When Irish eye's are smiling...

...Irish hearts are full of pain.

Brendan was a towering man, in height and girth certainly, but with a personality that was immense. Not a shy wall flower by any means.

Brendan was an infrequent shelter stayer, and most often would arrive early and drunk, and make impassioned (and loud!) speeches outside the door demanding justice, equality, early admission, coffee and a sandwich. Perhaps one of the most pragmatic protesters I have ever met.

One of my first 911 moments in the shelter world involved Brendan, and was in hindsight eerily precognizant.

My shift started at 7pm, the doors opened at 8pm. On a warm August afternoon I arrived at the shelter and started setting up for the evening. About 30 minutes into the shift Brendan made his presence known. A diatribe ensued when I told him that he was 30 minutes early, but delivered with great style.

10 minutes on I hear a knock at the door. Brendan is now prostrated on the road outside the shelter door, and a crowd has gathered around him. Lights! Camera! Action! I leap into action and he tells me that he is having a heart attack, and he certainly looked like I thought someone having a heart attack should look. I go back inside, call 911, grab some gloves and towels and a blanket and head back outside. What medical knowledge I drew on to decide that towels and a blanket had any utility in treating a heart attack I cannot say.

In 10 minutes the ambulance arrives. By this time Brendan is unconcious and breathing is shallow and rapid. The ambulance crew approach with caution (deserted alley, large collection of assorted rough looking characters, darkening sky, can't say I blame them). As they approach I am concerned that they don't look concerned enough.

The lead paramedic walks over to us, stands at Brendan's head, and taps his shoulder with a double boot tap.

"Didn't we pick you up yesterday at the Princess Gate?" he says.

From my vantage point at Brendan's side I see one eye cautiously open and size up the paramedic. Deciding that a graceful exit was required, Brendan regained consciousness and normal breathing with alacrity. Cheerfully thanking the paramedics for their help, he stood up gathered his belongings and headed in to the shelter that was now open early to try and clear the crowds. To say I was mortified would be an understatement.

What I learned though was that how we assign value to things, and what lengths we will go to attain that value, are very subjective. For Brendan, the effort he put in to get the shelter open by 10 minutes had value.

Brendan provided many more memorable moments right up until his death. He died one cold fall day as he lay in the street waiting for an ambulance. Turns out Brendan had a poor memory for routes, and often would walk to places from which he couldn't find his way back to downtown. One of his strategies at this time was to fake a heart attack and then he was able to find his way back to the shelters from all the downtown hospitals. Engaged in this strategy, and with the ambulance only blocks away, a taxi cab ran him over and he died before he could get help. A modern day boy who cried wolf.