This
is a post I had hoped that I would never have to write. Dave —
David Thomas Foohey — was my oldest friend. “
Was,”
of course, being the key word. And “was,” in this case,
is one helluva hard word to write. On the night of May 2nd, 2022, my
wife and I had a visit from two officers from the Ottawa Police
Service. They came to tell us that Dave was found dead in his home.
He had been dead for quite some time, about three months. His
neighbours, as is often the case in situations like this, had noticed
that his mail had piled up and, presumably after attempts to contact
Dave had failed, were worried and had contacted the police. We still don’t know the cause of death, but given that the police do not suspect foul play, it was some form of “natural causes.” That, too, is hard to write.
Dave
and I first met when I was 8 years old and we developed a friendship
that survived our childhoods and had deepened as we both grew into
adults. His friendship meant the world to me; I was a lonely,
isolated, and shy kid. Very introverted. Dave and I met shortly after
I had moved from a small town in the Ottawa Valley to Ottawa, the
capital of Canada. Ottawa was far bigger than anything I was used to
before and pretty damn intimidating. To say I had “culture-shock”
was an understatement. Dave was also shy and we bonded over so many
different things: comic books, role-playing games, and pro wrestling in
particular, but also pop culture and, as we grew older, life in
general.
There
were so many things that I’m going to miss. He had a “secret”
recipe for these unbelievable oat cookies that just knocked my socks
off. They were incredible and very hearty, but he guarded that recipe
— despite my best efforts to get him to share it! — like
it was state secret. He loved animals, but especially cats. The cats
he had in his life were mostly rescues and he gave everyone of them a
good home: Logan, Garfield, Mr. Kitty, Cecil, and Thomas. He was
wonderful with dogs — probably because of his background with seeing eyes dogs as well as his general decency — and he looked after Rowen, our ol’ girl
husky, a number of times while we travelled to various conventions or
other events. He loved games and gaming, both traditional board games, role-playing games, and video games. And he was a truly gentle and decent human being,
something that we need far more of in this world of ours.
If
we had any differences, it was really that as I grew older I became
less introverted. There were a number of reasons for that. One was
that I had managed to lose weight and, through those efforts, grew in
confidence. Later, when I wound up working at and managing
Perfect
Books, a local indie bookstore, I was forced to deal with a broad
range of people and that, too, helped me grow out of that “shy
shell” that was my armour for so much of my childhood. Dave, on
the other hand, had a hard time with that and remained pretty shy and
introverted throughout his adult life.
His
shyness was not unwarranted, though. Dave’s parents had him
quite late in life. His dad was, if memory serves, about 50 years old (!)
when Dave was born. Dave’s dad, David Edmund Foohey — Ed
for short — and his mom Mary-Anne Coughlan, had marital
problems and their marriage broke up while Dave was quite young. Both
of his parents were also legally blind; Dave’s dad was blind
since birth and his mom was legally blind, though my understanding is
that she did have some limited vision, though even this degraded over
time.
Ed
was also one of the most capable men I had ever met; his blindness
never stopped him. Or rather, he never
let either his blindness or
how this culture treats disabled people in general stop him. Not
everyone has the ability to do that, of course, and this society and
culture needs to be far fairer and kinder to those of us who, through
no fault of our own, struggle in one way, shape, or form. Ed had
earned a PhD from the
London School of Economics and later become an
economist, first with Alcan Aluminum and later with the Canadian
federal government. And he wrote a remarkable essay on his childhood
at
https://bobo.blackspheretech.com/?p=182
— seriously, go read that when you have a chance. It is
well-worth your time.
Dave’s
mom is trickier. She wound up living in Vancouver, but never had a
key role in Dave’s upbringing, at least that I’m aware
of. I have a distant memory that I might have met her, but I’m
not sure. I do know that she was not particularly stable; there was
one scary situation that did affect Dave. Ed had custody of Dave,
something that was fairly remarkable for that time, and Mary-Anne did
have visitation rights. When Dave was around 7 years old, she briefly
“kidnapped” him. I put kidnapped in quotes because it was
a peculiar situation that I wish I had more knowledge of. My
understanding is that this situation did not last for very long
(perhaps a week or two, possibly a little longer), but must have
terrified Dave’s dad. I do know that the police were involved
and Dave was eventually reunited with his father. Part of the reason
that I met Dave in the first place is that this event screwed up his
school year; Dave was one year older than I am, but Dave was held
back one year. I don’t know if this was because of trauma,
circumstance, or something else, but as a result we wound up being in
the same grade when he should have been one year ahead of me.
Why
did Mary-Anne do it? I’m not sure, but Dave was not physically
harmed, though his emotional well-being was a different thing
altogether. I do not write this to cast any aspersions on his mom. I
have had some experience with
parental mental illness and these are
situations are
never easy. As far as I know, she did a terrible
thing, but I don’t think there was malicious intent. How do I
know? The short answer is that Dave, as a teenager, wound wind up
staying with her for a couple of weeks here and there. That was often
in Vancouver, quite far from his life here in Ottawa. That tells me
that
something was resolved between both Ed and Mary-Anne, perhaps
even legally, and she was trusted enough that Dave could spend time
with her. However this was resolved, it did allow mother and son to
rebuild their relationship, at least to some extent. Dave rarely
talked about his mom, though, so I was left with a number of
questions and very few answers. Still left, really.
I
write this mainly to give some context; Dave was loved by both his
parents, but they were both distant with him, too. He and his dad did
not have a “touchy-feely” relationship, at least that I’m
aware of. Part of that was generational, I think. And if you read
Ed’s essay that I linked to above, you can catch glimpse of why. What I
do know is
that Dave was an only child and had difficulty sharing his feelings.
He was quite guarded about this aspect of himself. He’s
obviously not alone; while our culture is changing, both boys and men
still have a hard time expressing and discussing emotions and
feelings. I have to be careful here; in no way do I blame either of
his parents for this; it’s partially a “nature versus
nurture” situation and also a societal one. In other words,
it’s
over-determined. To put it another way, Dave was who he
was
regardless of any of this and I loved him for it.
That
also doesn’t mean that Dave wasn’t sensitive. He
was. In
fact, he was one helluva gentle human being and I dearly wish more
people had his sensitivity. He often listened to me blather about my
emotions and feelings with patience and wit. He could be damn funny,
but most people didn’t see that too often. Dave really had to
get to know you before he let his guard down. He was also supportive
of my art and comic book endeavours, watching (probably with some
degree of shock) when I left the bookstore that I was running to set out
on an art career.
He saw all the hiccups and false starts; the
failures and frustrations. He also was able to see my grow as an
artist and that is something I take quite a bit of solace in.
His mom died in 2004 at the age of 62. Far too young to die and I’m
not clear on exactly what happened. Dave was not particularly
surprised by her death, but — again — it was difficult to
get him to talk about it much. She also died in British Columbia and
Dave didn’t attend her funeral. It was difficult to get him to
talk about that decision, too. I think he felt that he had already
placed her loss. He might very well have been right. This type of
thing is always so personal and I think — hope, really —
that he was happy with that decision. Life carried on and he
seemed
to be okay.
His dad died in 2008 and this one was much harder. His dad was in his 80s
and, while frail, was still pretty feisty. Dave was living in the
same small apartment building that my wife and I were in, but he
would regularly visit his dad to help out with cleaning, groceries,
and that sort of thing. And my wife and I also were able to have both
Dave and his dad over to our place a number of times, primarily for
holidays, and these were always a great deal of fun. Ed was such a
gentleman, in the classic sense, and I can still picture him in my
mind’s eye; with the holiday meal finished, Ed would sit in a
rocking chair with one of our cats on his lap, telling stories.
I
still vividly remember the day that two members of the Ottawa Police
Service dropped by to let him know that his dad had been found dead
in his home. They found me first and, while they were noncommital, I was pretty sure I knew what
had happened. I had to bring the police to Dave to break the news.
That was a tough, tough day. My wife and I gave Dave the privacy he
needed while he discussed what had happened with the police, ready to
intercede if and when he needed us. While Ed’s death was
sudden, he had died of natural causes. Again, that is easy to say but very hard to place.
Given
his dad’s age, his death really wasn’t a surprise, but I
don’t think Dave was at all prepared for that loss. Worse, Dave
had been working as an accountant in the federal government, in a
department that was then called
Indian and Northern Affairs. I know
that Dave had been working on some of the
Residential School claims
and that this was extremely difficult work. Despite his accounting
work, Dave wound up becoming informed about a truly awful chapter in
Canada’s history; a chapter that is still unresolved. Words
can’t describe the horrors that so many indigenous children
went through in this country, something that many people are still
not prepared to face.
At
any rate, that combination — the death of his dad combined with
the nature of his work — significantly and negatively effected
Dave.
No, scratch that. Saying that
doesn’t go far enough.
“Destroyed” would be a better word. That combination
destroyed him. Worse, his superiors in no way, shape, or form gave
him the support he needed or the help he needed to grapple with this
trauma. His PTSD. Trauma and loss can effect us differently; one
person can just be wrecked by a situation or an event while others
aren’t. It’s part of the reason why I don’t believe
in trying to “rank” or otherwise qualify loss and trauma.
It is what it is and we all react differently to it. Often our
reaction is influenced by exactly where we are in life at that
particular point in time.
In
a way, Dave was lucky. His dad was incredibly capable and his estate
was in good order. Dave wound up inheriting a house in a beautiful
and expensive part of Ottawa. That house was fully paid for, so Dave
would only need to deal with municipal taxes and general upkeep. On
top of it, Dave’s dad had an investment portfolio that Dave
also inherited. Lastly, Dave was both the executor of his dad’s
will and estate and the sole beneficiary. From a financial point of
view, Dave was okay. His dad made sure of that. Given what we know
about so many people in our society, he was better than okay.
Financially.
However,
emotionally Dave was
not okay. Not even close to okay. He could not
easily talk about the losses and trauma he had suffered. I supported
him as best I could through all of this; talking with the police,
trying to find his dad’s body at the morgue before we
discovered that the body had already been transferred to a funeral
home, going to that funeral home and dealing with all of the
arrangements, breaking the news to his neighbours, dealing with the
will, and so on. Dave was clearly hurt, but he could not really talk
about that hurt. Again, there’s no fault or blame in how he
dealt with and processed his dad’s death. He did the best he
could. It was just so difficult to see someone I loved not be able to
share the burden of loss.
Then
things got worse. Dave wound up quitting the government entirely.
Here I do blame his supervisors; he was
never given the support he
desperately needed. The department itself dealt with a great deal of
“burnout” (what a euphemism that is) and Dave was clearly
just a cog in a very big machine. When he couldn’t handle it,
he walked away. What should have happened? Well, first off he should
have been given assistance if and when he needed it. Second, he
should have been put on stress leave. Hell, unions have fought for
that right and, while many workers in Canada do not have that right,
it is an
important right and needs to be much broader.
Every damn worker
should have that right.
To
his credit, Dave
did seek out some help from his doctor who referred
him to a psychiatrist. This he did on his own and I dearly wish he
had reached out to me for some help with this; visiting doctors,
especially when one is dealing with trauma, is not easy. Having a
friend with you, both as moral support and as an advocate, can be and
often is helpful. However, it would be an intrusion in his privacy.
Dave chose to go a different route and tried to handle it as best he
could on his own.
I
did manage to talk with him about what the psychiatrist told him.
This was really the only time he opened up about it with me. He
basically said that the trauma “popped” his brain. He
tried some prescription anti-depressants to help, but the problem
with meds like this is that they can often take a long time to get
“right.” In Dave’s case, the medicine emotionally
“flat-lined” him. He phrased it this way:
all of his
emotions, not just the sad ones, were shunted off. Not sad, not
filled with loss, but equally missing out happiness and joy. There
was just
nothing at all. As a result, Dave gave up on the
medications. And, as far as I know, he never went back to them.
Dave
never did wind up working again. He wound up moving into his dad’s
house. That house, in an older retired neighbourhood, became his
prison. I don’t think that’s overstating it. The house
was really meant for a family; it was big and old and meant for a
post-World War II-style nuclear family. Living all by himself in that
house was… well,
not a good situation. Worse, Dave had wealth
but little income. He could rely, as far as I know, on investment
income from the stock and bond portfolio, but this was always
unpredictable and variable.
He
did have a cat or two and they helped. And early on, he did have a
roommate and that helped, too. But the roommate eventually moved on
and was not replaced. Then it was just Dave, a cat or two, and that
house. Both my wife and I urged him to sell the house. He couldn’t
do it. I think I understand; it was both his childhood home as well
as a direct connection to his dad. I think that for Dave selling it
was anathema; it would have been like cutting off his own arm.
However, at the same time the house was expensive to maintain.
Property taxes alone were high and that, combined with day-to-day
expenses, created a number of financial problems. I should add here
that I’m partially guessing; while Dave was guarded about his
emotions, he was even more guarded about money. Both my wife and I
would ask him how he was doing for money or even offer to help out if
we could, but he always deflected. I think he knew,
probably, that
selling the house was the practical thing to do. It would have
resolved a lot of the financial issues that I suspect he was having,
but — again — he couldn’t do it. Again, to be
clear, I
don’t blame him for that. Whatever the reason was, he
just couldn’t do it.
This
was all made worse by his social isolation. Living in that house and
not working meant that his social circle became that much smaller. We
did manage to get him to visit us from time to time and we did visit
him from time to time as many of the photos that accompany this piece attest, but it was always impossible to get him
to leave for an extended period of time. In other words, getting him
to go on a vacation was a bridge too far. Getting him to even stay
with us overnight was nearly impossible. And, as the 2010’s
continued, the visits became less frequent. We used to see him on all
the major holidays combined with various weekends or whatever
throughout the year. As time went on, it just became the major
holidays. And then even those became unpredictable and less frequent.
Dave, I think, retreated from life.
When
we did see him over the past few years, he was obviously declining. I say “obvious”
because he became harder to talk with. His physical well-being seemed
to be deteriorating; we’d see him one time and he had gained
weight. Another time, months later, and he had lost a lot of weight.
Maybe too much. Then the weight was put back on. Back and forth,
forth and back. My suspicion, and it’s only that, is that he
was surviving on canned stews and other poor quality food, assuming
he was eating regularly at all. The cognitive issues were that much
worse; his memory wasn’t as crisp as I was used to. He also
seemed to be getting paranoid; I vividly recall one conversation that
I had with him where he claimed that he couldn’t read an
illustrated Lovecraft book outside in his backyard because the
neighbours were uncomfortable and judging him. While I’ll never know for
sure, I doubt that anyone who happened to notice could even determine
what he was reading.
Things
got worse. He was supposed to visit us on Christmas Day in 2017; this
was a long tradition we had had with him. However, his cat Cecil was
having health issues and Dave called to cancel. It was the only time
I ever remember him crying; Cecil, after a bad few weeks, had died
that Christmas morning. Dave was unable or unwilling to take him to a vet,
even an emergency vet, so he had stayed with Cecil until the very
end. I was shocked; we’ve had to put a number of our animals
down over the years and it was unthinkable to me to not bring them to
a vet to end their suffering. Again, I’m not saying this to
judge Dave or anything like that; what I am saying is that the idea
of bringing Cecil to a vet either didn’t cross Dave’s
mind or he felt that he couldn’t afford to pay for Cecil’s
end of life care. I don’t know what the answer is, but I do
know that Dave was unable to talk with us about Cecil’s health
until that poor little cat had died.
Dave
fully retreated after that. I don’t know if this was sparked by
Cecil’s death or a coincidence, but reaching him was basically
impossible. We’d leave phone messages that were never returned.
Worse, his answering service would “fill up” and leaving
further messages was impossible. He would not return emails. We’d
try sending postcards and letters, even containing a self-addressed
stamped envelope sometimes, and these weren’t returned. We
became desperate, reaching out to the Ottawa Police Service to
arrange a wellness check. We were told that we need to try visiting
him in person before the police could intervene. I should add here
that Dave lives fairly far away from us and, worse, none of us owned
a car. We were always reliant on either public transit or taxis.
Anyway, given the situation, I hopped on a bus and went down to his
house while my wife stayed home to look after our animals. I have to
admit that we both thought he was dead. I still vividly remember
getting off the bus and beginning the approximately 15 minute walk to
his house. That was one helluva tough walk. A walk filled with dread.
A walk filled with sadness. A walk filled with questions. A walk
filled with remorse.
As
I neared his house, I could see a pile of mail in the mail box. I was
positive that he was dead and, in a minute or two, I’d be
calling the police from his front steps. With a lump in my throat, I
approached the door and started banging on it with my steel toes.
After a little while, I heard a commotion inside and Dave opened the
door. I almost cried with relief. He was okay; or, as the saying
goes, okay for
not being okay. In fact, he was bewildered. He didn’t
understand why I was upset or what the problem was. I remember
calling my wife to tell her that Dave was alive and “okay”
and she burst out crying. We had been so worried and the relief that
he was alive was almost overwhelming. At the same time, there were
obvious points of concern. His sense of time, his isolation, his
confusion about why we were worried, and his gentle dismissal about
his absences. The phone? He was having problems with the phone
company, and rather than deal with it, he just let it go. Email? Too
much spam so he gave up looking at it. The self-addressed stamped
postcards and letters? Never got around to answering them. What was the big deal?
It’s
hard to put into words how shocking this was. The Dave I had grown up
with was the epitome of responsibility. He was an accountant, after
all, and — stereotypes aside — was incredibly
responsible. As a kid and a young adult, Dave was
always on top of
things.
That Dave didn’t let anything slide by.
This Dave?
Well, in many ways he was still the same Dave, but in many other ways
he was clearly not. Reconciling the two was pretty damn difficult.
I
took him out for lunch, my treat, and, given the stress, we had a
relatively nice time. Both my wife and I hoped that our anguish over
whether he was alive or dead might make an impact. Maybe he’d
stay in touch, at least better than he had been? Maybe he’d be
more proactive, knowing that we loved him and worried about him?
Maybe… maybe things would change for the better?
Sadly,
it became pretty clear that
nothing changed. Our little intervention
made no difference at all. Dave continued to withdraw from the world
around him. Offers to help him find work, suggestions to volunteer in
the community, offers to hang out, all this and more fell on deaf
ears. Again, I don’t blame Dave for this, though I’m
profoundly saddened by it. I had seen similar behaviour in my mom,
but the circumstances and situation was different.
In my mom’s
case, her anxiety, depression, and struggle with schizophrenia was
paralyzing. She literally could not get out of bed some days and her
retreat from the world was as a result of this. She had also been
hospitalized a number of times for so-called “nervous
breakdowns.” In Dave’s case, the details were different,
but the end result was the same.
One
of the most difficult things about mental illness is that unless one
really “bottoms out,” there’s very little aid given
to people in our society. All of the Bell “Let’s Talk”
campaigns don’t matter if one can’t get help when one
needs it. Worse, there’s a conundrum here; what if one doesn’t
think they need help? How does one help an adult that doesn’t
not admit that they need help? Even “admit” here is a
tricky word because that implies some type of denial. I’m not
sure Dave was
ever aware that he was in trouble. Or, if he was, he
may have felt that these troubles would pass in time.
Dave
could function, nominally. I suspect he could visit a grocery store
and present as normal. I suspect no clerk or other customers really took
any notice of him; he was still quiet and respectful, at least when I
was with him, and I think most clerks might have just thought he was
a bit quiet or — maybe — “odd.” He certainly
never had any “episodes” (i.e.: an obvious mental health
crisis) on the street that would have allowed some type of formal
intervention. He was never hospitalized for depression. He was never
hospitalized for any mental health issue at all.
He
lived in a decaying house, on a quiet street, by himself. Alone is
not a synonym for lonely. Dave might never have felt that he was
lonely. I don’t know. From the outside, I think he was, but at
the end of the day only
he would know for sure. We were desperate to
help him. We loved him dearly and it was brutal to watch him decline.
For me it was especially hard because I had experienced this before
with my own mom. Seeing it again, albeit with significant
differences, was
not easy. The feeling of powerlessness combined with
a looming sense of inevitability is extremely difficult to
communicate to someone who has never experienced it. Like an oncoming
storm that’s still very far away, but coming all the same.
It
is brutal to watch someone you love decline. And both my wife and I
had to make a decision. There is only so much one can do. Dave’s
behaviour was harming us. At some point we had to accept that he was
living the life he wanted to, even if he wasn’t “well.”
And, perhaps, a life that the “other” Dave, that younger
healthier Dave, would not have accepted, either. We would always be
there for him, but we couldn’t resolve any problems for him. As
a matter of self-preservation, we had to pull back. At the end of the
day, all we could do is be there for him, no questions asked, if and
when he decided to reach out.
He
never did. I suspect the pandemic made things that much worse. Given
my wife’s health (she’s immune-compromised), we couldn’t
risk much personal contact since COVID began. We had already made the
decision to pull back from Dave to protect ourselves, but COVID
basically cemented that. It hurt. Dave knew my wife’s health
situation, but he never reached out to see how she was doing. That
hurt, too. Do I blame him? No, I don’t, but the sting was there
all the same. It did confirm to me that his mental health was not
good; old Dave would have touched base. This Dave? He couldn’t
do it, for whatever reason. Perhaps it never even crossed his mind.
Did
Dave do anything wrong? No. What’s hard about this is that
there’s no one really to blame. While I do hold his supervisors
at Indian and Northern Affairs responsible for the lack of support
they gave him, that was also 14 some-odd years ago. It’s
not
their fault. Nor is it his dad’s fault or his mom’s
fault.
It’s no one’s fault. It just is. And that’s
hard. It’s also senseless and that’s hard, too.
Dave
was 49 years old. He had a lot of living still to do. I dearly miss
my friend. I miss what he was and I miss sharing what he could be.
What if he had been able to gain control of his mental health? What
could he have done? Where would he have gone? What joys could he have
shared? The sting of death is not just the loss of what was, but the
loss of what could be. There is an old poem, written in 1856 by John
Greenleaf Whittier titled “
Maud Muller.” It has a line
that has stayed with me all of my life: “For of all sad words
of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’”
I
miss my friend. I miss what could have been. The three of us (Dave,
my wife, and I) had loosely talked, way back when, about growing old
and maybe buying a house together down east. Dave’s dad was
from the Maritimes and I think the notion of moving back there one
day appealed to Dave. It wasn’t a firm plan or anything like
that, but it was an idea of three friends who loved each other and
wanted to support one another. I miss
that Dave.
Death
is awful. The loss of loved ones, human or otherwise,
always is. I
think back to the experiences we shared together. Reading comics.
Playing role-playing games. Watching pro wrestling. Playing cards.
Hanging out. Talking. It hurts that I’ll never have that
experience with him again, but I’m glad I had them. I can say
that he helped me, especially when I was a kid, more than I ever
realized. I was able to relax with Dave, something that — given
my own history — was not so easy for me to do. I’m glad I
told him, more than once, that I loved him. One of the last times we
saw him, he said it back.
To
love and be loved is, at the end of the day, what I think life is all
about.
Dave
was loved. And that’s important.
Dave
is remembered. And that’s important, too.
Goodbye,
Dave. I’ll miss you forever.
Postscript:
“We
find in the myths no sense of bitterness at the harshness and
unfairness of life, but rather a spirit of heroic resignation;
humanity is born to trouble, but courage, adventure, and the wonders
of life are matters of thankfulness, to be enjoyed while life is
still granted to us. The great gifts of the gods were readiness to
face the world as it was, the luck that sustains men in tight places,
and the opportunity to win that glory which alone can outlive death…
The dangers of this view of the world lay in a tendency towards lack
of compassion for the weak, an over-emphasis on material success, and
arrogant self-confidence: indeed the heroic literature contains frank
warning against such errors.” — Hilda Roderick Ellis
Davidson,
GODS AND MYTHS OF NORTHERN EUROPE
This is the last photograph I have of my mom and I together. Taken by Dave in his backyard.
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