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Code 404 for an ex

Exchanges over the Inter­net are encrypt­ed. If you call up a page and it exists, your brows­er will first receive a 200 code. If the address no longer exists, you will get a 404. Oth­er codes ensure the well-being of your nav­i­ga­tion. C., an ex, died on August 19th of lung can­cer. 404.

I don’t know what the codes are in med­i­cine or in math­e­mat­ics and sta­tis­tics. C.’s death is no sur­prise, hav­ing his code, con­sid­er­ing he had smoked a lot, and not just nicotine.

Noth­ing, how­ev­er, no code to talk about his com­pli­cat­ed life. I met him in 1984 or 1985. He was a the­ol­o­gy stu­dent, long curly eyes, beau­ti­ful blue eyes, his body smelled like patchouli.

He had caught a glimpse of me in the pavil­ion that brought togeth­er reli­gious and philo­soph­i­cal sci­ences. It was the first kiss in an emp­ty class­room. Then began a slow descent into my per­son­al hell. Per­haps the word is strong ; I would say it was a slow decon­struc­tion mixed with a dif­fi­cul­ty in find­ing my place in the pro­fes­sion­al world, also an emo­tion­al earthquake.

As attrac­tive as he was, C. was also a fas­ci­nat­ing being in many ways. A father of two young boys, one suf­fer­ing from what would lat­er be diag­nosed as Tourette’s Syn­drome, the oth­er boy was a car­bon copy of his moth­er. She had been away for a few years.

For me, it was a time of finan­cial hard­ship, but one that was rich in emo­tions and under­stand­ing. C., I can give him that, made me dis­cov­er the mis­ery of souls, the suf­fer­ing, the par­al­lel real­i­ties. This peri­od remained engraved in me as to what my sen­si­tiv­i­ty need­ed to go beyond the agreed promises.

But C. also pos­sessed impor­tant demons. Com­ing from a tox­ic fam­i­ly, his rela­tion­ships invari­ably turned sour. He was adopt­ed and reject­ed by his par­ents because he was too unruly. That’s to say, at the time, par­ents had three choic­es before accept­ing a child for adop­tion. C. was num­ber 3. The par­ents could not return it. At least that’s what C. liked to tell me. Was this true ? I don’t know.

He had stud­ied the­ol­o­gy and then coun­sel­ing. He had spe­cial­ized in lost caus­es, includ­ing peo­ple with ter­mi­nal can­cer, because he want­ed to find a way of redemp­tion with them, prob­a­bly. He also want­ed to try to help them through the mag­ic of psy­chol­o­gy. I was able to expe­ri­ence this learn­ing with him and this con­fronta­tion with death.

I pass the years. Our paths have grad­u­al­ly moved apart after many jolts, decep­tions on his part, lies, and mag­i­cal promis­es. He found his past, his so-called nat­ur­al moth­er, an Amerindi­an who sur­vived through pros­ti­tu­tion and who had uncon­scious­ly called her off­spring to dis­cov­er it. This is no joke, prob­a­bly mag­ic. All her aban­doned chil­dren found her before she died. That was that too, C.

He end­ed up being accept­ed as a half-breed by gov­ern­ments, even chang­ing his name. Shaman, he was when I knew him, shaman, he became a shaman on a reser­va­tion or something.

He is one of the main char­ac­ters in Crev­er mon fils, a nov­el that is my inter­pre­ta­tion of the rejec­tion of the moth­er for M.

I didn’t have much of news, and when I did, I con­fess that I was afraid every time he came back into my life, as if I feared I would have to naive­ly fall back into his truths. I wasn’t very strong psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly speak­ing in front of him.

C. had trou­ble with peo­ple in gen­er­al. He could do as much good as he did bad. He saw him­self as a magi­cian, no doubt, try­ing to be accept­ed while always telling the four truths to those who hadn’t asked for them, as if the sto­ry of his rejec­tions were to continue.

He came back into my life through Face­book. From time to time, I saw a few pic­tures of him. Heart attack in his fifties, some­times com­ments on my posts and news, usu­al­ly emo­tion­al strives, his youngest son hav­ing final­ly come out of it some­how, the old­er one caus­ing him pain, spit­ting image of his moth­er. Again, only inter­pre­ta­tions from his per­son­al­i­ty. I don’t know, actually.

About a year ago, C. left me a note on Face­book announc­ing that he had been diag­nosed with a prostate tumor. I had the reflex to tell him that he was lucky because prostate can­cer was an ill­ness we can cure. He had total­ly blown me off (kind of pissed me off) and “unfriend­ed” me on Facebook.

Towards the end of July, his old­est son sent me a note say­ing that his father was in the hos­pi­tal, dying. He had a mes­sage from C., who was think­ing of me.

It took me a few hours to react. First of all, C. had always been like that with me. I could have been a sponge to receive both his bile and his sweet­ness. I was sad but could do noth­ing for him. I replied to his old­est that I thanked them for being present in my life. Regret should not exist. I lived what I had to live with them. I wished them courage and, above all, the nec­es­sary reconciliation.

C.’s birth chart points pre­cise­ly to this search for the wound­ed soul, the hurt­ful moth­ers, ori­gins, and exiles. For­tu­nate­ly, one can­not pre­dict death in a birth chart, only link a con­text to it. The plan­e­tary move­ments that brought us to the pan­dem­ic were oper­at­ing in front of him as a great purge of the soul.

Code 404, there­fore, for C. I like to think that I could have received a code 301, a redi­rec­tion, or a 302, a new address. Who knows where the soul of this trou­bled shaman is. I was sin­cere when I thanked him for com­ing my way. I prob­a­bly would have had a hard time going to his bed­side. I had nei­ther the desire nor the courage. Am I a cow­ard trapped in his intel­lect ? There’s prob­a­bly a bit of that.

I know that C. want­ed to do good just as I’m try­ing to do mine. Each with its own codes and labyrinths. Go in peace, sir. Iron­i­cal­ly, two par­al­lel streets in Mon­tre­al have our last names. So, mag­ic exists even if we don’t see it all the time.

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