Patrick Balfour R.I.P.

My brother died recently after a valiant battle with cancer. Patrick was proud of his Scottish heritage. He exemplified the rugged, tenacious, and dignified character for which Scots are known.

This was Patrick as he saw himself.

In January this year, my brothers Patrick and Paul joined cousin Johnny and me for some Nano Banana.ai fun. We imagined ourselves as Scottish clansmen from the 1300s, always ready for battle if any of the neighbouring clans became unacceptably uppity. He created this picture to reveal his inner warrior which he called upon when times got tough.

Born on January 2, 1957, Patrick’s final years were certainly tough. In 2020, nagging pain in his back around his lower left rib got to the point it became too painful to ignore early in 2021. The local hospital arranged an X-ray but did not provide a followup report till months later because priority was assigned to all suspected COVID cases. Once someone finally read his X-ray, medical staff moved quickly. The pain he was experiencing was from a rib that cancer was destroying. Patrick described a subsequent radioactive dye test that showed the locations of cancer: “I lit up like a Christmas tree.” It’s unknown how long his body had endured Stage 4 cancer, but it makes you wonder if a prompt X-ray report may have changed his prognosis.

Patrick was stoic, not known for complaining.

My brother likely suffered privately for the next five years. He endured surgery and many rounds of radiation and chemotherapy, which some cancer survivors claim to be worse than the disease. Despite this, Patrick the Scottish Warrior continued to support his wife, her daughter, and ailing parents as the “man of the house”. He loved to make and fix things - a natural craftsman and handyman.

Patrick was privately a sensitive man. He possessed the soul of an artist which seemed incongruent along side his being the physically strongest of his three brothers. I don’t doubt that these strengths remained steadfast even during his long battle with cancer.

Some background.

Professionally, Patrick ran a construction business specializing in house renovations, mainly in the GTA. Around 2012, he and his wife Carole moved to Tomintoul, Scotland, a small town situated in the highlands about an hour from Edinburgh and Glasgow. They had purchased an old, dilapidated 18-room inn which they undertook to renovate as an outdoors vacation hotel and weekend getaway for visitors to enjoy the highland trails and whiskey-sampling excursions at local distilleries. Patrick’s craftsmanship was on full display in the pub they built. The guestrooms were tastefully renovated and furnished for their glowing clientele. Carole, no doubt, was a great partner in building that business.

After several years, however, they decided to return home. Dependable workers had been hard to find. Patrick’s son, Ryan, a hard worker, came to help but the venture eventually failed to live up to their hopes. After finding a buyer and saying goodbye to their pet crow, they returned to Ontario to be close to Carole’s family who needed their help. Since then, the COVID era played its part in isolating Patrick from his siblings as he committed himself to his new responsibilities at their new home near St. Catherine Ontario.

While I had little contact with Patrick and Carole over the last decade, it still feels strange to think that one of my brothers is gone. Cancer and death are no strangers in my household given how often they have visited my wife and I in recent years.

Intellectually, I know death to be life’s final curtain call for all of us.

It still feels like an extreme violation, however.

Death is a thief in the night that no security system can defend against despite prayers and all our scientific advances.

Brotherhood has its high points for sure.

One of my favourite memories took place during a paintball war northeast of Toronto. It took place at a farm that featured an old barn adjacent to a network of battle trenches. Led by Patrick, Danny, Paul, and I boldly navigated the trenches, systematically sniping competitors along the way to eventually take the barn and all remaining enemy combatants. We were victorious! We wore our victory with pride for many years later when we gloried in the memory of our conquest as a proud band of brothers who had skilfully exercised our athleticism, strategic thinking, and teamwork.

That day occurred decades ago, but it continued to provide grist for fun and lively conversations whenever the brothers found time together to enjoy good Scottish whisky, typically at the Balfour family cottage on Four Mile Lake.

Valhalla was waiting for Patrick.

Our fallen Balfour men have also been topics of proud folklore. Our dad, John Charles “Chuck” Balfour, who died in 1991, would certainly have been a great member of the Balfour Paint Ball Warriors, along with his brother Harry (deceased in ~2020), both WW2 vets. Their dad, John, was a WW1 vet, although I never knew him personally. Cousins Johnny and Rick Balfour, sons of Ron, dad’s youngest brother, would certainly have been welcome. The same goes for Bill Balfour, son of Uncle Harry and a man who knows his way around farmlands and barns like his dad. Ryan Balfour, Patrick’s only son, was too young for the infamous Paint Ball War (aka “The Great Battle of the Barn”) has certainly earned his place in Balfour warrior lore.

While Valhalla —an afterlife hall reserved for fallen warriors — is part of Norse mythology, it fits the Balfour story. Patrick researched our genealogy and found evidence of Viking ancestry. That genetic link, so my yarn goes, explains the joys of the manly arts practiced by Patrick and his brothers. Playing hockey, building the family cottage with dad and clearing its lands of swamp, beaver dams, and fallen trees - these were the best of times for us. We all worked hard to fulfill a

common family purpose. Those are memories I cherish most of my fallen brother.

The image above is another rendition of a 1300s Scottish Balfour clansman.

His own man.

Notably, Patrick was staunchly independent in many ways besides those that depended on his physical attributes.

For example, our parents raised all children in Roman Catholic faith, yet none of us have been religious since reaching adulthood. In Patrick’s case, I would describe his “faith” as his devotion to all things Scottish, particularly its “romantic” history of manly glories. Such stories stirred Patrick’s imagination and informed many of his dreams and life choices.

Patrick also had mystical and adventurous sides to his character.

Like our dad, Patrick spoke fondly of Leprechauns, garden fairies, and forest gnomes.

It was also just like Patrick to be the only person I have known to have a pet crow while living in the rural and rugged highlands of Scotland.

The fact that he built The Balfour Inn a short distance from the Glenlivet scotch whisky distillery, one of Scotland’s most famous Speyside distilleries, just adds to his interesting life story

To commemorate his memory.

Whenever I pour a wee dram, I will toast Patrick and imagine him sitting with others of fallen Balfour clan at a long, oak-hewn table in Valhalla. For sure, he will be trading tales of our brave Balfour ancestors while drinking pints of ale followed by shots of single malt whisky.

And why not?

They no longer have bodies to worry about too much merriment!