Harold

.





Too overwhelmed by the day to focus on object writing, instead the past comes roaring out of its cave.

Got a summons today. Phone rang about 10 this morning, a fine Scottish brogue asking for Margaret. "I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number."

"I'm calling for Margaret Mullins, in regards to the estate of Margaret Hellen Mullins."

"Oh yes, then, that would be me."

"I did say Margaret."

"Ah, well, I'm not known by that name."


I readied myself for his arrival; I knew the news could not be good. Sure enough, the Public Trustee wants to grab a share of Mom's estate; they want "adequate provision for the proper maintenance and support" of my brother. The money in the estate can't begin to "adequately provide," of course, for a man who needs twenty-four hour supervision, who cannot care for himself.

When I faced the death of my mother, I did not expect to confront the fact of my brother's life, the tragedy of my family, my own guilt for having been born healthy, for having ignored him all my life just as Mom and Dad ignored him. I have had to contact the people who work with him and the people who represent him (who will not confirm that he is, in fact in their care, due to some principle of privacy - even though I'm his only immediate family.) I've negotiated the maze and reached him through his caregivers, doing all the right legal stuff. But I don't know how to negotiate the emotional knots.


When Mom wrote her will, she neglected to mention that she had a son, Harold. Her lawyer certainly would have told her to arrange her affairs differently, had she mentioned it, because the law would have parents provide for all of their living children, regardless what was written in a will. Mom knew that Harold would not, as a ward of the state, benefit from anything she could leave for him; instead, it would be swallowed by the state, put towards some general fund to provide general services. As such, her savings were not nearly enough to make a dent in the public budget. To me, however, the difference the money would make in my life, and in that of my sons, is significant.

The probate runs out in six weeks, this after three years of waiting. Now the government weighs in. I sent a long sob-story of an email to my lawyer, and all I can hope is that the judge on the case sees this as government vs individual, and award the greater part of the estate to me. I don't know how long the process would take, but I'm fairly certain it won't be settled by summer, as I had hoped.

The other way the judge could look at it is that I am the healthy one, I am the one with the advantage of living a full life, whereas Harold has nothing, no loving family, no prospects, no hope for anything that can mitigate his condition. This is where the emotion kicks in for me. I feel like an ogre trying to keep anything from him, even though reason says it will make no difference to him - he won't even see a penny of it. I don't know how to not feel greedy and guilty, that I have failed him.

Reality is that life has failed him. He was born just after the war, when, Mom claimed, most of the good doctors were still overseas. It was a difficult labour, and the attending physician refused to perform a section, with the result that Harold's was a high-forceps delivery. He was so battered, Mom was not allowed to see him for several days. The brain damage did not become evident until he was about two, when scarlet fever took out what remained of his capacity to speak and to learn. When he didn't develop as expected, Mom began consulting doctors. One finally told her, bluntly, "Your child's retarded - there's nothing I can do."

She kept him at home for close to six years, despite the practice at the time to institutionalize such children; she refused to let him go. Her own health suffered, since he was a wild child and untrainable. One of his favourite tricks, when he could escape the house, was to lie down across the road out front, which was a blind curve, to make the cars come screeching to a halt. He would laugh and laugh at this - it was the greatest joke to him. Mom's weight slipped down to something like 90 pounds and she was unable to maintain a pregnancy. The doctor finally convinced her that if she didn't let Harold go, she herself would end up hospitalized. He was sent to Woodlands School. I was born some nine months later, their miracle baby.

Visiting Harold meant riding the ferry to the mainland, a major excursion which we took only three or four times a year. A visit to him, to take him out for a drive, was part of the ritual of our visits to Grandma and Grandpa. I remember the "school," a dreadful mental hospital since come under scrutiny for its inhumane treatment of inmates. I remember riding in the back seat with Harold as he threw candy wrappers and cereal boxes out the window, laughing. I don't know if he knew us; it was impossible to tell. There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, not much of anything, really.

Woodlands was designed for children, but Harold stayed on as an adult, having made a niche for himself helping keep the grounds. He was moved to a facility in Victoria in the 1970's or 80's, I imagine to have him closer to family, but the only time Mom visited him was at my request. We met him in a bright foyer, sat on the bench beside him. He had no idea who we were, fidgeted and huffed and looked everywhere but at us. Mom had brought him his old favourite candy, Licorice Allsorts, and he ate them enthusiastically. We left with the impression we had done him no kindness with our visit.

As these institutions fell out of favour in the 1990's, residents were moved into group homes, several men or women in a house, cared for by a regular staff. Harold lives in Shelby House, in Metchosin. (It was quite a task finding that out.)

In recent years, Harold's caregivers sought out Mom, and began bringing him to visit her about once a month. He would find the TV in the den, leaving the caregiver and Mom to chat, and he would fall asleep on the little couch in there. Mom enjoyed the visits, as much for coffee with the young man or woman who brought him as for seeing Harold. She seemed curious but distant about him. She seemed bemused by him.

In my search for him, I finally made contact with his primary caregiver. We exchanged some emails, but I haven't been in touch since last spring. She described him as a trickster, slow to take to people; the sign that you had gained acceptance with him was that he would start to play practical jokes on you. If he steals your keys, you know he likes you. He still does his "hoo hoo hoo" thing, the panting I took to be self-comforting at a time of stress. It's hard not to think of him as ape-like, and maybe that's not such a terrible way to see him. I suppose I love him, in my own way.

I asked if there was a regular newsletter that I could receive, and there was; I asked to be kept updated about him, but I have yet to hear anything. It's time to make contact again.



I don't know how the will business will shake down. It seems it is my lot that nothing will be settled easily. If there is good in it, it is that I am forced to face my demons. And my history.





.