I come from a family of four. My mother Margaret Isabel Young (nee Peace), my father Dr. Robert Goddard Young, my brother, six years my junior, William Robert Stuart Young nd myself, John Paul Young. My brother died tragically in July 1996 shortly before my fortieth birthday. For the next six years I was the principal caregiver of my two parents. I was the one who discovered the body of my “baby” brother in his apartment. I was in shock. The attending police officer “Bart”, said to me at the scene “If you ID your brothers body for the Coroner, you’ll spare your elderly parents from seeing their son on the slab.” So still in clinical shock, the Coroner, a woman, a very nice woman arrived amongst all the others, arrived. She understood what I didn’t: the psychological impact of identifying a loved ones body, dead town days, bloated, cyanotic and with rigour mortis. A ghoulish vestige of his former self. So I wasn’t allowed to look at my brothers body until the Coroner chose the appointe
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"A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything."
~ Friedrich Nietzsche.
"Fools talk, cowards are silent, wise men listen."
~ Carlos Ruiz Zafón.
But you are the angel of death
And I am the dead man's son
He was buried like a mole in a fox-hole
And everyone's still on the run
And who is the master of foxhounds?
And who says the hunt has begun?
And who calls the tune in the courtroom?
And who beats the funeral drum?
The memories of a man in his old age
Are the deeds of a man in his prime
You shuffle in the gloom of the sick room
And talk to yourself as you die
~ Roger Waters (Free Four).
"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
~ W. Shakespeare.