You Knew His Name, Not His Story.
Reflective Piece on Grief and the life of Iain “Scrubbie” Stokes.
It seems that most people are excellent storytellers. To the point of almost being psychic. Possessing an uncanny ability to spot a loser a mile away. Losers are the ones we know to avoid and never make eye contact with; attached to this attitude is a belief that we will be tarred through association. But have you ever taken the time to reality test your story by hearing theirs?
Would your opinion change?
A well-known window washer in Canberra comes to mind. I remember well the day he walked through the doors of the little dental practice I was working in. Locally he was known as ‘Scrubbie’, while over the months he attended our practice, I got to know him as Iain. Before meeting him and hearing his story, he was someone I was afraid of. His weathered face, cigarette-stained fingers, tattered clothes, missing teeth, and unruly hair seemed to signal a sense of danger within me. As I pulled up to the traffic lights, I would quickly lock my doors and close my windows; in the early days, I had my wipers set on an automatic cycle so that if he ever touched my windscreen, he would quickly have to move on. My personal narrative shaped my views. I thought I knew where his money went based on appearance alone. I believed he was the type to steer well clear of.
As I got to know him as a patient, my opinions and values-judgements changed significantly. This is the danger attached to trusting a single story. Where once I had known him as someone to fear, as I got to know him? I grew to love and admire him for his tender heart and brilliant mind. He was a man who had tried to make his father proud. He went to university and started studying something he held no passion for. In hindsight, he wished he had pursued his own interests academically. He described his love for his mother as being unbreakable. He knew she loved him with every fibre of her being. She knew his dreams, hopes and aspirations. She loved him for all that he was and all that he hoped to be. He explained to me that after his mother’s death when he was still quite young, everything in his life came crashing down.
Through carefully listening to his story, my compassion grew as I considered how his grief had drastically altered his life. What I admired most is he seemed to own every choice he had ever made while being able to look back and reflect on how things could have potentially been somewhat different. Hearing his story made me feel an uncanny connection between our shared humanity. We both loved books and shared a healthy appreciation for music of many genres while being able to relate to each other through our lived experiences. On one occasion, he left determined to get a hold of a book I had mentioned, “Save me from myself” written by Brian ‘Head’ Welch, a guitarist and founding member of the band Korn; Brian’s personal testimony seemed to spark hope within Iain that perhaps freedom was possible- even for someone like him. I never did get the chance to find out if he had read it, but I am eternally grateful for the opportunity I was given to get to hear a part of his story.
How Others Remembered Iain.
One thing that truly struck me when Iain died in 2016, aged just 62 was the way Canberra locals knew and remembered him. I wondered if Iain was even remotely aware of the power of his influence and how his existence had impacted so many lives within the local community. Some remember him as:
“Scrubby was a dear friend of mine for many years. He came from a well-to-do family; he made poor choices, but never blamed anyone.”
“He was always friendly, and I watched with sadness as his health deteriorated in the past few years. He had a difficult life but was always polite. I would give him a couple of smokes or whatever I had on me.”
“His father was the president of wests rugby union club and high up in the treasury. His mother also had a great job in the public service. Both died quickly after each other when Iain was a teenager, and he couldn’t cope. How quickly our lives can change.”
“We would always have a short chat; he was always kind and considerate. He always brought me joy when we encountered each other”
“a warm-hearted, generous and honest person and a great rugby union player at Lyneham High many years ago.”
“I had been nagging him for the last year to go and see a doctor or someone as his decline was severe. Scrubby was an intelligent man who recited the most beautiful poetry…. I shall miss him.”
“I remember 15 years ago, my dad stopped on a green light to give him a can of Jack for Xmas; he almost cried.”
“Out of all the window washers at traffic lights in Canberra, Scrubby was leagues above the others with his politeness, friendliness and non-judgement of others.”
“Iain did make some bad choices in life, as many others have stated, but he never blamed anyone else.”
While my personal favourite:
“He was an intelligent man with a broken heart. He had issues with addiction, but he carried himself with an air of grace and dignity. He bared his soul out on the street corner every day. He knew who he was. He lived the best life he could.”
How easy it is to judge someone based on their circumstances. Defining another’s worth and value based on our own values and beliefs alone. Our personal level of discomfort creates a chasm, while our own fears and activated triggers prevent us from forming connections with others who live differently from ourselves. How different the world could be if we took the time to genuinely get to know people before creating our own personal narrative of who they are, where they have come from, and what kind of life they must have lived. Iain was still a kid when he lost his parents. Grief drastically altered his path; perhaps Iain’s life choices were a visual interpretation of the manifestation of complicated grief. Perhaps he didn’t have the support available to him even to come close to understanding or processing his pain. So instead, he found a way to numb it.
Not knowing more about his story, I can only hypothesise as to what may have happened. Through personal experience, I know firsthand how lonely and isolating grief can be. Losing not one but two significant attachment figures in a short time would further complicate the grieving process. I imagine it is still harder for an emerging adult's developing mind, whose brain will not be fully developed until 25. When I reflect on what I know regarding how trauma and substance abuse both can change the brain, how was Iain’s brain permanently changed through the loss of his parents and the ensuing coping strategies he chose? Was his chosen path a normal response to an otherwise abnormal situation? What if it was the only solution that offered an antidote of sorts to survive in a world that felt empty, uncertain, and cold? Was his first experience with substance an almost spiritual encounter? Did it feel like receiving a warm embrace in a world that could otherwise not reach him? Did he find comfort and understanding through others also running away from pain? Perhaps he also found a level of healing through connection with others, highlighting the healing value found through relationships. Was it this space through which he found some reprieve?
The Grief Ocean
The hard truth is I don’t believe it is possible to ever know the true magnitude of another person’s experience. Or the depths of their grief and despair. Without being able to articulate our loss, not having the words to express how deep the impact; or even how vast the loneliness seems to be. It can be experienced like being thrown out into the deepest part of the ocean without a boat. Treading water while getting slammed wave after wave, after relentless wave. Getting sucked under, coming up fighting for air, with no end in sight. It gets exhausting after a while. With no hope of anyone coming to rescue you, you fight for your life, praying for a miracle that doesn’t seem to come. In the distance, you see ships float by; it’s so dark and stormy that they cannot see you or hear your cries. You start to question if maybe they chose to turn a blind eye, out of fear of what they might find. When a hand grabs you by the shirt, a weathered face pulls you onto their makeshift raft made from random bits of driftwood; they tell you they, too, have been in these waters for a while. You can see from the sadness that still shines in their eyes that every word they speak is true. You find solace and comfort simply through being in the presence of someone who genuinely understands. Your fears begin to subside as together you drift closer to shore. How long did you spend out there? No one can ever really be sure. The ocean of grief is different for each of us. A passage that not many can make it through completely alone and without support.
Connection as the Antidote
While experiencing grief and pain is inevitable, if we viewed it through the lens of an illness of sorts, perhaps we could learn a better way of navigating through it. Rather than turning away from someone else’s pain, we could instead choose to turn towards it. Connection is said to be the antidote to fear, anxiety, despair, and even addiction.
In closing, I want to leave you with a thought to ponder. Maybe we could all learn something through ‘The Lakota Idea’:
“We need to celebrate and support people who are ill because they are the canaries in the mine. They’re the ones showing us that our society is out of balance, and we need to thank them for taking that on and doing it for the rest of us. All of us need to participate in their healing, because if not for them, where would we be? We’re all responsible for whatever ails them. We have the responsibility to contribute to their healing for everybody’s benefit.”
