Not having a working camera made it easier to get comfortable with it here.

Laugh.

Gotta find value in all things.

I'd gladly help, I tell him.

I'll think on it, he says.

And I know he will. He is a man with a big heart looking to leave the world a little better off than how he found it. And, he is a man of his word. Always has been.