30 Years of Grief

It’s been 30 years since that tragic, fateful day.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The week leading up to the weekend, you were excited for the camping trip to celebrate your 15th birthday. I remember my mom telling me I couldn’t go on the trip and being disappointed. Instead, I had a sleepover at my cousin Shawn’s place. You went camping though, and it did not end well for you. I got a phone call at Shawn’s, someone telling me that something bad happened to you. I was numb. Void. Lost.

Today is your birthday, exactly 3 decades have passed, and I write this memorial to you, to a memory of a person who was so dear to me and yet lost so long ago. Your influence on me was enormous, more than anyone knows. I even named my son after you. It was just his middle name at first, but over the past 3 years he has taken to the name as his preferred name. He’s 14 now. Every time I say his name, I think of you, and it hurts just a little bit, but I am happy that he gets to carry some small part of your legacy.

You would have been turning 45 today. I would have made fun of you for being an old man and halfway to 50, even though you were only 6 months my senior. In turn, you would have made fun of me for the fact that I still listen to heavy metal. You preferred the popular music of the times, the MC Hammers and the Vanilla Ices. You would have been working in the field of I.T. somehow, and who knows where you would have ended up. It was you in fact who put me on this path of I.T. as well, and I owe everything I have in my life, career and family, to you Jason, for putting me on that path.
Just before you passed, you were working on a project for me. Even though you couldn’t stand the music I listened to, you offered to make a giant drawing for me of the album cover for Judas Priest’s “Painkiller”. You even showed a draft of it to me not long before you died. It was a pencil sketch, and it looked awesome. I wanted to take it as is, but you were adamant about wanting to finish it. After you passed, I could never muster up the courage to ask your mom for the drawing. I don’t know whatever came of it.

I took your passing hard, even back then. I didn’t cry at the time, oddly, but I’ve shed plenty of tears since. No, at the time, I just kind of withdrew and listened to music to help me cope. I remember that I delivered a eulogy at your funeral, but I have no idea what I even talked about, let alone how I even mustered up the courage to speak. I just remember feeling shell-shocked, stunned that I lost my best friend. I had returned to school a week later, and I remember in our wood shop class you had a few projects on the go, so I recovered two pieces to keep as mementos. The middle-finger cut out you made, as well as a piece from another project that you had stamped your initials into. The middle-finger has magical properties, because whenever I hold it, I am transported back to 1990 and I hear your crystal-clear voice singing “Fuck ya, Fuck ya, F-U-C-K Y-A.”. I’m still not sure what you intended to do with it, but it was awesome, it reminded me of you, and I kept it.

I mentioned music helps me cope. To this day, my favourite calming ritual is to sit down, put on a vinyl record, and listen. I keep my turntable in an area I refer to as my altar. The altar has alternating items that have meaning to me, but two of the items that never leave are those 2 pieces from wood shop. I keep them prominently displayed beside the album cover jacket of whatever record I happen to be playing. As I write this, I’m playing “Painkiller”, in your honour.

Having moved to the East Coast 20 years ago, I don’t get back to Elliot Lake much. I last did in 2018 to visit my mom, and of course I had to visit you. I visited the lake itself, and looked out wistfully to the island that was ultimately your doom. I also finally visited your grave for the first time, but it was a painful visit. I took a picture of my boy Jason beside it – and he was feeling my pain.

Tears come easy as I write this, and my hands are trembling as I wind down with nothing else to say really. I wish you were still around to see what I’ve become. I wish you could see my kids and what they’ve accomplished. Even though you’ve been gone for so long, you are still a big part of my life.

I have never forgotten you. I will never forget you. I love you Jason.

Rest in peace. I’m sure you are eternally listening to Vanilla Ice.