We Live In The Dash

Rian Jennings

Written by and for people with Lived Experience - Port Alberni Community Action Team - Families Helping Families

Today’s Learning Moment – 12 04 20 Issue: We Live In The Dash

Your best reading experience is online with photos and formatting here: https://ptalbcat.blogspot.com/2020/12/we-live-in-dash.html or the text version below.

Learning Moments extends a heartfelt thanks to Helen Jennings and her family for allowing us to tell Rian’s and their story.

The events of the day are recorded like an indelible video, a tragic imprint on my memory. Often I am taken by surprise, believing I am deeply engaged in a conversation or task, or perhaps in the middle of my backswing on the golf course, some invisible force hits the start button on the video and with startling clarity, I relive that day just as intense as when it happened.

It was a typically hot August day. A morning to relax and stay in my pyjamas. I decided to make a large pot of chilli. I had just returned from the cottage at the lake and knew that while I was away; Rian would have eaten badly, if at all. Since his accident, this had become a habit. I would make food to fill his barren fridge, take it to his home, help him tidy up, play a few games of Lambsy and generally take stock of his wellbeing.

While the chilli was simmering I called Rian to check-in. He did not answer. This was not unusual. Suffering from excruciating pain he could have been up all night, sleeping late into the next day. I left the first of many messages.

Finally prompted by a sense of unease, I decided to go over. I did not actually get dressed, just pulled on a pair of jeans and threw a hoodie on over top of my pyjama shirt. His home is a two-minute drive from mine and on the trip there I remember silently cursing, quite sure he had forgotten his phone in his car.

I pulled up in front of his residence, a shabby little apartment in a six-plex. It was the only place he could afford to live while ICBC, with their God-like authority, fought against him to determine a settlement value for his injuries. I flipped the car into park and turned off the ignition while examing the front of his building.

Sometimes people experience absolute dread. For some reason, an overwhelmed sense of sheer terror, every fibre of my being screamed that there was something wrong. My chest tightened and a horrible pounding started in my ears. Not sure if my legs would support me, I stepped out of the car and started up the walk.  The apartment window was wide open. In a voice that did not sound like my own, I started to call out his name. With sweaty shaking hands I turned the knob but the door was locked. I took out my spare key and let myself in.

From the doorway of the tiny suite, I had a clear view directly into his bedroom and there he was on the bed, half sitting, half lying, propped up by the pillows at his back. Ed, his cat, was snuggled into the crook of his leg and the computer lay open on his lap. Instinctively I knew by the waxy pallor of his skin, the discolouration on his neck and chest that this firstborn, beloved son of mine, who desperately craved sleep, now slept forever. There would be no more “I love you mom!”, no more hugs. No more sparkle in his eyes when he joked and laughed. No more anything.

From somewhere there came a sound, a long guttural wail that scared Ed so badly he scrambled from the bed and out the open door. It was my wail, a mother’s wail, not coming from my throat, but ignited from deep down in the pit of my stomach.  So there I stood, alone in the room with my dead child.

What happened after this, I assume, is the same in all similar circumstances. First came the police and ambulance, the paramedics, then the coroner and finally the men with the black body bag that whisk your loved one away into the bowels of the hospital known as the morgue.

Now the mind is a powerful thing, capable of the amazing feats to steel itself and continue functioning, even during the most horrific moments. I have no idea how I got through the next week. Somehow we carry on almost like a robot as plans, arrangements and hard choices must be made. Over the next week, this is what I did and with the assistance of my sister, I designed a service Rian would have loved.

The final decisions were the most difficult. What would I do in memoriam for him? My father, who to this day has a guiding hand on my shoulder, helped me. He and my two brothers had chosen a spot at the cottage. It overlooked the lake with a view of the bay that harboured our boat. Sitting at this spot you could witness the family coming and going, swimming, fishing and playing, all of which had been a part of Rian’s childhood and his fondest memories. They were going to build a cairn to place in the ground. On completion, the family would gather, deposit their Rian treasures and mementoes and then we would seal the cairn with a stone.

My last ordeal was deciding what to put on the stone. I was leaning towards just his first name, Rian, depicting his Norwegian heritage and a thistle in respect of his Scottish roots. I saw no need for anything else. This was for his family’s eyes only and we would all remember his birthday and his date of death.  Once again my Dad advised me. He suggested not only the importance of the dates but more so the dash that lies between them.

My father explained to me the meaning of the dash. It represents your life from first breath to last, symbolic of your time on earth, capturing memories for those left behind.

I got thinking about this dash, how interesting, even odd. Every human being, from the most evil to the virtuous like Mother Theresa all own a dash. On our tombstones, every dash is no different for saint or sinner. No hearts, no flowers, no devil’s tails, just the dash. Maybe that’s the way the dash is meant to be. Leaving us to imagine all the living in each life. I can’t help wanting Rian’s dash expanded into all who he was. His complete story. The love he gave, his hopes, and dreams. The love returned by all who knew him. How many people cared for him. How many people he touched in his life.

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Author: Helen Jennings – a mother suffering from the results of the Overdose Crisis

Families Helping Families is an initiative of the Port Alberni Community Action Team. We send out “Learning Moment” articles regularly to help folks understand substance illness. Knowledge is vital in understanding the illness of our family members. You may copy, distribute or share our articles as long as you retain the attribution. You can be added to our distribution list by dropping us a note to - albernihelp@gmail.com