This First Person article is written by Andy Griffin who lives near Lakefield, Ont. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
It was an uncommonly beautiful afternoon on Nov. 2, 2021, and I was preparing dinner when my wife suddenly called from the living room.
“Oh my god! There’s military people in full dress uniform in our driveway.”
Our son Ryan was a bombardier in the Canadian Armed Forces. It registered instantly that their visit could only mean one thing. Our 29-year-old son was dead.
By the time they reached the door, I had turned grey, broken into a cold sweat and felt my knees buckle.
Ryan had come home three weeks earlier at Thanksgiving. As it turned out, that would be the last time we’d ever see him alive. He left behind a heartbroken and devastated family as well as so many close friends and colleagues.
Ryan did not die a “war hero.” He was not killed in the line of duty. In fact, he was never deployed during his four years of service much to his dismay. The battle he lost was with depression.
Tragically, Ryan had taken his own life. In more direct terms, he died by suicide. Not “committed” suicide since it is no longer considered a crime in most countries as it, ridiculously, used to be in Canada until 1972.
It’s common to read obituaries that mention someone passing away “after a long, courageous battle with cancer” or another major affliction. What I’ve never seen is one that refers to “a long, courageous battle with depression.” Not surprising given the stigma still attached to that other, associated word: suicide.
Ryan battled depression for more than a decade even though he smiled easily and was often “the life of the party.” Our family knew he had battled depression, but more casual acquaintances probably saw him as a happy-go-lucky guy.
He was full of life. He was energetic, ambitious, outgoing and witty. Ryan had a great sense of adventure and an interest in travel. He had a deep love of the outdoors — camping, hiking and especially mountain biking. He did competitive downhill racing for several years.
But I believe joining the military had given him a sense of purpose previously missing from his life. He loved his career in artillery, was proud of his promotion from gunner to bombardier and had ambitions for further promotions going forward.
However, Ryan also struggled to recognize his own worth and abilities. He received therapy at various times and was prescribed antidepressants.
As a parent, it was hard to know how good or bad it was for Ryan because he hid his feelings and was generally unwilling to talk about it. He sometimes mentioned that he didn’t want to burden others with his problems.
Prior to that Thanksgiving visit, Ryan said he would come home only if we agreed to not dwell on his problems and keep the focus on a nice family get-together.
He had an appointment with a mental health professional on base the day before he died. Sadly, pandemic restrictions meant it was a phone appointment and the person who spoke with Ryan did not consider him high risk.
I wish Ryan could have seen how much he was respected and loved by his colleagues and family. After his suicide, the chain of command told us Ryan would have a military funeral. Some 160 soldiers were bused from CFB Petawawa to Lakefield, Ont., for his service.
Losing a child at any age is horrendous and heartbreaking. Sometimes though, it feels like it might be easier to accept Ryan’s death if he had been killed during a deployment in some faraway place. And in the case of suicide, there are so many questions, so few answers and so few people to talk to.
We have not hesitated to tell people that Ryan’s death was a suicide, but most don’t know what to say or how to respond. After Ryan’s death, one relative asked, “Couldn’t someone have seen this coming?”
We also have friends who have never actually acknowledged Ryan’s passing, although there are others who have provided wonderful support.
But I’ve realized many people don’t wish to talk about it because there’s still stigma associated with suicide and it can be an uncomfortable conversation. Even fewer people seem to understand.
The truth is we also have been completely overwhelmed with a long list of emotions. Immense sadness, obviously, but also confusion, anger, hopelessness, frustration, shock, paralysis, anxiety and loneliness. So many “what-ifs.”
What if I’d reached out more often? What if I’d reached out closer to the day he died? What if I’d pushed even harder for him to talk more about what he was feeling? At times, feelings of guilt and shame creep over me. No doubt the workings of the associated stigma and taboo perception of suicide.
This is the challenge for us as a society — to reach a point where people feel the same comfort level talking about their depression as they would telling someone they have cancer. Even if it means admitting to having dark, suicidal thoughts. Even if it means admitting to others that our loved one died by suicide. A very tough conversation to be sure, but one that should be possible without shame or embarrassment.
If you or someone you know is struggling, here’s where to get help:
If you’re worried someone you know may be at risk of suicide, you should talk to them about it, says the Canadian Association for Suicide Prevention. Here are some warning signs:
- Suicidal thoughts.
- Substance abuse.
- Purposelessness.
- Anxiety.
- Feeling trapped.
- Hopelessness and helplessness.
- Withdrawal.
- Anger.
- Recklessness.
- Mood changes.
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