Hearts; Braveheart to Brokenheart to Failing Heart..2

2007-05-29T05:59:52+02:00

Firstly, I would like to thank the people who responded to my first attempt at this blog. Thankyou for inspiring me to continue with what is really something new and a first for me in terms of opening out and allowing people to, well, "get to know me", "see inside", "figure out what makes me tick", whatever. Self-indulgence, some might say, self-analysis, say others. People can, do, and will see this blog as whatever they wish to, that is what is behind a free world and frankly I would not want it any other way. I recognise my inabilities in my writing skills, my lacking in education, and most certainly my short-comings in political correctness and social ettiquet. Therefore I should now apologise for any spelling errors, (ettiquet??), or offence against any persons of a higer social postion or profession to whom I may inadvertently offend. It is not my intention to be offensive but to give only an opinion. Also, to further support my defence in that this blog should be to entertain, inform, delight, interest, and perhaps move, the orginal title was that of "Rantings", to which future entries may well be suited. To those who see this blog as being negative to the previous list, then cool, that is okay too, afterall it is not "Dan Brown, J.K.Rowling, J.R.R.Tolkien, Dickens, Al Gore nor Francis Fukuyama we are reading here.
So, to today's entry into the muses or rants of the author.
Broken hearts? What are they? Phsyical, emotional, psychological, physiological? Doctor, professor, counsellor, you tell me. A combination of them all?
Bereavement, disappointment, inability, are some of the factors we all recognise as contributing to a broken heart. The loss of someone or something we love is always a tragedy. Sadly an inevitable one as we are finite beings who do not live forever at least not in this world.
Wether it is the loss of a family member, a person of fame, or a loving pet we suffer heartbreak.
Wether our favourite sports team loses a final in the last minutes of a game or we fail to get into that prestigious unversity or high status job we suffer heartbreak.
Wether we watch loved ones do something that is self-destructive and are unable to provide the help and support they need or are unable to see they need it is heartbreaking. We see images on our media of pain, suffering, destruction of all types and we feel our hearts breaking. Yet we continue, rightly so, to build our lives, to move on, to get on with things as they say.
Therefore heartbreak can then be described as part of the growing up process? Heartbreak can be decribed as one of those human learning processes just as reading , speaking, walking and talking?
Really? Or is this just an over-simplified view of an uneducated dimwit who really does not know what he is talking about?
Bereavement was not my first experience of heartbreak coming from a "broken home" marred by the all too common contributors to disfunctionality in families, alcohol, physical and psychological abuse nor was it my first experience of bereavement. It was however the first that I could fully understand or rather fully feel the effects of deep personal loss. Those effects are still felt today despite happening almost 30 years ago.
Hazel was (is) her name. We were in high school together and though coming from a small town we did not really know each other until after we had left high school. We became a couple during a long summer through friends of ours, her liking of music and my efforts at becoming a dj. She was 17, I had just turned 18. We spent a lot of time together in our local hangout which was a cafe downstairs with a few pool tables upstairs. It was the type of place you see in teen-movies full of young kids enjoying life, doing what good kids do. There was no drink, no drugs and crime was limited to one or two "wild" kids doing a bit of of shoplifting. So typical small town Hollywood style in the "Bonnie" east coast of Scotland, a scene played out in every country no doubt. Though today it is more likely to be played out in Starbucks or internet cafes.
Hazel had just started a new job, in a weavers I think, and I had the dj's job in a local bar, weekends only until the summer and then every night. Life was good. We were going to live foerever as we do think when we are young and we were going to live it together. That summer lying on the beach together we talked about our hopes, our dreams, our fears, our futures. We shared everything and decided that we would get married as soon as possible. Nothing official as neither of us had much in the way of money but we had our plan, we had each other and the money would follow. That summer we were engaged. We were happy. We were, dare I say it, typical young people in love. The world was ours, laid out like Dorothy's Yellow Brick Road.
Yet we had our secrets like all couples and Hazel had hers though I knew most of the details niether of us knew the devastating effects her secret had taken and would take on so many peoples lives.
If you can imagine the sweetest, kindest, generous person with a smile for everyone and time to spend with the youngest or oldset no matter how busy then you will have a preety accurate picture of Hazel.
Then imagine this girl as a 15 year old high school student just beginning to branch into womanhood, enjoying life's experiences wtih the innocence of youth. Imagine if you will, her first "boyfriend", a twenty year old "bad boy about town". A rebel phase of which most teenagers go through, a part of growing up, breaking the rules society sets to enable us to conform to becoming good citizens. Being a teenager. Haven't we all been there.
Anyway, now imagine this young teenage girl going out on a Saturday night, telling her parents she is going to stayover at a friends house. Then meeting with her then boyfriend, going to a local nightclub, and finally a house party. She is living an adventure, making new friends, learning about life. She may even have been in love.
Hazel woke up that weekend and found her life had truly changed. She was in a strange bed, in a strange house and realised she had lost her innocence. She was, in today's world, a victim of date rape. She had gotten drunk and was put to bed where her boyfriend decided that she could offer little or no resistance to his particular desires. The experience or more the realisation of what she had experienced traumatised Hazel.
At that time confusion probably reigned in Hazel's mind. Who could she talk to? Where could she turn? What could she do? This was a small town. Her family were really nice people, her parants though not old, were older, an from a generation who had a more conservative outlook on life. Her friends, of which she had many, were perhaps as young as she and therefore just as naive. School teachers were school teachers, then as is now though less so today, did not have the skills nor training to identify troubled kids adequately, especially kids like Hazel, who internalise theier problems. Keep them hidden while those problems grow like a cancerous balloon which later explodes into some form of destruction.
Hazel had told me of her experience over two years later. I knew the details of the events that weekend and of her relationship with her boyfriend the following year. The best I could do was suggest she did not worry about it anymore for I would not allow him to hurt her again. I would take care of her and together we would build a better life. I swore to do my best to keep her happy. What did I know? Firstly, I was male. What did I know of the pain she suffered that night and during the weeks, months and years later. Date-rape was not in the English lexis at that time and rape was something we really only read about in newspapers or or father's secret adult magazines. What does any man know of the impact of rape on a woman, especially a teenager. Secondly, I was not the best educated on the planet and had already made one bad career choice in rejecting a career in the military and was known to to be a truant at school while trying to make a little money doing newpaper deliveries or someother part-time job. Thirdly, Hazel was my rock, my stabiliser, my best friend. She would have kept me from the self-destructive path I did eventually take in life.
Ah, love is blind, I hear you say. Yes, isn't it, not always the faults that blind us but the enthusiasm of love too.
The weekend which changed so many lifes is as clear today as it was then. November 1977, Friday Hazel and I spent the evening babysitting for a friend of her family. We watched cartoons with the kids until their bedtime, then played around like lovers do when the coast is clear. We had a nice evening, one of those you wnat to last forever. I left around mid-night, promsing to meet Hazel the next day.
Saturday we met in the cafe as we always did, chatting to our friends, sharing plates of chips and coffees. Hazel was tired and had gone to the toilet a couple of times during that afternoon. No one paid that much attention as we had had a late night. But one of our friends notice Hazel had been sick in the tiolet and told me about it. It was around five in the evening and really Hazel did not look herself. Maybe she was coming down with something or perhaps she was having morning sickness we joked. Anyway we suggested she go home and I promised I would go to her house following my stint djaying.
Around 8.30 the bar was pretty busy and things were going well. People asked me of Hazel's whereabouts and I ahd sais she was not feeling so good. Then in she comes, looking quite sick, enough that people were concerned. She had come to give me a white cap which I used a gimmick during the show. I was a bit of a Rubettes fan the n and stole the white cap idea from them. I had left it the night before and Hazel brought it down. It wasa beautiful thing to do and so typical of Hazel, putting others before herself. We organised a taxi for her and again I promised I would go round after work. Little did I know it would be the last time I would see Hazel alive.
Work finished around 1130 and usually everyone headed to a nightclub but that night I took a taxi to Hazel's house where her mother invited me in. She told me Hazel was in bed sleeping and asked me if I wanted a cup of tea. I sais yes and made myself comfortable on the sofa while Hazel's mother made tea.
I mentioned earlier the time Hazel brought me my cap was the last time I saw her alive, it was not the last time I would hear her. That hour in Hazel's house, perhaps only the third time I had been there will live with me forever, for though I did not see her, I heard her. She was shouting, no, screaming. Now I know she was in terrible pain but then it seemed she was calling for help. She was calling my nickname. She was shouting for me. I had said I would come and she was waiting. She was calling me. I had promised to look after her, to protect her, so where was I when she needed me? On her sofa, drinking a cup of tea, thinking I had never been upstairs in her family house, what should I do? I hear her calling my name but her mother is with her and her mother is telling me she is sleeping so what should I do?
Well, do you know what I did? I had an epiphany. Yes, a dimwits epihany! My laundry. That's correct. My bloody laundry. I thought I would leave the family to take care of Hazel, go home, get up in the morning to do my laundry and return to Hazel's later on Sunday. This is what I told Hazel's mother still recall her expression as if to say good idea who wants house guests at one in the morning when your daugher is sick in bed. I went home hearing Hazel's voice in my head all the way home and thinking to myself I had done something wrong. Little did I know how much I had done wrong that night.
Sunday, laundry done, I stolled up to Hazel's house, rang the doorbell and was greeted by her father. A tall, strong, well built man not diminished by age, though perhaps he was around 55 or 60. I had only meet him once but he was one of those men you would feel safe with. A real good man. He stood at the doorway and told me Hazel had been taken to the hospital early that morning, she had died on the way to hospital. That is Scotland for you, those of you not from Scotland. Often we Scots do not waste words talking around issues.
Simple, direct and matter of fact. Here was a man who had just lost his daughter, hiding his grief being the man he is expected to be. I was in awe of this man. I was also in shock. What was he talking about. Hazel was dead? The police wanted to ask me some questions? Do you want to come in? Would you like some tea? Hazel was dead? Dead? What do you mean they took her away in an ambulance and she died on the way? How could she be dead? We are planning to get married, she just started a new job, she is happy, she has never been so happy for a long time, what are you talking about? She was here last night calling for me but I did not go to her. She is still calling for me I can hear her. These last few lines were the thoughts runing through my head at that time. Not words that were spoken, not questions that were asked. Yes, with a great deal of hindsight, I think I was in shock and would remain in shock for some time. I had gone into emotional closedown. While in Hazel's house I had switched off my emotions. Why? These are good people and they had just lost their daughter at the start of her life. They had lost a treasure more valuable than crown or title. They needed support. They needed answers.
The pain I felt in that house that day was perhaps more pain than I had felt in my life. Pain in my life upto now was not new but it was different. Bereavement was not new, but this was different. The pain of losing someone, you really, truly, unconditionally love is unexplainable but as real as a beating with a garden cane. I had lost Hazel too but the family's loss was so far greater than mine in terms of what we had lost. Hazel was gone. She was not coming back. She would not brighten our lives with her smile, her kindness, her generosity. Yet she was not gone, she would brighten our lives through her memory if not her person. Through her spirit if not her actions.
I do not recall how long I spent at Hazel's that day but it was not such a long time. I remember heading of to the police station to answer their questions. Yes, question, so many questions. Forget your emotions man, I told myself, think questions, more importantly think answers. Why did this happen? How could this happen? What did I do wrong? Hazel was young, beautiful, intelligent, healthy?
How could she have been here yesterday and not here today? Not here again?
Questions, questions, questions. Ok next objective, answers.
I did not go straight to the police station but to out haunt to the cafe. The reason? A drink. I needed to slow down and to do that I needed to think. The cafe was always popular with young people and though we did not drink alcolhol there, you could (if old enough) have a drink with a meal.
That is what I did. I ordered a cheap meal and a scotch. The waitress was one of Hazel's classmates and she recognised something was wrong with me. The news had not gone out far yet as the shock of Hazel's death reverberated through the cafe and eventually across town after I told her.
I drank two whiskeys that day and I ate. I think this may have upset some people but I did not care. Quetions and answers that was what was important. I left the cafe and walked to the police station. There I was interviewed by a police officer. I figure the questions were statutory questions in the event of sudden death and answered them as honestly as I could. He asked about Hazel, about me, about our lives and livestyles. I gave him everything I knew. Quetions and answers. His questions, my answers. When we were done he told me there would be an inquest and I should be prepared to attend. Ofcourse I would attend if needed. Questions and answers. I was drained, exhausted but I had a question. How did Hazel die? Can you tell me officer? Hazel's family are in shock. They seem to be looking at me with accusatory eyes. My paranoia or their grief?
Perhaps it was my honesty in answering his questions that he did come forward and give me an insight into what had happened that night. It was a shock. The words I remember were "took too many tablets over a longtime"
In the months and years ahead what he told me would not ease my pain but would inspire me to learn. Remember this is the guy who did not get finish his formal education and was going to fall a lot further before he would pick himself up.
You will remeber how Hazel lost her innocence at the hands of her boyfriend at a party? I used the words traumatise and internalised. That is true. Hazel felt she had nowhere to go to release the pressure she felt. This made her worry. The subsequent eriod of her relationship with him was not much fun either so more pain, more worry, more stress. This lead to headaches to which Hazel would take aspirins or parcetemol painkillers. No-one, absolutely no-one realised how dependant she had become on them. No-one, absoluely no-one knew how sick she really was. This I found out was her secret. Yet it was not a secret. I knew she took aspirins, we all do when we have a headache or maybe for a period pain. What we did not know was how many and over how long Hazel had been taking them. Since that fateful party I guess which in turn means as long as we had been together. Longer obviously. So much so that her internal organs began to fail causing her to die.
She had been dying for some time and I was too dumb, too stupid to see it. Too dumb too stupid to be able to protect her. A higer power decided to intervene and offer her the protection she needed. The girl who was like an angel to those who knew her became exactly that an Angel. If you belive in religion and have faith in the stories of religious books then you understand that there was/is nowhere else Hazel could havebeen taken but to heaven or paradise and is being protected by other angels and more. I would describe myself as agnostic and not full of unconditional faith but that does not mean to say religion is wrong and what religions expose is not true. I am sorry but I haven't seen much evidence of it and the excuse that some believers, good people give that "well, bad things do happen", is for me not a sufficient answer to my questions on religion. However, if there is a Heaven, a Paradise, a Valhalla or what name we give to the home of God, Jesus or Mohammed then Hazel is there. I was unable to protect her yet I have the feeling she is still protecting me.
How I know this will become apparent in later blogs but for now please take care. RB

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Hearts: Braveheart to Broken heart to Failing Heart

2007-05-26T14:07:16+02:00

Apologises if this first attempt at being a fully fledged member of the technological era by setting up this blog does not come upto standard. "But hey, throughout the depressive nature of this blog there hopefully will be an insight into dry sense of humour. Blogs are but a personal insight into a topic therefore nobody fails, do they?"
About the author, well, as the title suggests there is an extremely tenuous link to the Mel Gibson movie, "Braveheart" in that I was born in Scotland and given a name that I could never live upto. Other than that I really have no great claim to fame though some may say I am closer to the word infamy in that I have blundered my way through almost half a century with my eyes shut, ears plugged and having little regard to the feelings of others. Sadly much of this is true to some extent though perhaps not to the degree of a complete sociopath, though there are few other negative adjectives and nouns which I may put my hands upto and say yes that's me. However that is for others to decide. It is enough for me to admit making some horrendous decisions which have caused a lot of people a lot of pain. For this I will be eternally sorry and most likely will never be able to repay the debt I owe these people and would just like to ask for their forgiveness.
This leads me to the next link to the title of this blog, broken hearts. Like everyone I have had my share of broken hearts and without soundind overly conceited, done my share of heart breaking. In following blogs I would like to share a private tale of a heart being broken three times so much so that there is no way of that heart being repairable to a degree that it will suitable to give to someone who genuinely desires it. This tale is not meant to be a diatribe of those who broke it but an explaination of some of the events which have lead to the final part of the title, failing hearts. In this case the authors fight against the medical condition of heart failure. During the last year I have experience heart failure twice following a long period of stubborn resistance to visit a doctor despite feeling ill.
My blogs will try to explain how this stressed heart is coping with recovery and what the author thinks has contributed to a condition that means beginning to prepare to exit this wonderful world and begin a new adventure in the next world. Please do not misunderstand, this is not a suicide note nor is it a resignation of defeat and wait for the inevitable, but the beginning of a fight for the rest of my life, however long that maybe.
For now I will need to sign off and return later, until then, take it easy and take care. RB

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Hearts; Braveheart to Brokenheart to Failing Heart..2

Hearts: Braveheart to Broken heart to Failing Heart