Thomas Kevin Dolan

“All the women called me Coach and I loved that the place had tablecloths”, exclaimed my Father, over two decades ago, regaling the virtues of a local restaurant he and his woman friend enjoyed in Calgary.

He wasn’t all that concerned with delving much deeper into anything; his preference was to take things at face value. He’d remind me, “It’s simpler Son when you accept what is.” He was more Buddha like then he was Catholic.

I realize today he spoke from profound experience because he lived for over thirty years in the reality that his former wife, my Mom, had torn his children away from him. Talk about acceptance.

I am not a big fan of doctors for some reason; somewhere there is still a part of me that denies telling the truth about how I feel or where it hurts. Perhaps it is also tied to my denial about growing older. But this week I was channeling the energy of my Dad when I noticed a desire to accept “what is.”

Brian, my physician, opened with the classic line, “So how are you?” Immediately I noticed the sarcastic side of me think, “Is there anyone who comes to their doctor and answers that question with… I’m awesome, couldn’t feel better.” I took a deep breath and said, “I’m feeling absolutely exhausted.”

Accepting what is, one’s reality, I’m told is the key to freedom. Expecting something or someone to be different, in any way then how they are or how it is – this is the cause of suffering. Of course, for as long as you hold that expectation, you run the risk of the suffering to continue.

It was a big deal for me to list the symptoms of my exhaustion; there was something within me that surrendered to acceptance as a way to perhaps, just maybe, start to feel invigorated. But in that moment that was not my motivation.

I’ve had this immense bout of change, growth, grief, introspection, discovery and release over the last 18 months of my life. Tired seems to be my reward. Yet in front of my doctor it seemed like the time to name the elephant in the room.

Byron Katie, in her volume of work literally called “The Work”, talks about how when we don’t accept what is, we are sure and only 100 per cent of the time to suffer. I hear Dad’s voice, “It’s simpler when you accept.”

“Does it feel that all you can do is put one foot in front of the other just to keep moving?” he asks. Boy, did he hit the nail on the head (ouch, my head). Then out of his mouth came, “What would your life be like if you just stopped putting one foot in front of the other, if even for a short period of time?”

My ego thinks “I” am the poser of great questions. Here was a powerful question that had me land on another option for the exhaustion I was feeling. What if I just chose to ‘be’ with it and stop ‘doing’ things that only added to the exhaustion I was feeling. Imagine, I wondered, what would it feel like to stop putting one foot in front of the other, in the name of growth, and just ‘be’ for a while.

I brought acceptance into my doctor’s office and with that, I choose to chat with my counselor about the same thing. He affirmed all of the change, all of the stress, all of the growth I’ve experienced and wondered what my life would be like if I just took a hiatus from ‘doing’. Well, that’s three for three, Dad, Brian and John. Perhaps time to listen?

I’m notorious for thinking I’ve got to have it all figured out. I have a PhD in figuring things out and that acronym, for me, stands for ‘Pile it Higher and Deeper’.

Today, as I am gently reminded of the gift of my Dad’s wisdom, I’m leaning toward just ‘accepting’ for a while my experience of exhaustion and just ‘be-ing’ with it. Life is growth, I get that. Yet on most of the gadgets I own there is a pause button.

Growth for the sake of growth is dangerous and over-rated. It presupposes that if you’re not growing, there is something wrong with you. That is a pressure I’ve taken on, grow or die. All life rests.

So as I breathe into accepting the feeling of exhaustion I let go of the unexamined truth of full steam ahead or nose to the grindstone. What’s the point? I think at times, there is no point.

There was something about that restaurant that I never felt moved to share with Dad. He loved being called Coach Dolan and enjoyed dining at a table draped in linen. He accepted what was. He had some amazing experiences there and I’m sure the owners of Calgary’s only lesbian restaurant and bar loved sharing many a sporting afternoon with him.

He mastered accepting what is and today I am proud to be one of his students.

“I’ve never seen how much I love him”, were the words that seeped through my emotion filled voice. As I watched with tears streaming down my face, part of the video made of my nephew receiving his first-ever tattoo, I see myself hovered over him making sure he is safe.

Before leaving the Vancouver International Airport on a flight to Honolulu, my nephew shared that he thought his Mom’s would let him get a tattoo while in Hawaii. With excitement I quickly responded, “That’s funny I brought artwork for a tattoo I want to have done too.”

The words had just passed my lips and suddenly my sister said, “Thomas!” It was clear a decision had yet to be made. A smile crept across my face and I winked at my nephew.

The connection I have with my two nephews is profound, heart-warming and filled with such love inspired adventure. Both of them are my hearts greatest treasures and they keep gifting me with powerful life lessons.

In 1998, in Sydney, Australia, I was moved to have a small heart tattoo placed on my right hip. It is today a gentle reminder to follow my heart.

Since then I committed to creating a sacred mandala on four points of my body, which has been a work in progress for the last decade of my life. I have one more tattoo to complete the symbol of the four directions and four archangels; my mandala.

I first had the symbol of a shaman, my higher self, tattooed on my upper back while in San Diego. Next I chose a hunter icon on my left shoulder, the hunt for my truth, while on the Island of St. Croix. While in Hawaii, a warrior icon symbolizing my commitment to being a heart warrior, on my right shoulder.

Between beach, birthday, movie, shopping and eating time, in Hawaii on this occasion, I noticed this father-like fantasy of taking my nephew for a tattoo. I chose not to share the fantasy with anyone and remembered a decision long ago not to have kids in this lifetime. So the ‘father’ thing, this notion of protector and provider, was just a fleeting thought.

While on one of my adventures with my nephews I noticed a local Hawaiian man with a lot of tattoos. So I thought, why not ask him for a recommendation for an artist and tattoo parlour.

As he shared his recommendation he also told the story of one of his tattoos that was a right of passage for boys to become men in his Kauai tribe. I was awed by his story and the fact that he included in the sharing that his Father was present while he had the tattoo.

With the thought that perhaps my sister had given permission to my nephew to get a tattoo, I shared the success of my research and much to my surprise the green light had been given.

It felt important that I be as graphic as possible with my nephew about the experience of being tattooed. I shared the intense pain, especially over the bone, and the fact that literally his skin would be bleeding from the needle. He seemed to take it all in stride and was ready and raring to go.

The owner of the tattoo parlour and Hawaiian state law required that my sister bring her son in and sign a waiver. With that complete, my nephew and a dear friend stood together anticipating this ‘first time’ life experience. I remember waving to my sister as she headed out the door with her other son, this sense of ‘father’ energy returned again.

The agreement was that my nephew would watch the whole procedure while I received my newest tattoo. He never batted an eyelid and asked some really great questions. I was so proud of him. Plus, I felt like a powerful moment had been shared between he and I.

When my tattoo was complete, Eugene (his Hawaiian name is Eukarezt) asked my nephew if he was ready to go. He motioned with two thumbs up and the adventure began.

Eugene shared that in ancient Polynesia, where tattooing has its origin, when a boy received his first tattoo it signified that he became a man. Eugene then asked my nephew, “Are you ready to become a man?” Without blinking, he said, “Yes!”

Eugene added this caveat; “He becomes a man with responsibility.” I looked down at my nephew, sprawled on that massage table and said, “Are you ready to become a man with responsibility?” He looked into my eyes and without saying a word, empathically nodded yes.

As the tail end of the video rolled past my teary eyes I became present to seeing the love I have for this young man. None of us can see ourselves, so I’ve never seen how I’ve loved my nephew. I’ve only felt it.

While I watched other clips of me ensuring he was safe, that he wouldn’t be hurt and that he was comfortable, I was suddenly present to what a Father must feel like with his son. The tears begin to flow again.

Just as Eugene completed my nephews’ ankle tattoo, signifying growth, my sister walked into the parlour. As she moved toward the table I stepped aside to create space for her and her son.

From my vantage point, I listened to Eugene tell my sister, “You brought me a boy and I return to you a man”. As I took my next breath I realized that whole story of not feeling like a father, in this lifetime, had just disappeared.

“Prison gives me all the time in the world to write, and there are many papers hounding me to write for them,” chuckled my older brother Jim while attending our Father’s funeral prayers. Jim was escorted by two plain-clothed, armed police officers.

Today, June 29th, is his birthday and I realize I have no idea how old he is; not a clue. Jim exclaimed to the world for years that he’d never see his 40th birthday. Week’s prior to it, in the early 1990’s, he committed suicide.

I was told the last words he uttered while being lifted into the ambulance, in Victoria, was his name. Under the influence of a mixture of windshield washer anti-freeze and Coca-Cola, he managed to tell the paramedics his name, “I am James Joseph Dolan.”

I opened my life to receive love on my birthday yesterday – June 28th – and during the day, while bathed in love, I wondered who would remember Jim today. Would anyone wish him a happy birthday?

I don’t remember much about him. He was the brother responsible for my sexual abuse so I have done a lot of work to reconcile my past connected to that, especially since the double-edged sword for little gay boys of sexual abuse is they enjoyed it at times. That was my experience, terror and pleasure. It took me a long time to work through that dynamic.

Jim was gorgeous. When I think of the only picture I can conjure up in my mind to remember him, because I have no photos, it’s this image that has me think of a young Rock Hudson. Plus, the group of young male friends he hung out with was equally beautiful. For a little gay boy I always remember looking forward to seeing Jim’s friends.

Jim was cast as a ‘bad’ Dolan. He attempted suicide at a much younger age. His scars across his wrists were always scary to look at, but I always had this desire to ask him ‘why’, but I never did. The entire Dolan Tribe taught me never to ask questions.

His athletic prowess was amazing. His sense of style meticulous, and his ability to share some of the wittiest moments I can remember in my childhood still make me smile.

It’s like he had it all. Talent, brains, athleticism and a presence you could feel when he walked into the room. Yet I related to him on another level as well, one I never spoke of; I sensed his profound sadness and a huge undercurrent of anger.

Jim was one of five older Dolan’s, two other brothers, and two sisters. He was the baby of the group. I was one of the younger Dolan’s, two brothers and two sisters. There was no interaction between these groups and up until today I never realized the connection we held. He always seemed so alone and I felt the same way.

During my years of healing from sexual abuse I heard countless theories that the ‘perpetrator’ more than likely had the same thing happen to them. Although I was blessed to find great support and summon the courage to share my story of being abused by Jim, yesterday it dawned on me how he may not have been able to do that if someone did the same thing to him. My heart ached.

Who was or was not in his life that made no room for that little boy to reach out for help? What happened on his birthday, just like it did on mine, which had him choose to never celebrate his day of birth?

Today, he has no voice. He chose to silence himself, all possibly to stop hearing or feeling the pain he had to endure. Yesterday amidst the waves of love that I let in on my birthday, I felt this tremendous sadness for my brother who may have never experienced that in his lifetime.

I acknowledge I have every intellectual reason not to breathe a word of his memory for the atrocities he committed, not just to me but to others as well. Yet deep within me, within my compassionate heart, I felt him yesterday and felt a need to energetically share him with the world.

I’ve read that when one person heals, another person grows. I continue to heal my life; I choose healing everyday. Yet yesterday between listening to happy birthday being sung to me, opening a gift, replying to every Facebook birthday wish and blowing out birthday candles, I sensed the growth my brother attained even though he chose to leave.

When I met his girlfriend, whom he shared four years of his life with, at the Victoria airport to support her in arranging Jim’s funeral, Sheryl said, “I’ve never met a gay person before.” I held her and suggested, “Maybe you have, but you just haven’t known.”

She pulled away and said, “Jim told me about you. Your courage, your getting married and coming out, and your strength.“ She went on to say, “He related to you. He looked up to you.” With a blank stare she added, “I’m just remembering now, he told me that maybe he was gay.” I opened my arms and welcomed her into a loving embrace.

As I whispered, “Happy birthday brother,” I felt an energetic connection to Jim I’ve never felt since saying good-bye to his body sometime in early 1990’s.

By acknowledging him today, his growth, I am able to heal. I think he would have been 61.

“Merry Christmas! Hi,” were the words he used to fill my heart and gift me with a present I had never received before on Christmas Day. It was pouring rain and his spirits were brighter than I’d ever seen as he held out a bouquet of flowers as a gift for us. My partner, at the time, had come with me to share some of the Christmas Spirit.

For years I watched him sell flowers or entice drivers to buy them while they waited for the traffic light to turn green. He showed a passion and enthusiasm I rarely witnessed from friends, colleagues and others who were a part of the mainstream employment culture. This guy personified ‘commitment and tenacity’.

From time to time I’d buy his flowers. But mostly I’d offer him some money and thank him for allowing me to give.

Under all the positive energy I felt him exude and the admiration I held for him, I also noticed judgment on my part. “Get a job!”, “Take a shower!”, “Stop feeding off the system!” and “What’s your excuse for living on the street?”

Every year I filled a pint glass container with change. Its weight was significant as it was made up of nickels, dimes and quarters. At Christmas time I always intended to gift this small offering to someone living a ‘street economy’ and most years I made this gift on Christmas Day.

Even before he knew I was going to give him anything, he was handing me flowers. After all, it was Christmas Day. He suspended his street corner sales to acknowledge me and I felt this rush of love from someone I really didn’t know.

As I handed him his Christmas present, he broke down and cried. The stare I received from his eyes, actually his soul to my soul, continues to be one of the most profound connections I’ve made with another human being.

In this instance of connection, I was overwhelmed with all the judgment I had held for this human being, my brother, a reflection of my humanity, a person who perhaps loved others the way I loved. There was no distance between us, only a realization of the ‘judge’ I had become by thinking I was separate from him.

I suddenly remembered that my older brother Rick spent time living on the street. What if this man, at some point in time, supported my brother? Could it be that the one I had judged, although perhaps not him specifically, had gifted my brother with food, shelter, money or even a kind word? Suddenly there was no separation.

It amazed me that in these brief moments of connection with him, I was opening to a wisdom I had not contemplated before. I could now see the thing or things I most judged him for as really being my biggest fears.

It terrified me to live on the street. My biggest dread was selling. What would people think of me? What if someone I knew recognized me? I’m better than this! I deserve more from life! These were all my fears and had nothing to do with him.

All the projections I had of him were really my own limitations. He merely showed up to help me get comfortable or simply acknowledge parts of me I was not willing to be with. This man suddenly became my teacher.

He hugged the jar of coins as if it was the only gift he had ever received. I can still hear him say, “Oh my God, you’re giving all of this to me!” No words made their way past my lips.

As he cried, I cried. As his heart opened, mine did as well. I literally felt like my heart was doing what the Grinch’s did in the fabled Dr. Seuss story. I stood motionless within my own ‘Miracle on Abbott Street’.

I can now see the bigger lesson for me from watching this man, giving him money, feeling his presence, and yes, judging him. I was really seeing myself. What is the old adage? “There but by the grace of God, there go I.”

I project and judge because there is a part of me I have not embraced or have yet to give love to. I so easily made up stories about him because I could not find the courage to manage my own story about myself.

Just as there is something divine about my journey and where and how I am being, it is equally divine for him. I love no longer judging people on ‘the street’. Instead I send them a blessing knowing they are really showing me a part of myself I am learning to love.

I found out, through a friend, that this man’s reason for being on the street relates to a loved one he lost. He told my friend, “I’ve just not been able to recover from my loss.” Yet again another reason to love him. He reminds me of how devastating it can be to lose someone you deeply loved. I can relate to that!

As I walked away from him on that Christmas Day, I heard him yell through the pelting rain, “Is this all for me?”

“My side of the bed has never been colder,” teased Wendy, my former wife, in 1989. After coming out to her the year before, I thought it only fair to allow her to say whatever she felt was necessary. It was all in fun, plus we only tease the ones we love.

Earlier this week someone asked if I had any contact with Wendy and it reminded me of the length of time I would have been celebrating being married if I had not spoken my truth. Wendy was always clear that the 25th anniversary gift is appropriately silver and a band of diamonds was her expectation. Little did we know that I’d be more likely to wear drippy jewelry than her.

Along with appreciating some exquisite memories shared with Wendy, thoughts of her immediate family came to mind. Her brilliant Mom, her powerful younger sister, her older brother who helped define the word ‘determination’ and her powerfully athletic little brother. These are all very special people with whom I am so grateful to have shared a part of my life, yet really knew nothing about.

The youngest brother had played national level and professional volleyball, and I had remembered him commenting on the news that a teammate on Team Canada’s National Volleyball Team had come out. Being rather sensitive to news about gays, while in the closet as a married man, my heart raced when he commented, “He better not look at me while we’re showering or I’ll kill him.” Not good news for the brother in-law who would eventually tell his sister he was gay.

So I took this nostalgic energy to Calgary this past weekend to spend time with my family and, in particular, my two nephews. While committing to arriving at my youngest nephew’s hockey game at 8:15am on Saturday morning, my sister asks me a very interesting question, “Do you know or have you heard of a Grant, not sure of his last name. He’s real tall and I think he used to play with Canada’s National Volleyball Team. His name seems familiar to me.”

By the look on my sisters face, as I respond to her, she knows she’s struck an enormous nerve by posing that particular question. I say, in the calmest of tones, yet freaking out inside, “That is Wendy’s youngest brother. I was just thinking of him earlier in the week.”

My sister loves the expression, “Oh my God!” Well at this particular restaurant and in front of her kids I had not ever heard her exclaim OMG as loud as she did. She went on to share, “Grant’s son plays on”, and she points to my youngest nephew, “his team!” The words “… or I’ll kill him” ring in my ears.

My two nephews know I was married and that I am gay. But imagine explaining to an 11-year-old that one of his hockey buddy’s Dad used to be my brother-in-law. Now this is fodder for a great mini series or perhaps a soap opera. On top of that, add the ambient laughter of my 13-year-old nephew, his brother. Awkward never loomed so large. Thank goodness for the brilliant parenting and sibling skills of my sister, although she was laughing as hard as her teenaged son.

So after 22 years of really knowing nothing about Wendy and her family, I’m one breakfast away from seeing my former brother in-law and in a twisted kind of way I think, ‘Thank God it’s not in a public shower.’

Between leaving my family after dinner and being in awe of the way the Universe works its wonders, I begin to think of all the healing that has taken place in 22 years of my life. I’m poised to reconnect with the brother of one of the greatest loves of my life. “Thank God I didn’t see this one coming,” I hear myself mutter because I may not have shown up for this reunion.

My sister did ask if I wanted her to chat with Grant before I arrived at the arena. This unusual calm came over me and I simply said, “I don’t think that is necessary. But if it will make you more comfortable, then go right ahead.” My sister laughs and shares, “I think I’ll tell him that 20 or so years we may have attended a wedding together and then let him know it was yours and Wendy’s.” I can still see her rolling in laughter as she concocts the story.

“Thank you God for another day” rolls from my lips as my eyes open that next morning. The next thought wasn’t so divine. I’m about to walk into a hockey arena. ‘Gay Uncle Thomas’ walking into a place that is known for fights breaking out. I notice a tinge of panic when I think of the reception Grant’s gay teammate received while sharing his sexuality.

I could not have conjured up a story like this in the greatest rendition of a trashy gay fiction novel. This is priceless, perfect, and without a doubt an amazing opportunity to trust the wisdom of life as it unfolds, exactly the way it needs to.

As I walk into the arena I sense a bit of discomfort in myself, my sister and some of the hockey Moms. Intuitively, I look for an escape route. It’s something that we do as gay people just in case our audience is not as open as we’d hoped for. I chuckle at how ridiculous this seems, but notice how proud I am for thinking about my own safety. Plus, if it all goes awry, the hockey Moms will scratch his eyes out.

As I walk into the ice arena, there stood Grant, all 6 foot 5 of him. How did this 20 something year old end up with a 12 year old son? I quickly snap out of my nostalgic haze, reached out my hand and said, “Grant, it’s amazing to see you. I understand you and Frances met at a wedding 23 years ago. Small world, huh?” He laughed and I began to breathe.

I stood in this magic place with him. I felt safe. He looked me in the eye. We laughed. He shared that his wife, Kathleen, told him years ago when Wendy and I first got married that she thought I was gay.

Grant updated me on his Mom, his Grandmother, his older brother and sister. He also shared that Wendy was well; she returned to Calgary from Toronto and had three kids. I smiled remembering how Wendy felt she’d be a terrible Mother and that was our reason for not having children. I felt such love for her upon hearing the news.

I noticed a profound sense of gratitude I had while with Grant. I had moved from a place only a few days ago wondering about Wendy, her family and her brother Grant to now knowing some things I had, at times, longed to know but somehow thought I’d miss in this lifetime.

I ended my time with Grant asking him to say hello to all these amazing people that had been a part of my life. He enthusiastically said, “Absolutely!”

As I released his hand from our handshake and started walking away I turned back and said, “Thanks for not hitting me.”