James Gentle

My brother Jim was a month short of 3 years old when I was born. If he remembered that, it would be with resigned irritation. Who can say how carefree his life was until I showed up and became someone for him to protect.

It turns out he could have used protection too. He died Sunday Oct 2, two weeks after his 56th birthday.

Between my birth and his death were worlds, though not enough of them. If there were more worlds he would still be here.

In one world was the three of us, my sister, brother and I, sometimes referred to by our mother as SallyJimmyIrene, in order of birth and because she could not always decide quickly enough which she meant to call. After he died, I learned SallyJimmyIrene is in fact who I am. The gap now between Sally and Irene is a chunk ripped out, a living part of body missing.

Jim, also known as Jimmy and James, was a large person in most senses of the word but there was something impermanent about him. Ancient people like me may remember S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders. Ponyboy’s telling of Robert Frost’s ‘nothing gold can stay’ always made me think of my brother. I feared this impermanence for many years and then put it out my mind, now he is a loss that makes you question pretty much everything.

My brother considered himself a protector. Sometimes he protected whether you needed it or not, and in ways not particularly effective. But none of that mattered so much as his desire to protect, which felt like an umbrella. Even without rain, an umbrella can be helpful. I grew up knowing I had an umbrella.

I did my best to be an umbrella for him at the end, but I was not as practiced at it and it did not, could not, work.

People in Jim’s life differ but they share one thing - Jim’s help. I began my life’s work amid a recession, writing news stories for free (it was a different time, don’t do that now, kids, your work has value). I could do that partially because Jim employed me at his pub, The Three Judges, in Oakville, one of the several part time jobs cobbled together until I finally landed a newsroom job.

People around Jim have their own version of this story. In some way, Jim reached in and helped them to be.

We are not a family that lives in each other’s pockets. We live like we’re long-distance, but without the flights, our connection constant and unbreakable. At the hint of a disappointment in our lives he would be there, wry, hilarious, a giant in our corner. Jim was always on your side. Who cares what the other side was, he was on yours.

When diagnosed with the cancer that stole his life, he wanted three things only: to continue living for his beautiful son Charles, who he loved with his whole being, and outlive our mother and our father. He wanted just three things, and he could not have them.

The giant protector became a giant of endurance. I have never witnessed such strength, determination, and grace as he bore loss after loss from his disease, the final one being his life.

He did not ever fully realize the towering gift it was to know him.

This message is personal because no one can tell the story of Jim’s life alone. Jim’s story is revealed in the ways he helped us all to be. The way he cared for everyone from his baby sister to those in the long-term care home he worked in during the worst of COVID. I hope you share your messages here, too. The story of Jim is not a book or a mural, it’s a mosaic, each tiny tile complete and beautiful in itself, and when viewed from a distance, big and glorious as the universe.

That’s also the size of the hole he leaves behind for his beloved son Charles Wallace Gentle, Charles’s mother Chantal Ayotte, their family in Quebec, Jim’s mother Christina Gentle, father James Patrick Gentle and his partner Agnes Neely, sisters Sally and Irene Gentle, brother-in-law Matthew Jackson, nieces Amanda and Alyssa Drew, aunts Ann Sachuk and Brenda Docherty, cousins Claire, Robert, Kate, Sarah and their lovely families, and legions of friends and acquaintances lucky enough to have felt his special touch. Jim is predeceased by uncles Harry Docherty, Nick Sachuk, grandparents Harry and Christina Docherty, Pat and Jean Gentle, Jean-Denis Ayotte, and Jim’s dog Ali.

With much gratitude to staff at Juravinski Hospital C3 ward, most especially the nurses who cared for Jim with respect and compassion, and extended that compassion to others, including me. Theirs is a difficult job in a difficult time.

In accordance with how he lived his life, Jim requested no service. If you’d like to make a donation in his name, please choose a charity or non-profit of your heart. Because you know Jim. He wants you to be happy.