The Legacy Letters

by Janice Landry

  CSC Commissioner Head said, in part, “Every man, every woman who goes to work in one of our federal institutions, in one of our parole offices, correctional centres, or in our headquarters, comes to work to make a difference, by changing lives and protecting Canadians.”

  John Bredin and the officer in the CSC video are two of the 19,000 people working at Correctional Service Canada who are helping to do both of these things.

  The two are pushing boundaries, slowly but surely effecting change, while breaking down stigma surrounding mental health in Canada’s correctional system.

  John Bredin’s Legacy Letter

  A Note to Those Entering the Field of Corrections – Survive Your Career:

  I have been in the field of corrections for twenty years now, in different capacities, with the most rewarding one being a leader and trainer in CISM (Critical Incident Stress Management) and EAP (Employee Assistance Program) for much of the entire twenty years, which can see me travelling across Canada. I perform similar trauma-related duties, in a second career, outside of corrections …

  Here’s the deal, folks: things are about to change, and, in particular, you are about to change.

  A career in corrections is a solid and rewarding career, but not without a price.

  You are about to enter a work environment where your “clientele” really doesn’t want to be there, sees you as the reason they are there, and will take out their anger, from various origins, on you the first chance they get.

  Then there are the constant “con games” in which offenders can attempt manipulation to meet their needs, have second and third agendas in their presentations with you, and the ever-present possibility you could be subject to physical and emotional violence intermittently or constantly, depending on the security level and unique dynamics of each institution.

  So now that you have read that, and are considering working … [elsewhere] instead, I’ll try and give you some gems of wisdom to help you survive.

  I will leave the physical survival to those who will train you in such, with the caveat that the mind and body are connected, and what happens to you physically registers with your psyche as well.

  CISM and EAP are put in place to help you to deal with not only [the] traumatic experiences you may be involved in within a career, but they also educate you on how to become resilient against OSI’s (Operational Stress Injuries) so that you build a psychological body armour, as it were.

  Take these lessons to heart; they can balance the negativity, cynicism, and disillusionment that can creep into your personality as a result of being immersed in a work environment where being on edge can save your life.

  There is a term, “hyper-vigilance,” which quickly means: in the morning you suit up (literally or metaphorically) to work in an institution, you’re “on,” being hyper-aware of everything, so you can survive your day.

  Should you not be able to shed this post-shift, and it becomes a lifestyle, you can become very difficult to live with. Post-shift, take thirty minutes or so to move from correctional staff to family member.

  As an example: all day long we issue directions to offenders; they are expected to comply when told to, in a timely manner, and if not, suffer consequences.

  Try that at home.

  I hope the garage is heated.

  Talk to your family and have them understand to give you a few minutes to [decompress or to make the shift from professional to personal]; it’s good practice.

  Got a support network?

  Get one.

  Get a support network that involves those you trust, those that you may work with, but perhaps more importantly, people who don’t work in corrections that represent a reminder: there exists a world where everything is not skewed and everyone is not a criminal.

  Get to know stress in your body and behaviour; what it looks like, what it feels like, what hurts, and how you behave. Learn it, and when it happens, do something about it. There is some great literature on the topic, but be sure it [comes from] a reputable source.

  PTED – nope, not PTSD.

  PTED stands for Post-Traumatic Embitterment Disorder and you won’t find it in the DSMV [Diagnostic Manual of Mental Disorders].

  It is out of a mental health journal from Germany, and it refers to when an organization or system shatters a core belief in an individual [that] they hold as an accepted truth.

  The correctional world can often not seem to make sense, or those making decisions and policies can seem detached from [the] reality of the front lines.

  Many times I speak to those just starting out, who are full of optimism and pride and [have] a will to make a difference, only to speak to them a few years in and everything is “bullshit” and everyone is an “asshole.”

  I ask them, “What changed?”

  Did the system or organization begin to operate differently than the past? They respond indicating the organization has always been “f..ked up.”

  So that means the individual changed.

  I mentioned the “price” [of the work] – this is what I meant.

  Be safe. Be aware.

  Put safeguards in place to survive your career – heart, body and soul.

  14

  Al Tweten: Balancing Trauma with Beauty

  “Put safeguards in place to survive your career – heart, body, and soul,” was the final piece of advice from John Bredin. That approach is exactly what seventy-two-year-old Al Tweten did to maneuver through and survive his multi-faceted career.

  It began in 1962 with Al’s job as a radar systems technician in the Canadian military and ended in 2016 as a driver for a funeral home. During his fifty-four years in numerous posts across Canada, Al turned to music in order to cope, vent, relax, and manage the trauma he had both witnessed and heard. Now a veteran musician, he plays the bass trombone.

  He has played in bands across Canada, including RCAF volunteer bands in Clinton, Borden, Cold Lake, Chatham, 3(F) Wing, Greenwood, as well as the Princess Louise Fusiliers in Halifax, the 3rd Field Regiment RCA Band in Saint John, the 411 Squadron Reserve Band in Toronto, and the Queen’s Own Rifles Regimental Band and Bugles. He’s currently with the 48th Highlanders of Canada Military Volunteer Band and is an Associate Member of the Royal Regiment of Canada Regimental Band.

  Al has had the honour of playing for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. He has also played the Canadian anthem at major sporting events in front of thousands of people, as well as performing at many other community events in cities across Canada. “I was on the ice at the Air Canada Centre (in Toronto) last Saturday night playing ‘O Canada’ in a military band.”

  He said music has “absolutely helped” him. “You go in [to the band] and it’s a disciplined environment, but you are producing colour, you’re producing melodic things that are pleasing to the ear and soothing, and you’re part of it,” he said.

  JL: “You’ve always been part of a team.”

  AT: “Yes.”

  JL: “Is that part of it?”

  AT: “I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose.”

  Al flourishes in a regimented team environment. It is fortunate he found a healthy outlet during his lifetime because he has been around and experienced some form of stress and trauma his entire career.

  He entered the Canadian military as a radar technician from 1962 to 1969. Afterwards, he served as an Airborne Electronic Sensor Operator from 1969 to 1975. Over his thirteen years within the Air Force, Al became accustomed to working in and around aircraft. That led to a career transition after he left the military, to working as an air traffic controller. That work shift went smoothly due to his previous aviation experience. He trained in air traffic in Halifax and Ottawa, and received his license in Saint John, New Brunswick. Al worked in Thompson, Manitoba, for a brief while. That phase of his career lasted five years, from 1975 to 1980.

  “There is good stress and there is bad stress. I am one of those people who thrive on good stress,” he said. That helps explain why he de
cided, over the course of half a century or more, to maneuver between careers which all involved some kind of trauma or stressors.

  Eighteen years in aviation led him to accept a position as the airport duty manager at Canada’s largest airport, Toronto’s Pearson International Airport. It was there the trauma started to ramp up.

  “My job at the airport was, The buck stops here. I was the airport duty manager. My staff could handle anything that was black and white because there are books for that kind of stuff. It was the grey areas that I had to look after and I have no problem doing that,” he said. “I know my job. I know airplanes. I know aviation.”

  “As an airport duty manager, I was an atypical first responder … As duty manager, all emergencies, I was in charge, even the days when the general manager was present. So that means [dealing with] fire, police, ambulance.”

  While at the airport, he experienced a plane crash his first year on the job, in 1980. It was a cargo plane. “It was too late for the people,” he said. “The cargo shifted. It was a hot day … two on board,” he said quietly. “I never got to see the wreckage, thank goodness. I was handling the press.”

  That day was a “Code 1 Alpha,” which meant “Crash on Airport.”

  During nineteen years working at Pearson, he has witnessed pretty much any aviation emergency you can imagine over almost two decades. He has experienced all of the Code 1 scenarios – crash on airport, crash off airport, aircraft emergency in flight, fuel spill, hijack, and bomb scare – during his career at Pearson. He said he has dealt with as many as three bomb scares in a single day.

  “I have had lots of 1Cs, One Charlies.” He estimates he had to deal with approximately 150 in-flight emergencies.

  Al has also witnessed loss of limb, other severe injury, and emergency medical transports. “At the airport, I’ve seen some pretty horrible injuries, like a girl [a staff member] who got caught in a baggage belt. She was trapped. It took us forty-one minutes to get her out.”

  “She was [in the Baggage Transfer Room] placing bags to go onto the aircraft and she lost her footing, and she put her arm out naturally [to break her fall] and it got caught in the conveyor belt. She became entangled in the machinery,” he said. She was only on the job three weeks when the accident occurred.

  The airport staff, under Al’s direction, placed a curtain between the woman and her arm so she could not see the damage the baggage belt had caused. “I’m the guy who held the IV and directed my guys with torches,” he said. The torches were carefully used to deal with the baggage belt during the difficult dislodging process.

  The young woman was conscious and screaming throughout the entire ordeal. Al and a nurse, who happened to be there, spoke to her the whole time. Firefighters who responded had to pour water on the gears so the torch could be used to free her and save her arm.

  Immediately after the accident, Al, who was part of the Critical Incident Stress (CIS) team at Pearson, called a meeting. “I had a good idea what I should do with staff. I … told them there was absolutely no blame and that nothing leaves this room. We’re going to talk about what we each did and you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. This is not to attribute blame, because it was just a tragic accident. Everybody had something to do with the rescue of this girl,” he said.

  One week after the employee was taken to hospital, word travelled throughout Pearson that she had shown progress by moving a finger on the hand of her heavily damaged arm. Everyone was elated. The team, under his direction, had saved the woman’s arm.

  By chance, Al met her years later at a retirement party. She was still working at the airport. She did not immediately recognize him. He told her he was the person who had held her IV. She hugged him in the middle of the party. “It was a fantastic moment,” he said.

  A second incident at Pearson involved a medical evacuation from Bermuda. Authorities had received a call that a two-pound, premature infant was being transported to Toronto for emergency medical help.

  Al was at the helm of the airport emergency response and ensured every door was open, power plug adapters were available, an ambulance was parked as close as it could possibly be, a helicopter was waiting and customs forms and documents were done for the baby and nurse. Microseconds counted and all hands were on deck for when the baby and medivac crew arrived. “We wanted the baby to be as stable as possible – as stable as a two-pound baby can be.”

  The baby and medical team flew via helicopter from the airport downtown to Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children. “We found out a week later the baby had died. It was sad. We had done so much for her, [but] our efforts were in vain,” he said. The team, led by Al, was given an award for its medical response effort from the International Air Transport Association.

  The duty manager has even had his own brush with death. A cancer survivor, he said when he was first diagnosed, he told his doctor, “If I have to go, I have to go. I’ve done things others can only dream about. That’s true. I’ve been flying at twice the speed of sound. I have been in a submarine three hundred feet below the water. I have sat and had tea with the Dalai Lama. I have had coffee with two expresidents of the United States.”

  The presidential encounters came during his duty manager stint. The two presidents were Gerald Ford and Jimmy Carter. “Actually, I had tea with Carter. He drinks tea.”

  Al’s tea time with dignitaries concluded in 1999. That same year, after leaving the airport, he joined Toronto Emergency Services as a dispatcher. He worked there for six years. Some of the calls he took, or assisted with, linger.

  “When I worked in the communications centre, there were a couple of incidents where it bothered me a lot. We had a nine-year-old girl who had just witnessed a murder. That bothers you. I was working as a 911 call taker in Toronto. What comes to mind real quick is – We don’t know where the shooter is yet.”

  He asked to speak to the young girl’s parents. The mother was at work and the father was outside talking to police. “I said, ‘I want you to go lock the door right now. Pull the blinds down and you don’t open that door for anyone except a policeman in uniform or your mommy or your daddy. Okay?’” He never heard back from the child again, but he did find out shortly after the call that police had located the shooter. “I mean, a nine-year-old girl should never witness a murder.”

  She said to him, “‘I saw somebody get shot.’ Of course, I could tell by the voice [she was young]. They exchanged names on the telephone. By the time they did, his board was lighting up with calls about the murder. “My job was to keep her calm and safe,” he said. “No child should see something like that. So it was a natural reaction to protect her.”

  JL: “Is that call to service or duty a big part of you?”

  AT: “Oh yeah. Even when I got out [of the Air Force] I joined the Reserves. And that’s how I handle stress – the music. So I was a flyer, but when I went into the Reserves, I changed my job to musician.”

  Music has been helping Al for five decades. Music helps him find balance because some of the 911 calls he has taken are bone-chilling. “The phone rings. I answer it: ‘What can I do to help you?’ The long and short of it is, the guy says, ‘Well, somebody just went by my window.’ I asked, ‘Well, do you need an ambulance for that?’ And the guy said, ‘Well, I live on the seventeenth floor.’”

  JL: “And this guy saw them. That’s another call you took.”

  AT: “It’s one that I remember.”

  When he worked weekends on ambulance dispatch, he would take somewhere between seventy to eighty calls per night, per shift. He worked six years in the post, and would have heard thousands of calls.

  The ones which make his blood boil are the people who, he said, abused the emergency system and who called for help when an ambulance was not really needed. Al gave one example. A man fell asleep on his arm while drinking heavily and could not feel his appendage when he awoke. The caller insisted on an ambulance crew to attend to him. Al had to follow protocol and sent one.
<
br />   “It would make me angry,” he said of those kinds of calls, the ones abusive of the emergency response system. “You also become cynical, because a lot of people misuse the system.”

  Al is passionate about medical care and emergency response because he, personally, got to know the system well – as a patient. He spent 120 days in hospital during his cancer treatments and after an extensive surgery.

  “I handled a shooting one night. A policeman was shot and I was on the [911 ambulance] board and I was sending the ambulance. You’re questioning yourself: Did I send the closest ambulance? Is it the one that should get there the quickest? The cop almost becomes a brother – if you will,” the former dispatcher said.

  While visiting his ancestral homeland of Norway in 2005, he had an epiphany while riding on a tour bus in the picturesque mountainside. “It just hit me between the eyes. This is a young man’s game. Time to leave.” He was sixty-one years old.

  For the next eleven years, from 2005 to June of 2016, he helped assist more people during one of the most difficult days of their lives, as a driver at a funeral home.

  Al is a deeply compassionate man who has served his country and the public for almost a half-century. This last anecdote underlines exactly who he is and why the musician, who balances trauma with beauty, has been able to successfully help so many people, of all ages and backgrounds.

  The year was 2000. He received a 911 call from a “… prostitute who was giving birth to a baby in a hotel room, and she had no one with her. I just felt so bad for her. I was talking to her, through childbirth and [explaining] how to deliver her own child, while the ambulance was en route. That one stayed with me for a bit. I was going to break the rules and go and visit her in hospital but she was already released.”

  JL: “Did you go?”

  AT: “I went to the hospital but she was already released.”