Last summer we moved back to Winnipeg. Over the Christmas holidays we were invited to a friend’s house for a Boxing Day brunch. Seven of my former classmates were there. While our children chased each other around the house we gathered in the kitchen and reminisced about our years in medical school. All of a sudden I remembered Arun.

“Hey,” I said, turning to our host, “when’s the last time you saw Arun?”

His smile froze.

“Didn’t you hear?” he asked. “Arun left home depressed one day last March and never came back. They pulled his body out of the Red River six weeks later. He drowned.”

I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Arun.

In memory of Arun Sud (1963–2004)

Arun’s family would like to hear from any of his classmates or others who knew him while he was a student. His family can be reached by e-mail at [email protected].

A scholarship fund has been set up in Arun’s memory through the Manitoba Schizophrenia Society. The scholarship will be awarded to a student with a mental illness pursuing university or college. Anyone wishing to make a donation can contact the Manitoba Schizophrenia Society at (204) 786-1616, email [email protected], or regular mail: 100 - 4 Fort Street, Winnipeg, MB, R3C 1C4.

The Cost of Letting Go

In the opening pages of The Bad Beginning (the first book of Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events), the Baudelaire children are roaming along a beach. Violet is holding a stone in her hand. She spots a figure in the distance hurrying towards them, and in an instant she intuitively knows he is the bearer of terrible news. Eventually he arrives and informs them that their parents have just perished in a fire.

As the numb Baudelaire orphans get ready to follow the emissary back down the beach and into the unknown, Violet realizes she is still holding the stone. When she first picked it up, her life was idyllic. Now it is utterly alien. The stone was present when before became after. It links her new self to her former self. She lets it fall to the ground.

As parents, we have a natural tendency to want to keep our children nestled under our protective wings forever. We are, of course, aware that this is neither possible nor desirable, but part of us is still tempted to do it anyway.

My children are now starting to take their first unaccompanied steps out into the world. In the past, Jan and I have always been there in one way or another – if not front and centre, then at least as a shadowy presence on the periphery, carefully monitoring them and ensuring every situation met our stringent safety standards.

Now, as we stand on the verge of a brave new world of Facebook, sleepovers, preteen dances and “you can drop me off here, Dad, you don’t have to come inside,” we must struggle to strike a new balance. Too much liberty isn’t good, but neither is not enough.

Whenever my girls are off somewhere that isn’t 100 percent guaranteed safe and sound, I get a little nervous. If they’re five minutes late getting back from riding their bikes to the corner store, my paranoia runs amok. There’s been an accident, they got lost, some psycho killer nabbed them, whatever. I start identifying with Violet Baudelaire:

Is this the moment when my before becomes after?

Then I give my head a good shake and I’m okay. And two minutes later they’re home, laughing and telling me about the cool bird’s nest they found.

They’re going to be just fine. I’m the one who may have a few rough years coming up.

Doctor Lockout

Last Thursday I worked an ER shift that ended at 1:00 a.m. As is often the case, the department went ballistic during the final hour and I ended up staying late to help tie up loose ends. My home is at the opposite end of the city, so by the time I finally pulled into our garage it was after 2:00.

As I gathered up my junk and made my way to the inner garage door I did a quick sleep calculation. My next shift started at 8:00 a.m., which meant that if I went to bed right away I’d get about four hours of shut-eye. Not ideal, but certainly not Armageddon.

I gripped the doorknob and twisted. It didn’t budge. What the frak? We never lock the inner garage door. I tried again. Nothing. I checked my keys. None for that door. To make matters worse, I didn’t have my front door key because I’d loaned it to one of my daughters earlier in the week. I tried knocking loudly.

“Hello? Jan? Girls?” No reply. That was no surprise – my wife and kids sleep so soundly, you’d think they’d been anaesthetized. “Let me in!” I yowled. No response. Honking the horn and ringing the doorbell didn’t work either. I sat on the steps, temporarily stymied. Then I got a brainwave – telephone them! I was pawing through my briefcase for my cell phone when I remembered I’d left it in its charging unit in the kitchen. Rats! There was only one solution. I hopped in my truck and drove off in search of a pay phone.

I thought I’d find one right away, but 10 minutes later there was still no phone booth in sight. I continued driving. Soon the big blue hospital sign of Brigadoon General appeared on the horizon. I don’t work there, but I figured they’d probably have a couple of pay phones in the lobby of their ER. I coasted into a parking spot and jogged inside.

Much like our own waiting room, theirs had the industry-standard 30 or so people thumbing through magazines older than the Dead Sea Scrolls, glancing at their watches and shooting the occasional dirty look at the triage nurse. She didn’t seem to be the least bit perturbed by the negative vibes being slung in her direction, though. To tell you the truth, she looked like one tough cookie. I approached her Plexiglas-fortified bunker and cleared my throat.

“Excuse me,” I began.

“Yes?”

“Could I please get some change to use your pay phone?”

“Does this look like a 7-11 to you?”

“Er… .”

“No change!” She then jumped up and pointed at some poor slob in the waiting room who was drunkenly trying to light a cigarette. “Hey, you! Can’t you read? No smoking in here!”

The last thing I wanted was to be in her way when she leaped over her desk and body-slammed the guy, so I did a quick U-turn and beetled over to the area with the telephones.

It turned out the phones accepted plastic. I put my card in and dialled our number.

Ring… .

Ring… .

Ring… .

“Hi, this is the Gray residence. We’re not home right now, so please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”

“Jan, it’s me. You’ve locked me out! It’s 2:30 in the morning! Wake up and let me in!” No response. I hung up and tried again.

Ring… .

Ring… .

Ring… .

“Hi, this is the Gray residence. We’re not home right now… .” I could feel my jaw begin to clench. I took one of those deep Zen-Master-seeks-inner-peace breaths and dialled Jan’s cell.

Ring… .

Ring… .

Ring… .

“Your call has been forwarded to a voicemail service that has not been activated by the customer. Please try again later.”

“Aargh!!”

Attila the Nurse skewered me with a glare.

“Keep it quiet over there!”

Six or seven tries later I gave up and drove home. It was now 3:00. I sat in my truck and contemplated my options:

1. Go to my parents’ place, wake them up and stay there until the morning.

2. Rent a motel room.

3. Sleep in the truck.

Then inspiration struck. I decided to get our ladder, climb to the second storey and pound on our bedroom window until Jan woke up. Gee, why didn’t I think of that before? Maybe because the idea was completely insane. In any case, a few minutes later I was in our pitch-black backyard leaning a 20-foot ladder against the wall and hoping the police weren’t planning to patrol our neighbourhood anytime soon.