I woke up this morning and it hit me like a 2×4 between the eyes: three years ago today, my son David went “missing.”
I didn’t know then what I know now. I spent twelve long days searching and hoping, not knowing that he had already taken his own life that night.
Three years later, the date still finds me, whether I’m ready for it or not.
Just three weeks earlier, David had turned 50, and I was happy to be with him and his family to celebrate.
Covid had decimated the TV and movie industry in Vancouver for three years, and work for David, an electrician in that business, had been sparse at best. He was the sole financial support for a family of four, and the weight of that must have added to the stress he carried. He was a very proud man who wouldn’t ask for help, though I hope he knew that his father or I would have pitched in.
On the last day of that visit, David and I spent the afternoon together. We drove to Horseshoe Bay and walked in the rain, visiting places where he had worked on a couple of TV shows. I recognized much of the scenery from Nancy Drew. We talked all afternoon, though nothing we said was deep or consequential. At lunch in a local pub, I offered to pick up the bill, knowing how tight things were, but he insisted on paying, a small gift to me. I cherish that memory.
No one is perfect, and David had his foibles, as we all do. But from early childhood on, he was a kind, caring, loving boy, then young man, then adult. He was fiercely independent, and he bravely explored South America, Mexico, parts of Asia and Australia, just to see what was on the other side of the hill. I admired that in him.
When he married Linnea, they had two children in quick succession. Family mattered deeply to him, and I hoped it would fulfill his dreams. He was proud of Mattias and Isla and often told me how clever they were. My biggest regret is that we lived 5,500 kilometres apart, on opposite sides of this huge country. Still, I made the trip out every year, to visit and to get to know the kids, at least a little.
In the three years since, I’ve had a lot of time to think, to grieve, and to learn to live with the pain. Two years ago we held a Celebration of Life for David. Friends and family came, including childhood friends who made the trek to be there. Others sent cards and letters, and I treasure every one.
I miss those visits. I miss hearing from the kids, however briefly, on birthdays and at Christmas. And more than anything, I miss my son in ways I can’t begin to describe. A short text or a brief phone call was enough to sustain me then, and now they come no more.
When he dropped me off at the apartment where I was staying, the last words I said to him were ‘I love you, David”, to which he responded, “I love you too, Mum.” I treasure that.
David Andrew McLean – forever 50.
