When Happy Hour becomes hostile.

Downtown was our place. In particular, George Street – a bustling bar district in St. John’s, Newfoundland, known for its good music and good times. While attending University in St. John’s, circa 1996ish, my sister, friends, and I often ventured to George Street. Our favourite spot was O’reillys Pub, a popular friendly Irish Pub. Popular for its live and lively music – a definite crowd pleaser and trigger for a spontaneous sing-along and endless arm and shoulder chains swaying in unison. Friends and strangers raising glasses – and voice decibels to match – to sway and sing in jovial harmony to Sonny’s Dream, always a crowd favourite. A camaraderie well worth the price of admission. Nothing bad ever happened to us at O’reillys Pub

I do not recall why, but on this particular night we decided to go somewhere else. Motivated by an early happy hour or perhaps it was just a brief stop as an impromptu prequel to O’Reillys.   

This place was unfamiliar to us. I do not even remember the name of it. Everything else about I do. What happened that night would stay with me forever. 

The stairs entering the bar should have been enough of a reason and deterrent to not venture in (or up). It would be now, but back then – 25 years ago – a steep stairwell held no legitimacy. So, we climbed. Assuming our stair climbing positions, a friend lead the front, and I assumed the rear, immediately behind my twin sister. I was the safety net directly behind her as she steadily climbed with the aid of a crutch – a necessary mobility aid – since the car accident that caused her spinal cord injury in 1992. My fierce grip on the handrail, eyes front, alert, and ready to catch her if she fell.  I was her Protector. Her injury made her vulnerable to more injury. It is a double unfair outcome of a spinal injury. Since her accident 4 years prior, I assumed the role of protector. Nothing could hurt her on my watch. I was there to catch her.

We arrived at the top of the stairwell without incident, entered the unfamiliar bar, claimed our seats and ordered a round of drinks.

It took all of 10 minutes to realize we were in unwelcome territory – the invisible daggers that were hurled our way – an obvious sign of trespassed foreign land. Its origin – a small group of guys hanging off the bar. None of us knew them, but their hostility poisoned the air.  

One of our friends, was 6’5”. He had presence. All we could figure is these guys already had indulged in happy hour a little too much and were itching to squander the pent-up testosterone ripping through them.  

This growing hostility was sucking the happy out of our happy hour. With a nod of agreement, we relinquished our new pub territory claim, finished our drinks, and started our way down the steps. Our sense of urgency to vacate this hostile ground growing by the second.  We assumed our descending positions (me in front of my sister) and formed the human chain as we made our way down to the entrance below. We were just clearing the doorway when a commotion started on the upper stairs. That sudden and powerful burst of inertia set off a freight train of bodies falling onto each other.  We became human dominos in a downward fall. The entrance to the pub had a concrete perimeter at street level.  The explosive and compounding pressure of bodies came down onto her, propelling us forward and helplessly down. We were no match for the weight of the force. I could not stop or break her fall. I fell too. She landed face-first mere centimeters from the concrete wall barrier.  The sight of her falling. The concrete wall. She laying on the ground, centimeters from a concrete wall that if impacted would have caused serious injury. I failed to protect her. I was helpless at that moment. Her eyes, two piercing circles of blue, revealed everything I needed to know. The vulnerability behind those eyes gutted me.

My brain went to work, and a quick assessment of the scene revealed she was not seriously hurt. She has not rebroken her neck. She had not hit her head. She had not broken any bones. Her hands were scuffed, pebbles and dirt punching little holes into her skin. Her arms and knees would be a canvas for more bruising in the days ahead. It is not the visible markings that reveal the true depth of trauma. The scars below the surface of the skin from moments of terror – never visible – are often the hardest to heal. 

This hostile scene with its hostile sounds ignited an animal instinct in me.  That moment and the moments that followed will haunt me for months afterwards. Years in fact. Flashes of that night are burned on my retinas. I see it now in my mind’s eye, as I did then.  

I am not proud of what became of me in that moment. But something snapped. I grabbed my sister’s arm crutch that was resting on the pavement. No longer a mobility aid. An object that was so intimately familiar to me, now suddenly foreign, transformed to a weapon in my hands.

I went searching for the guy I knew was responsible. My hatred gaining new strength with every step. All the years of worry were churning me into something unrecognizable. The months of watching my sister in a hospital bed. Visions of head traction bolted to her temples to keep her spinal column from compressing on the fractured vertebrae. Weights on a pulley system, attached to her skull. Months of watching my sister learning to do everything again. Months of watching my sister’s healthy long hair fall out. French braids becoming her new hairstyle and our daily routine to hide yet another loss of herself to this injury. Months of worry that my sister may never walk again. Worry that the life she had imagined for herself was becoming more elusive with each setting sun. Years of wishing that we could go back in time before the stupid accident. All of it. All that worry vibrated through this aluminum crutch. No longer an aid. A symbol of loss, pain, and fear of what is and what could have been. I unleashed all of it on him. For what he did. For what he almost did. I stepped outside my body. I raised my sister’s crutch and started swinging. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to know. What his stupidity almost did to her. Did to us. With every swing, I felt a release. Even outside of my body, I knew not to swing with everything I had. I wanted him to hurt, but I did not want to hurt him. I had never hurt anyone before. I had never – and have never since – struck a living thing. I just wanted all the pain gone. The fear gone. The worry gone. Penance for my failure to protect.

I lowered the crutch and waited for the animal that had momentarily claimed me to release me back to my human form.  I looked around and there were so many people. A street brawl and a woman swinging an arm crutch attracts attention. I heard a voice, ‘Miss, can I have that?” – a police officer motioned toward the crutch I held with a mighty grip, but was now resting its weary existence on the pavement.

“It’s my sister’s. I need to bring it back to her.”

I thought I was going to be arrested.  I readied myself for handcuffs. I had just assaulted someone, with a crutch. My sister’s crutch.

What came next, was equivalent to me verbally throwing up on him as I relived the terrifying moments that happened just a few minutes before. He nodded. He understood. He knew what had happened. His policing instincts intact.

“I need to find my sister.”  As I walked away from the police officer towards the bench where my sister was sitting with our friends, I found her sitting upright. Fully intact.

I had not before that night, nor since, experienced anything like that. Except in my nightmares – most of which are visual expressions of my subconscious failing to protect someone. I cannot get to them. I cannot help. I cannot find. It is the helplessness that haunts me.

25 years later, I can still visualize her falling, tumbling helplessly headfirst into that concrete wall. The terror of that split second is visceral and has staked a claim on me. Yes, she was fine. We were both fine. But the realization of how close we came to disaster, never leaves.  An invisible scar – hidden just below the surface of my skin.

Thank goodness there was no such thing as an iPhone and social media back then. I only have to relive this dark moment in my life in memory.

And now with you. Because I want to.

Because speaking my truth is healing.

With gratitude,