Dredging Up Bones

I’m sitting again by the river, looking at reflections of the past.  Some are dark and murky.  I almost fear to dredge them up.  Rotted bones tangled in the seaweed of purposely-forgotten memories.

Bear with me as I taste the bitter waters once again. 

One time many years ago, I began an essay, “I was born into dark chaos…”  True.   By the time my youngest brother Robert was born in 1951, it was somewhat better.  Dad had worked most of the year; an addition had just been added to our home to accommodate the five children and we ate fairly well, unlike earlier days.  Robert was an apple-cheeked darling with blond curls, adored by all who saw him.  Spoiled by my parents.  Doted upon by my sister.  Yet even then, when she kneeled by the bed to tie his shoes, he kicked her in the face and laughed. 

This was written yesterday by his ex-wife, in his memory: 

“St Vincent’s Hospital, Sydney

End of an Era

After a long fight with life in general but mostly with cancer, an extraordinary genius, Robert Daniel Taylor, passed away leaving his son A-----  and others to contemplate a complicated ending to this rather unusual man's life…”

What makes us what we are?  Life is exceedingly complex, partly external events, partly internal response, and partly “what we’re made of.”  A few days ago, a friend posted a treatise on Facebook about NPD parents.    

Oh, yes, that was the story of my life, and Robert’s.  Dad’s will was supreme and never to be questioned.  Fear, uncertainty, raging anger, demanded obedience, violent beatings, unending work projects, total control in the name of religion, friends and social contacts forbidden, and loss of identity as an individual.  God must weep at what humans do in His Name.  

Why did I not leave our cult-like family?  I guess, partly from a sense of duty, partly fear of damning my soul, and partly fear of the unknown world outside our isolated circle—even though I rebelled fairly often and threatened to leave, I never did.  I had no skills, social or otherwise; I felt trapped.

My brothers, on the other hand, escaped as soon as they could.  Robert, seething with anger, left at an early age and took out a restraining order so my parents could not contact him.  My remaining family became even more ingrown and weird.  The boys disappeared into the world “out there.”

After my Dad’s death in 1986, my mother took courage and found my scattered brothers.  David, once part of Jimmy Carter’s administration, was VP of Global Communications for Ciba-Geigy International; Paul was an “old hippie” living in Australia, a builder of exotic off-grid housing and a respected consultant in permaculture; Robert and his wife had a commercial construction business in NY City.

Sounds good, doesn’t it.  “And we all lived happily ever after…”  Not true.  A river, once deeply polluted, seldom recovers, and poisons all it touches.

Our oldest brother, self-centered, rich and once-powerful, now struggles like a child with severe brain damage from an automobile accident.  The second brother lives a secluded life along the Australian coast with his final (and at last, sensible) girlfriend, drowning the pain of the past in pot and New Age Buddhism.  In fact, my Mom and most of the family turned to Buddhism to flee as far as possible from the bitter aftertaste of “Christianity” falsely so-called.  Then, there is my sister, permanently damaged emotionally.  Almost 20 people in three succeeding generations now swirl, lost, in the downstream eddies of the river of my past.  Far from God, refusing to discuss Jesus, unaware of His love and salvation.

Meanwhile, Robert and his wife had outstanding lawsuits with most of their New York construction clients, including a group of nuns.  Anger, bitterness, and “self” had become generational.  They immigrated to Australia in the ‘90s, after borrowing all of Mom’s retirement funds--I won’t go into all the legal battles, estrangements, etc that ensued. Robert sued her for money since he was never sent to college (neither was I.)  Mom never met her grandson, and I was cut off from further contact after Robert found out I had shown her photos of the baby.  Life was all about Robert, and the world owed him.  He hated our Dad the most, yet was the most like him.

About a year ago, I saw his name on Facebook and tentatively contacted him.  Somehow, the few conversations we had were civil.  He was in Colombia, working on mining and humanitarian projects—and very bitter about the lack of sufficient gratitude from those he was “helping.”  He had told me previously about construction projects in Virginia where he had problems which became violent.  It was always “their fault.”  He was always of the utmost integrity and could not abide others’ lack of it.

Then, he admitted he was fighting cancer.  He demanded I raise $96,000 for his treatment in Bogota.  I was floored.  $96 maybe…  Russ and I were still struggling with Russ’ medical disasters, living on Social Security.  “You raise money for India, do it for me!”  We had never raised anything near that much, and I certainly couldn’t ask our mission donors to help a relative whom I had barely known for years, and whose track record had been less than spotless.

Feeling a sense of obligation for a sick family member, I posted his plight (in general terms) on Facebook, hoping to raise some funds.  He was outraged that I had gone public with his “private” affairs and lashed out at me mercilessly.  I told him I could not/would not put aside my life and husband to fulfill his demands, and that he had options:  Return to Australia for free medical care; swallow some pride and ask his ex-wife for help; or move back to the US to collect his compensation from a lawsuit against the government due to his work in a nuclear lab years ago.  Again, he cut off communication from me. 

Then one day he found us on Skype; friendly, personable, speaking of his future plans and his high level of integrity.  Next, he asked if I would lie and say he lived at our address so he could collect his financial settlement.  His “crooked American lawyer” would not send the money out of the USA.  Again, I refused, saying I had hoped that our renewed conversations did not have an agenda…which they always did.  Me, me, me….

Soon, I began seeing posts on his ex-wife’s Facebook page that Robert was back in Australia receiving medical treatment and spending some time with his now-grown son.  What he never mentioned, despite his professed “integrity,” was that he had been involved with a 20-something lady in Colombia, had two young children with her, and was now married to her.  It was a huge surprise to everyone that knew him.

After receiving help from his ex-wife in Sydney, he moved out of her apartment, cut off all communication, and threatened her with police if she contacted him.  History repeats itself…

Sooo, the tragic ending to the bitter, angry story of his life—a reflection of our father’s legacy.  A few days ago, I heard he refused to go to his doctors’ appointments and “lost it.”  They took Robert to the ER at St Vincent’s Hospital, Sydney Australia, on Monday January 5, 2015; knowing there was nothing more anyone could do.  At 3:50AM January 6^th, Australian time, he passed into eternity.  Leaving dark chaos in the hearts and lives of his son, his ex-wife, and his siblings--and a new wife and little children, stranded on a sandbar in the middle of a lonely and unfamiliar river….

So the River of Life flows on, into eternity, into God’s own hands.   May the Lord have mercy on his soul.  I weep for what could have been...