Brian

Brian

Brian came into this world as a beautiful surprise. He was an easy birth, a happy little boy, and such a joy. When he was three and a half, his sister arrived, and he was completely devoted to “his baby.” The two of them were such a blessing, a perfect little team.

As Brian grew, his patience and quiet leadership shone through. He started playing sports at the age of five, playing both baseball and soccer, and eventually joined rep teams for both. At eleven, he was invited to try football. Since I was a single mom working full-time and taking my two kids to activities, I told him he had to pick two sports. With football’s demanding schedule, he chose what would become his lifelong passion: football.

As a young man, Brian became a foreman at his company and was doing well. But in his twenties, he began to pull away. I told myself it was just him being busy, living his own life, like any young adult. I was wrong.

His sister began coming home with stories that scared me, that Brian could become angry, even violent. I didn’t want to believe it. Then came the phone call that changed everything. My sister called to tell me Brian was using meth. I fell to the floor. My world stopped. How could this be? I’d been so present in his life. I’d believed sports and involvement would keep my kids safe.

After that, I dreaded watching the news. Every time I heard about a body found in Surrey, Langley, or White Rock — a man in his 30s — I would panic. I’d study the tarp on the screen, praying it wasn’t my son. Brian was 6'3" and 245 pounds. Did the tarp look that big? Could it be him?

Every night, I prayed he was safe. Somehow, I kept going. I focused on what I could control and held on to hope.

It was a snowy December afternoon. I’d been hiking with friends, chatting about our kids’ ages. After the hike, I stopped by my daughter’s place. My daughter asked me to sit. The following words she spoke changed everything. I would never again be the person I had been. That day shattered me.

What followed was a blur — waves of grief, guilt, and disbelief. My daughter had to carry the unbearable burden of breaking the news to both her father, who was celebrating his own birthday that day, and to me.

In the years since losing Brian, I’ve been blessed with friends who have stood by me. Many of them were with me on that hike, and they’ve held me up ever since.

The judgment that comes with losing someone to drugs is beyond comprehension. You can see it in people’s eyes. I don’t hide how Brian died, because people need to understand. If I said he’d died in an accident or drowning, the response would be sympathy. But when I say “fentanyl,” I see the shift, the judgment. As if he somehow deserved it. The ignorance cuts deep.

The hardest part of all this is the waste, the loss of such a good, loving human being. My son was respected, admired, and loved by so many. He is missed every single day. What I wouldn’t give to hear him call me “Mom” just one more time.

I’m angry that he’s gone. Angry for the years we lost. Angry that my grandson will never truly know the man his father was, kind, funny, gentle, with that same spark in his eyes.

At Brian’s celebration of life, a young man approached me in tears and said, “Brian saved my life.” I’d heard the same from another young man, too. The boys he coached were heartbroken.

I can only hope that people never forget my beautiful boy. He was so much more than the drugs that took him.

SP