Tony Trimingham was one of two speakers last night at a public forum at the Ottawa Public Library. He came all the way from Australia to talk about harm reduction programs, and to tell us about his son, Damien, who died of a heroin overdose twelve years ago at the age of 23.
It was a heartbreaking story, graphically illustrated with a series of photographs of Damien from the day he was born till the day he died. What we saw was a baby born into a loving family, who grew into a fun-loving boy and a champion athlete, and who appeared to live his life to the fullest. The last few shots were police photos of him lying alone in a stairwell, dead.
I doubt there was a dry eye in the house. I think we were all able to imagine our own children in Damien Trimingham.
Tony said while it’s true that lots of addicts come from backgrounds of abuse and pain, there are also quite a few who are creative, courageous, artistic people who just seem to need a lot of stimulation and who are risk-takers. Damien was one of those.
Damien tried heroin for the first time 18 months before he died, and, along with his girlfriend, became addicted quickly. After a period of heavy use, he was able to quit, more or less, with treatment. In the 12-month period before he died, he used heroin only once or twice. On the last day of his life, he was in a bar with his new girlfriend, they had an argument, she left, and he embarked on a journey by train and foot that took him to a drug ghetto in King’s Cross.
Damien died about 500 meters from where a safe injection site now stands. It wasn’t there then. His father says we will never know if he would have gone there to inject if it had been there, but Damien did travel a long way that day to get to that neighbourhood where he could buy drugs and clean needles, and there’s good reason to believe he might have gone another 500 meters to inject somewhere safe.
That facility that now exists there has supervised millions of injections, including 3,000 overdoses, all of which were successfully intervened in by nurses. Not one life has been lost.
In seeking support for himself and his family in the aftermath of Damien’s death, Tony realized there was virtually no support available. A counselor by trade, he decided not to stay hidden, not to bear his loss in isolation, and he wrote a letter to a major newspaper about his son’s death and the lack of services. Phone calls poured in from other families who had either suffered the same loss or feared they might. He had touched a nerve by telling his story. He had opened the floodgates.
A public meeting was held, and from that meeting sprung a group called Family Drug Support. They offer support groups, a 24/7 support line, a magazine, courses, information resources about coping with addictions, and bereavement support.
Tony Trimingham also talked about the “defining moment,” which gave me a bit of a jolt. There is a myth that people need to hit rock bottom in order to find the motivation to quit using drugs. In fact, he says, recovering addicts often speak of a defining moment in which they made a decision to quit. It’s a profound and powerful thing that sometimes comes out of the clear blue sky. Interestingly, I myself experienced such a defining moment, yet I’ve rarely heard others speak of it.
I apologize for not getting information out on the blog in advance of last night’s public forum. I know some of you might have liked to attend if you’d known about it. If you happen to be in Montreal, the same forum will be held there tonight (Rm 151 Bronfman Building, McGill University at 6:30 pm). Or, if you’re in Toronto, there will be a Forum at Toronto City Hall on Thursday at 7:00 pm.
I arrived home late late late Saturday night to some upsetting but unbloggable news. Then the universe kind of stood on its head and spun around for a few hours before righting itself again. Sometimes you just have to have faith that the universe will unfold as it should, because it will. It always does.
And it did. The stars have re-aligned themselves and the planets have settled back into their orbits. Everything’s good now.
On Sunday my allergic-to-cats friend Jamie drove me to get Duncan from the Cat’s Meow and we had a lovely drive back to Ottawa with him settling nicely into his brand-new leopard skin carrying case. (If you recall, he destroyed his cardboard Humane Society carrying case on the way there by pooping in it, peeing in it, and then slicing it open with his razor sharp claws during a semi-successful escape attempt.)
The drive back was immeasurably better than the ride there. He really is such a placcid, easy-going cat. When we arrived to pick him up, he was outside enjoying his private little backyard, which was a lot lovelier and less prison-like than it looks in this picture. They do have triple-security to keep the cats from escaping, but it’s not as stark as the picture makes it look. (And, just so you know, the Cat’s Meow gets two thumbs up and five stars from both me and Duncan. If you’re looking for a lovely, clean, peaceful, pleasant, comfortable place for your cat to live while you’re away, I don’t think there’s anywhere better than the Cat’s Meow.)
I missed blogging while I was in Haliburton. There was one public-use computer for hundreds of students to share, and there were hoardes of voracious 10-year-old Internet addicts who couldn’t pry their sticky little fingers off the keyboard once they got their turn. I did manage to get about 10 minutes a day on the computer while impatient little kids looked over my shoulder and squirmed anxiously and asked me if I was almost done yet. It was enough time to check email and read blog comments. But it wasn’t enough time to blog. (Thanks to all of you who left comments, by the way. I loved reading them – it made me feel still connected.)
I’ve been thinking about how to blog my vacation. It seems worthy of more than just a post, but I don’t want to drag it out either. There’s just so much to write about: Haliburton itself, my art course, my guitar course, the interesting people I met, the camping experience, the coyotes and bunnies, the cabin, the coffee shop, the internet withdrawals, the concerts I went to, the concert I performed in (!), the art I made, the art I bought, the panicky feeling I got when I realized I’d lost my return train ticket 8 minutes before the train arrived. And then there’s Henry – everybody should mark the fifth anniversary of their breakup by going camping with their ex. You’ll probably end up reunited, dead, or better friends. (We survived and I think we’re better friends now.)
Okay. I’m going to start with the courses and see where it goes.
I took Mixed Media with Valerie Kent the first week, while Henry took Rick Fines’ fingerstyle guitar course. Mixed media involves throwing a whole bunch of stuff at the canvas and seeing what sticks. Watercolours, acrylics, watercolour pencils, glue, crushed eggshells, sparkles, glass beads, leaves, crumpled paper, pictures from magazines, whatever. You also use various techniques, including sponging, pouring, stamping and monoprinting. Anything goes. This is a course that someone with no artistic talent or experience can enjoy, and I say that from my own unique vantage point as someone with no artistic talent or experience. It’s like being in kindergarten again.
The teacher, Valerie Kent, was lovely, and very good at nurturing students of varying levels. She treated me like a kindergarten student, oohing and ahhhing over every effort I made and praising my stick figures and gooey messes. The other five students in the class were better than me, and she tailored her feedback accordingly. The most advanced students got criticism as well as praise. For example, she suggested that one student remove the sun from her gorgeous landscape painting. (If I had painted that sun she would have said it was beautiful and put it in a frame.)
Here are some of my masterpieces. Feel free to print them out and stick them to your fridge door with magnets.
Did you ever wonder what time the cows come home? Well, these cows came home at 6:00 A.M on June 18th. I saw them while walking to work. I love having the Experimental Farm in my backyard.
The Experimental Farm cows are nice and clean and friendly. I think there probably isn’t any better life for a cow than being an Experimental Farm cow. (Well, maybe the sacred cows in India have it better. But as far as Canadian cows go, the Experimental Farm provides the ultimate in luxury bovine accommodations.)
Did you know that girl calves born at the Experimental Farm get to stay, but the boy calves have to leave forever? So sad.
I was wandering through the Byward Market a couple weeks ago with a fellow blogger and I saw something out of the corner of my eye that made my head swivel: People sitting on the patio of a Lebanese restaurant smoking big ol’ hookah pipes.
Naturally we stopped and talked to them and asked them what they were smoking. They said it’s called shisha, and it’s a spice. They offered us a hit off the pipe, so my friend tried it and said it tasted kind of minty.
According to Wikipedia, we’d stumbled upon a hookah lounge, and the substance being smoked is flavoured tobacco.
Abu Dani, a regular shisha smoker in Ottawa, shares his tips on how to get the most out of the shisha experience while avoiding nicotine addiction.
If you want to try it yourself, go to the Garlic Corner at 321 Dalhousie.
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