A BROTHER’S LIFE SAVED
Zander Sherman’s quest to help his mentally ill, homeless brother.
We heard that Joshua was living in a tent in Nelson. His Ontario benefits had been cut off after he left the province. He had been kicked out of the homeless shelter and was sleeping in a park beside the college he had once attended.
According to our contact, Joshua had developed trench foot — a potentially life-threatening condition — from improper footwear.
He had left his boots in Ontario.
Five years ago, my brother had a drug-induced psychotic break. He went from being a happy and healthy 27-year-old — an aspiring musician, graduate of the National Outdoor Leadership School, and president of his school’s student union — to someone who couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.
Since then he had travelled between Ontario and B.C. more times than we could count. In August 2014, he joined another ride-share west, seemingly for the last time.
Until the tent sighting, no one had heard from him since.
As a child, I had worshipped my brother. He was the first of us to do anything significant: get a girlfriend, drive a car. Funloving, outgoing, and effortlessly athletic, he had seemed invincible, unable to be harmed or defeated by anything.
Now, the only way I knew he was still alive was his Facebook page. He had stopped talking to our family and most of his friends, but I could still type his Facebook address into a privatized web browser. At least once a day he would upload another photo from his Leadership School trip: cropped, blown out, distorted beyond recognition.
Psychosis, if left untreated, can lead to schizophrenia.
My brother’s Facebook page was a live feed into his increasingly fragmented world view — and a constant reminder of how powerless we were to do anything about it. His posts to Facebook used the last name of a distant relative, Hilligoss, that he adopted at the time of his psychotic break. After learning that Joshua had trench foot, our parents and I began talking about a trip to Nelson. It was always the same debate: Nelson is a small town. If we went there, he would see us, and it would not go well. Joshua’s delusions about our family had grown to staggering proportions: He thought that we were spies, murderers, members of the mafia. If he saw us on the street, he would almost certainly run away, maybe even flee the area, and our tiny window into his life would close forever.
I tried to do what I could from Ontario. I sent emails to the Nelson police department, arguing that my brother qualified for a Form 9 — the legal term the B.C. government uses to refer to having someone picked up off the street and driven to the hospital for an assessment.
The police were unconvinced. In order to be considered for a Form 9, Joshua needed to be in a “suicidal situation,” or “presenting a threat to someone else that was not covered under the Criminal Code.”
So I decided to go myself. I didn’t care that Joshua was paranoid about me. He could run away, and I would follow him — through the mountains, into the States, wherever he went. He was my brother and there was nothing I would not do, no line I would hesitate to cross. Two weeks ago, I boarded a plane for Vancouver, staring at the photos I had printed, and the words I had written on the back: Josh Sherman, 32 years old, 6’ 1”, 130 lbs., Brown hair, blue eyes, homeless since July 2015
All that seemed to be left of my brother was his name and a few identifying details. This, I realized, was the problem.
There are more homeless people in B.C. than any other province in Canada. This past August, 16 people in Vancouver overdosed on fentanyl on one single day. Though my brother was primarily a pot smoker, he had used fentanyl in the past, and would probably use it again if he could. Would he be the 17th? If there was one thing I was certain of in that moment, one irrepressible feeling, it was my own determination to make sure that didn’t happen — my resolve to save my brother’s life.
No one at the outreach centre in Nelson had heard of Joshua or even recognized his photo. At the police station, I was told the same thing I’d been told through email: Until Joshua became a danger to himself or others, there was little they could do. Then, over coffee with the woman who had told us about Joshua’s foot, I learned something that changed everything. When Joshua had shown up at her place, seeking help for his foot, he had told her that his family was marching him to suicide “like the Terry Fox Run.”
I suddenly had what I needed. I went back to the outreach centre and talked to the nurse. Our contact had guessed that my brother was using the library’s free public Wi-Fi to upload his Facebook pictures.
The nurse went to investigate — it was right across the street, in the same building as the police station — and found my brother at the computer.
She gave him a letter our mother had written: “Joshua,” it read. “We are so worried about you. We love you so much. Please go to the nearest hospital and check yourself in.”
My brother reacted, and the nurse finally had the legal authority to have him taken to the hospital.
In a small, windowless room, I told the emergency doctor everything I knew — a five-year-long story I condensed into a 10-minute monologue.
My brother was in a holding room down the hall, and as we spoke, I thought I could sense his anger, feel his betrayal, seeping through the walls.
His worst fears about us had all come true. I had followed him out there. I had talked to people behind his back.
But what he couldn’t see — what his illness blinded him to — was the fact that I had done these things to help him, not hurt him. I had done them out of love.
Joshua was transferred to the nearest psychiatric ward, where he will remain for several months. Physically and mentally, he is very sick. He needs time to detox and begin to heal. After he is released, he will still have a lot of work to do. He will have to stay away from certain people and places. He will have to choose what kind of life he wants. When the time is right, our parents and I will reintroduce ourselves, and begin working toward having a relationship again.
Until then we will continue doing what we’ve always done: love him, be there for him, and help him in any way we can.
On the plane back to Toronto I turned to face the window. Somewhere below, my brother was safe for the first time in half a decade. I turned the volume up on my headphones, feeling numb with emotion. So many pieces had come together at just the right time.
I had helped save my brother’s life. Maybe one day, he would forgive me.