Peter

Peter

It was over 25 years ago when I looked up to see my brother-in-law on the evening news, getting his fix in the middle of the sidewalk somewhere on Vancouver’s Eastside.

The family had lost track of him and didn’t know if he was alive, so my initial reaction was relief to see he was still alive and then sadness to realize how deeply he had dived into his addiction.

It was shocking to see Peter like that because I knew him as very funny and very caring when he wasn’t using. He was also an amazing car salesman and took pride in his natural abilities.

He also took pride in his nieces and nephews, who all seemed to enjoy his presence at family gatherings. He had a great smile and great hair, something that he endlessly teased his balding brothers about. He had a gift for storytelling, and I wonder as I write this, if he isn’t helping me form the words.

So I felt compelled to try and see if there was any hope for Peter to come off the streets. I contacted the news reporter and explained my connection to the man who had been filmed by the news crew, sticking a needle into his bruised arm. The reporter put me in touch with an advocate who had been part of the news clip, and we were able to find him. Hoping he would be open to getting help, I passed along my phone number, and the very next day, he called. As you can imagine, I was surprised but very grateful.

In his soberness, that phone call was like a visit back in time. His voice was as strong as his wit, and he had me laughing within moments. He asked about the family, and I invited him to visit us. He agreed, and I sent his brother to pick him up. He came to us willingly, but he was not interested in getting help, and as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared, taking our vodka and the change from my husband’s dresser with him.

We reached out a couple more times, once when his mother was dying from cancer. She wanted so badly to see him before she passed. To let him know that she loved him. Unfortunately, she never got that chance.

I had heard the stories of his childhood about the violence he witnessed and endured at the hands of his alcoholic father. How he hid with his younger brother as they heard their father beating their mother. At fourteen years old, he escaped to the streets because he felt it was safer for him than facing the wrath of his father. Of course, his siblings scoffed and said he would only use the money to buy more drugs, so they should have it. I argued that if it was set up as a trust, it might just be the lifeline he deserved.

Over the next couple of years, he would reach out to me to talk. Sometimes he was sober, and sometimes, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t. Even after my marriage to his brother ended, we kept in touch. He told me he appreciated that I didn’t judge him and that I seemed to understand. I was honoured to give him that.

And then I heard the heartbreaking news that Peter had died by overdose.

This drug called Fentanyl was killing people daily, but this was the first death that had hit so close to home. I was extremely saddened to hear about the way he died alone. And I never imagined that he would be the first I lost of so many to come, who were taken by addiction.