Transience: From Failure to Future in a Scarred Family

By Gregory J. Robb

"Any arrival at dawn necessitates the navigation of night beforehand. It is written in the very cycle of life. History is continuously being written and rewritten, and every breath serves us another glorious opportunity to forge forward from the past. That said, humanity is doomed to repeat that past without perpetual recognition of its history. I never knew that a battle that could be lost had actually been won. As I trundled to the hospice elevator, tear-stained face in open sight, I tried to grasp the greater tragedy: that my father had died, or that we had never had a loving relationship. I had thought silence might be welcome at that point, but I was wrong."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory J. Robb
• Release date: Jun 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994766007

Gregory J. Robb

Gregory J. Robb is a lifelong communicator whose words were first accepted for publication in 1989. As a writer, educator and broadcaster, Greg amassed over half a million published words in online and traditional periodicals all over the world. He then turned to the long form and fearlessly engaged his subjects in a distinct authorial voice. In 2015, Gregory published Transience: From Failure to Future in a Scarred Family, his inaugural book. He continues to pursue the greatest story of all from his beloved home of Vancouver, Canada.

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Foreword

In the grip of dysfunction, the wise become very illogical.

In the late 19th Century, Sigmund Freud developed his psychological theories about mental processes. He based his theories on case studies. Specifically, Freud explored the nature of those mental processes about which we were unconscious. The concept of repressed memory dates back to the late 1800s, when Freud asserted that human beings block out emotionally painful events from the level of consciousness in an effort to avoid confronting the pain associated with them. Repressed memory, as presented by Freud, was not a matter of conscious intent; that is, the traumatized did not consciously invoke that state of avoidance. It happened at the sub-conscious level.

Science has engaged in a vigourous debate. Freud's initial proposal was not scientifically substantiated, so many psychology practitioners still question the integrity of repressed memory. However, studies continue. Meanwhile, psychologists and psychiatrists continue to treat those who have been traumatized by earlier events in their lives. Child sexual abuse survivors have come forward, some after decades removed from the events, to remember their waking nightmares. The question is: can a repressed memory be held as legitimate and true upon conscious realization?

It is not in the interests of this book engage that clinical debate. However, there is a way to view repressed memory as it serves to explain my reaction, and my life, after Barry let his fingers dance where they had no appropriate place.

If a person feels traumatized by such an event, then exploration of the trauma may provide catharsis, a sense of relief from torment. That is the basis upon which I wish to weave together the perpetuation of trauma through my family relationships. I make no claim but one: the trauma of one can lead that person to behave in ways that traumatize the next generation - and that such replication, unchecked by intervention, can span generations and destroy many lives. And, it is not necessary to hash out individual circumstances spanning one lifetime, let alone two or three. That would be unproductive. Rather, I will attempt to only refer to the behaviour patterns exhibited in key events of my own life and link them to eerily-similar instances of the family's previous generations.

The potential positives of what remains to be told vastly outweigh their negatives. Yet, ups and downs characterize the remainder of this book. In the event that some of the downs land like bombs, I recommend that readers take a little break afterwards. But, rest assured: a positive will follow it, until positives outnumber negatives - an uptick in optimism which comes to dominate this story. I would never have written this book if a hopeful outcome was beyond reach.

Introduction

I never knew that a battle that could be lost had actually been won. The thought seems absurd in its paradox, yet the two polar opposites drove a stake right into the middle of my soul when I saw him for the last time. Dad had arrived at the hospice only three weeks earlier (or so; when it comes down to the end, days draw into each other). His arrival was eerie, because it was so quiet. His oncologist had discussed options for dad's progressing lung cancer, but true to form, my father did it his way. There would be no chemical war of the blood, no final stand. Feistiness had defined his previous eight decades, but not his final days.

My father had always considered his final circumstance to be his worst nightmare. Approximately 15 years earlier, he had been rushed into emergency surgery for what turned out to be partial bowel excision. His worst fear was that they would open him up and find cancer. The dreaded disease had run in his family, mostly in the form of melanoma (skin cancer). No matter, really. He viewed any form of cancer as death incarnate, and he seemed to believe that he was so destined. So when the worst nightmare did come alive, it felt strange indeed to see such a Scottish battler wither up and accept his fate.

Acceptance was very private process for my father. Upon being released from emergency for the latest emergent issue, a scan had revealed a growth. Doctors informed him of the biopsy result, and dad was released for a brief few days. I spoke with my parents daily, but I got the bottom-line information from my mom. She told me that my father had become very quiet, as if he were in deep reflection about his fate. Put simply, she said that dad was wrapping his mind around a fate that was clear and certain. True to my father's nature, he would not show that to the rest of our family. Even my mom was just an eyewitness to a very solitary inward struggle. It is a mental state that can only be understood by the dying. Or so I thought.

I had always dreaded - almost as much as cancer - the last time I would see my dad alive. Truthfully, I (correctly as it turns out) believed he would leave this life in much pain and suffering. Dad had abused his health something awful as a younger person: tobacco, alcohol and very poor sleep habits to name a few. He outlived all of his eight other siblings, but his final decade was a long, slow, painful decline: Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disorder (COPD), loss of hearing in one ear, blindness in one eye and chronic bone pain. Clearly, I would find a person in suffrage upon my arrival at the hospice.

Yet, nothing could prepare me for my last visage of the man. His tiny hands contorted into eagle-like claws, clutching a blanket up to his neck. Mouth wide open, head propped skyward. I stopped at the doorway and put a hand up to my own gaping mouth. So, this really is it. All I could do was pause in a state of emotional chaos, confusion and fear. Yet, I knew that I had to stay. I needed to see this through to its natural conclusion, no matter what. After all, how could I live with any notion that I turned away from a dying father in a his last days? Trauma be damned.

On such occasions, time is no longer a metric. A second is not a -tick followed by a -tock. It is ageless and elastic. It can be measured by a heart beat in one moment, by a sound in another. Perception chooses the form of time. This I learned by standing at the door to Dad's hospice room for I-don't-know-how-long.

Only two logical thoughts emerged. Keep breathing, and sit quietly in a chair. I managed both. Surprisingly, dad's eyes opened as one of my feet brushed something on the floor. Wow, I thought. His only good ear is still sharp. I approached him and grasped his outreached hand, which shook with the imminence of dad's departure. I moved in to about five inches from his one good eye, so he knew that I was right there. That was important.

The ensuing conversation was tragically appropriate. Dad could only manage short breaths and, therefore, short utterances. He was shot up with a medication that (I was later informed) had five times the potency of morphine. As the staff knew the end was near, the doctor had authorized whatever quantity would comfort dad's terminal pain. Thus, he could not really form fluent words.

He managed two thoughts: I'm sorry, and I love you. All I could say was, Okay. I didn't know what else to say, because he had never before spoken those words to me. In less than five minutes, the medication took his awareness away and his eyes cast up to the ceiling again. He was gone but still breathing. The all-knowing final footsteps to the big transition.

I burst into tears when a nurse came into the room, as close to hysteria as I had ever come. And, the end had come. I only needed to be notified whenever that would soon occur. Vanquished, I retreated to the hospice room of reflection to cry. The room was situated at the end of a wing that seemed to have no other patients at the time. I had only once before in my life felt so utterly alone, and I was utterly alone. It made no difference that I had an older sibling or a living mother (soon-to-be-widow). There is much to grieve when one's family is dead and alive at the same time.

Now, I had to cope with the death of a parent. My father had suffered a lot, and I was relieved that he would soon escape that. The official notification turns out to have been delivered less than 24 hours later by the hospice itself. At least they afforded me the benefit of being respected as a legitimate family member, at least enough to merit a brief, final phone call. Much of what followed was very first time, and I stumbled through it as one does the first time. However, family breakage would make this time harder to manage. The grieving process would soon introduce itself to me, and I would try my best to embrace it.

As I trundled to the hospice elevator, tear-stained face in open sight, I tried to grasp the greater tragedy: that my father had died, or that we had never had a loving relationship. Lost time is so powerfully defined by death. What does it say when only death compels a parent to tell his son that he is loved? Finding the answer to that felt akin to fighting a brick wall with bare hands. Life had come to silence the acrimony, strain and pain of a difficult father-son relationship.

I had thought silence might be welcome at that point, but I was wrong.

Section I: Community

Chapter 1: The Man Himself

Edward William (E.W.) Robb was one of nine children born to Scottish parents who immigrated from Aberdeen, Scotland in the early 20th Century. My grandparents had settled in Toronto. I had met several Toronto aunts, uncles and cousins over the years when they traveled to Vancouver - where three of the original Canadian siblings had settled. I had seen cousins of the other two local uncles regularly (if not often) as I was growing up. Apart from those scant facts, my father's story was scarcely-ever mentioned.

I had met my grandfather once when I was about 15 years old. Grandpa Robb had come out west as an elderly man to visit three of his sons. He stayed with the other two boys; therein lies another clue. Prior to grandpa's visit, my dad's behaviour had changed. He had been revving up his preparation in ways that made me think he felt a pressing, even desperate, need to impress his father. This proved to be prominent when the time came. Dad bent over backwards to make his point. In so doing, he almost became a different person. Indeed, my father's life had evolved in ways that were both visible and invisible.

My grandfather was very quiet for a man who had not seen this side of the family for a very long time. He was nice, to be sure. Still, I had a feeling there was much more that was unsaid. I knew the family had been poor, and that the addition of each child deepened its poverty. As time unfolded, I would learn that my father and grandfather had a deep estrangement dating back to boyhood. This I gleaned from my mother, but I would not receive any kind of explanation until decades later.

There seemed to be no sense of interconnectedness in my dad's life. It all seemed to be fragments of experience pieced together to form a life. There was serious weakness in the joints of those connections. It seemed that one would be best informed by watching what dad did, more than listening to what he said. He could be such a smart person, but he was so under-formed. He might have been Einstein's prodigy had the pieces been properly put together.

At least, that was the picture I was given.

No doubt, the Robbs were a family of fighters. The name had traced back to the storied MacFarlane clan, Scottish Highlanders who fought their way through life in the Argyll district of the homeland. This was certainly true of my dad and his family. There were other commonalities, too. All worked incredibly hard, and all were enterprising people. They had big hearts, but they fought when they fought.

The Peculiar Underside

Curiously, my father could be very kind. He really could. Dad was absolutely a family man. It was in his DNA, and he believed in it. Defined by traditions, my father tended to live by them. This would be both good and bad.

Christmas was one of his favourite times of year. The business in which he worked was at its quietest at Christmas. I clearly remember him calling home several times a day on the weekdays when the office was open. He had to be there, but he called constantly to see what we were all doing. No doubt, he had thoroughly shuffled any and all paper 1000 times - to the point where any further engagement would drive him crazy. Call home. Dad came home early, and enjoyed kicking up his heels for a break. Dad was very giving.

I always smile widely at one gift that he might take back if he could. My brother and I had been introduced to piano at early ages, as our maternal grandmother was a tremendous classical piano player and teacher. Mom hoped, I guess, that this talent would be passed on through the genes. Also, she believed in the discipline and structure that such pursuits provided. Her boys had some piano skill, but only in limited supply. We tickled the ivories on our grandmother's upright classical piano, the instrument that she had used to teach. My brother and I could play, but we would both stray.

As I continued in piano, my brother had asked if he could try the drums. My parents were willing, if cautious (predominately concerned about the noise!). Nonetheless, he went for lessons. He slowly picked it up and would become an excellent player. All the while, I was plunking away on piano, enjoying it, but not necessarily revelling in it.

One day, just for fun, I asked my brother if I could have one of his sticks. I wanted to know what it felt like to hit a crash cymbal. He agreed. I smashed that thing as hard as I could, and love was born. It may have begun as a screaming, breach baby delivered over several agonizing months, but it was my new baby. Now, my brother should be awarded a Purple Cross for kindly allowing me to practice on his red Slingerland drum set. It was all-natural rood with red stain: gorgeous. He was rightly protective of it, and I will always owe him my profound thanks for the sharing. My parents just wanted to make sure that I would continue the pursuit before a second family drum set became necessary. I, too, was taking lessons from a great teacher, and the two Robb brothers were budding drummers. It was only a natural progression that I should ask my parents for a drum set, if that would be the only thing I received that Christmas.

On Christmas morning, my parents guided me downstairs (hands covering my eyes). With each step, my excitement overleaped itself exponentially. For, I was sure that I would soon have my own drums. There it was, a snow-white kit: snare drum, two side toms, one floor tom, two crash cymbals, one ride cymbal and the requisite hi-hat. I stood stunned, breathless, before one of my most ardent dreams. I wanted to be a drummer, and dad had helped to do it. I spent the next 18 years pounding on his present to show him my gratitude (a perverse thing, this gratitude!).

Dad also believed very much in helping causes. He would support the SPCA (Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals); he headed the previously-mentioned music advocacy group at our school; he spent many weekends selling raffle tickets outside a local store in a campaign to save Vancouver's historic (palatial) Orpheum Theatre from city hall's stupidity (they wanted to demolish it; idiots). The Save-the-Orpheum campaign worked. And, dad always believed that a wayward person should be given a second chance. My father was a champion of the weak.

He made an interesting coach for my baseball team, too. Dad always loved his baseball, because it appealed to his interest in sports psychology. Being a kid from Toronto, Dad grew up hearing all about the New York Yankees. But what he loved the most was the mental battle between pitcher and batter: the thinking-man's war, he used to call it. He took piqued interest when I became a little league pitcher myself. He would urge me to play catch with him many mornings before he left for work. That is, he was interested - until I developed the ability to throw fastballs hard enough to break some bones in his hand. Owww! he would exclaim, and vigourously shake his glove. That brought a thin smile to my face (a perverse thing, this gratitude).

He was also the voice of reason behind the backstop. One night, he and my mom came to watch one of my games. They sat right behind home plate as I came to bat. Now, this was little league with real pitchers! None of this T-ball stuff. Kids, 10 or 11-year-olds, throwing at batters of the same age. Most of the pitchers lost control frequently; after all, they were just kids. This night, I got beaned with a fastball right in the ribs. Down I went with a gasp. Up my mother jumped, screaming, MY BABY!!!! As the coach made his way to my crumpled self, I heard my dad say, Sit down, Aline. He'll be fine....

Easy for him to say.

The Differences

My father and I were always different to the core. It is simply genetics. I was always my mother's French democrat with a flair for the creative, and my brother was my dad's conservative Scottish lad. My dad may have been my father, but I was