Wasn’t that a party?

Friends from around town and across the country gathered last Sunday to celebrate the life of my son, David Andrew McLean. His father came from Vancouver, my best childhood friend and her husband came from Prince George, BC, David’s childhood playmate and her parents came from PEI, other friends came from NS – it was a wonderful gathering in his honour.

For those who never had the opportunity to meet David in person and those who haven’t seen him in many, many years, I’d like to tell you a bit about him and his life and adventures. If you glanced through the slide show, you’ll know that traveling the world was his passion in his younger years.

David was born at the old Victoria General Hospital in Fredericton in 1973. For the first five years of his life, we lived in the house that Ian and I built on Mayflower Street in the Monteith Subdivision on the west end of town.

He was a happy and curious baby and little boy, always finding something to tweak his interest. I once heard him having a conversation with the little girl next door. She asked him what his mother did at work (I was a secretary at the time). He described my typical work day as talking on the phone and pushing buttons (on the typewriter). He was always one to just get to the point!

On hearing of his death, one of his friends wrote to me saying, “I have so many great memories from our time growing up! He was a great friend!  I mourn for the amazing person that I knew growing up, the family man I never got to know and the older Dave that everyone is going to miss out on.”

Another friend from his teenage years wrote, “Dave was that friend that you were glad was on your side because there was a high degree of probability that something memorable or hilarious or stupid – and likely all 3 at once – was going to happen in his presence. We drifted apart after high school as so many of us do – Dave found adventure and was a well-seasoned traveler before I’d even taken my first international flight – but his letters from Central America and then British Columbia thru the 90s continued to give me a glimpse into the mind of someone free-spirited, not governed by the norm, and living – and embracing far from an ordinary life. “

Another said, “The last time I saw Dave was a couple of years ago, we just ran into each other at the local supermarket. We had drifted apart, as people do, with our children and jobs demanding more of us, but he was like a little brother to me, and we always slipped into that connection in very little time– Dave traveled a lot during those (early) years, Mexico and Central America. He was fascinated with the culture and would stay for long stretches.”

He met Sonja Kuznetsov during this time and found happiness in their relationship. They were together for thirteen years, first living in a small apartment and then later in a condo they bought within walking distance of Broadway and the beach area. Together they travelled the world, especially Vietnam, Bali and Australia, building memories of unique experiences. They lived “van life” in Australia decades before it became a ‘thing’. They picked fruit there, rode elephants in Thailand and investigated other cultures and lifestyles. In 2005, when Joel and I got married, they traveled to NB to participate and have a long-overdue visit.

Mike went on to say, “When Dave met Linnea, he was ecstatic, and as happy as I had ever seen him.  It was obvious that he was in love in a way I hadn’t seen with him before, and a pathway to a new kind of life was opening up. Their kids were and are beautiful. He had everything you could want your friend to have, and I we genuinely thrilled for him. He’d rave about Mattias and Isla, and the joys of fatherhood. He got his electrician’s ticket and Red Seal endorsement and seemed very busy with work and family. “

David loved his family and was so happy to have the children.

There is no time limit on grief. And, when it involves the death of your child, whether he was 5 or 50 makes no difference. The cycle of life has been disrupted in a way like no other.

When a parent dies, we feel sad, we miss that person with their counsel and advice, the hugs and the memories. But, we accept it because it is part of the cycle of life.

When a spouse, partner or even a sibling dies, again we feel sorrow deep in ourselves. We desperately miss that person. We mourn the shattered dreams of the future. We long for the companionship and the comfort that they brought to our lives. Eventually, we accept that, at some point, one of us had to die first and it happened to be the other one. It is sad but again, it is part of the cycle of life.

When a child dies there are no rules. It is awful when an infant or young child dies – either from illness or accident. We all feel sad that a young life was cut far too short before that child had a chance to live a full life – or much of any life at all. 

Even when that child has grown up and become an adult – he or she will always be your baby, your child, your special person.

Fathers feel grief deeply. Many don’t show it or say much, but the sorrow is there. Sometimes they are wrapped up in all of the “to do’s”, the practical matters that require attention, but they feel it deep within themselves even as they “do” and provide comfort to others.

If you are the mother of that child, grief takes on a whole other dimension. You carried that child in your body for nine months. You endured the birth process and you were astounded that you ‘grew a person’. 

The bond existed even before the first labour pang hit. You nurtured the infant and guided the toddler. You wept on that first day of school, graduation day and when the child left home. You wept again at the wedding and after the birth of your first (or tenth) grandchild. Mothers weep. We weep because time passes too quickly. We weep with joy at the milestones of our child’s life. We weep with sorrow as each milestone in their lives marks the passage of our own lives too.

When your adult child dies before you, especially when they chose to die because, in their mind at least, life was too unbearable to live anymore, a piece of your heart is irrevocably shattered.

David was a “Genny Op” in the movie/tv production industry. I remember him saying once that it was rare for anyone 50 years old or older to still be doing that job. It was physically demanding – first on set in the wee hours of the morning to set up the electrical supply for the production – last to leave in the middle of the night after dismantling and storing everything. It didn’t leave much time or energy for the family life he wanted so very much. He was exhausted.

One day, when you walk down the aisle at the grocery store, you spot a display of what used to be your young child’s favourite lunch. So you weep, sometimes so uncontrollably that you have to leave the store rather than collapsing on the floor in a puddle of tears, wailing.

Another day, you open a cupboard and you see a silly sample bottle of booze that your adult son gave to you because he knew you liked rum. You can’t drink it now – it’s a link to him.

Family and friends try so hard to comfort you. There are hugs, gifts, cards and phone calls – all precious but none can bring him back. You are forever changed. Maybe, someday, the spark will return but it won’t be soon. This isn’t the person you thought you’d be as you “enjoy” your so-called ‘golden years’.

While the storm rages within you, winter descends outside as well and you hibernate – hoping for spring, sunshine, warmth and for life to return to the world and your soul. I never wanted to be defined as a grieving mother. I’m now a member of a club I did not wish to join.

David turned 50 years old in September last year. I gave him a gift to remind him that, no matter how old he was, he was still my little boy and the mother-son bond could never be broken. Among the other things that I gave him (and the usual sentimental, tear-inducing cards), was a special bracelet that he proudly wore while I was there.

I had no way of knowing that a mere three and a half weeks later he would take his own life, devastating all who cared for him – his parents, his wife and children, his family members and friends – both current and from his childhood and youth.

Now I wear that bracelet myself – a link to a never-ending bond between us.

David’s life had great meaning to so many people. He was creative, intelligent, devoted to his friends and family, fiercely independent and wildly adventurous. He could light up a room with his smile. That is the man, the child I bore, that I want to remember and hope that others do too. 

“Missing someone is a bittersweet reminder of the depth of your connection, a longing that lingers, reminding you of the moments you cherished and the void they left behind. It’s a testament to the love you shared and the indelible mark they’ve left on your soul. — R. M. Drake”

Celebrate that he lived and keep him in your memory–for that is where love lives.

Never forgotten; loved forever.

And then, we had a party!