Mr. Speaker, I will be splitting my time with the hon. member for Central Okanagan—Similkameen—Nicola.
On April 29, 2003, I got a call at home from my brother Dan. I remember everything about that moment, exactly where I was in the House, the fact that I just finished an episode of 24, then in its second season. It was a beautiful spring day and there was a light breeze coming in through the patio door. I had done an ab workout that afternoon for the first time in forever and the memory of the physical pain from that workout is an odd remnant that will stick with me for the rest of my life because of Dan's next few words: “Mike, are you listening to me? Are you listening to me, Mike? Dad died this afternoon.”
Our father, Mark, was 59 years old. The news was gut-wrenching but it was not surprising. As a dad, my dad was absolutely wonderful. He told us he loved us all the time. He was free with hugs, kisses and those regular “I love you's”, something that I did not always appreciate growing up but cherished as an adult. Not only did my dad not miss a single one of our hockey games, he almost never missed a practice. I could always count on seeing him with his trademark Grizzly Adams beard, standing behind the glass by the net. I do not remember him without that beard. He started growing it right after I was born in 1969 and never ever shaved it off.
As an adult, he also had a perpetual beer gut. Like his father and his sisters, his hair was a beautiful snowy white. He told me during our last conversation that he was finally embracing the idea of being Santa Claus during the next Christmas season. Quite honestly, he could have pulled that off when he was in his thirties. He never went to college but he was one of the smartest people I have ever met. He was very sensitive, genuine and powerfully connected with vulnerable people, I think because he could relate to them very personally.
I believe my dad started smoking and drinking around the time he was 11 or 12 years old. I do not know why. When he was 15, his father passed away and at 16 he joined the navy, likely a decision after a few too many drinks. He quit soon after when he realized he was prone to sea sickness. Again, the drinking probably did not help. About 15 years before he died, my dad quit drinking. While he had difficulty breaking some of his other negative habits, his drinking had started to affect the family. His love for his family was the one thing strong enough to give him the motivation he needed to quit.
I do not know when my father was first prescribed OxyContin. It was probably sometime in 2002 or 2003. Old football injuries and years of carrying the extra weight had caused him to experience significant pain in his back and hips. I believe at first the medication helped, but I really do not know how much he was taking. We did not then understand OxyContin the way we do now, but I did know my dad. Over time, something was changing. He seemed to be a little fuzzier. It is hard to describe, but he did not look well over the last several months of his life.
At some point not long before he died, my dad decided he wanted to get off OxyContin. At times, those of us closest to him had gently let him know that we were concerned that he did not seem to be himself. He would be a little defensive, something I was used to from my years trying to convince him to quit smoking.
The exact timing of events in April 2003 is a bit foggy for all of us 19 years later, but I know this. We had a get-together for Easter around April 20, nine days before he died. My mom and dad planned to come separately. My mom arrived, but two hours later my dad still had not shown up. I was worried enough that I drove 30 minutes to their house and went in, quite anxious, not sure what to expect. I shouted for him. I was relieved when he walked out groggily and said that he had just fallen asleep.
My brother and I debated this next part as we were reflecting on it the other night. I believe that my dad decided to try to get off OxyContin after that day and went back on it the night before he died. My brother thinks this might have happened earlier. What we agree on is that this withdrawal resulted in his being in agonizing pain. Dan tells me that he told him he thought he was going to die, something he also told me multiple times.
The ultimate irony is that a couple of months after he died, when I received the call telling me that the cause of his death was a lethal dose of OxyContin, I was also told that the autopsy showed that other than the OxyContin, his overall health seemed surprisingly good. His death, at least at that age, wasn't as inevitable as he thought it would be. After 19 years, my memories of my father are very good ones, and I am so thankful that, as imperfect as he was, he was my dad.
If I am being honest, I also have some other thoughts, and I hope that sharing those thoughts out loud can help us find solutions so that others do not face similar tragedies in their own lives.
I wish that he had not started smoking and drinking at such an early age. I wish that he had been better able to manage his physical health, a driver of so much of his pain in his fifties. I wish that, in his case, OxyContin had not been prescribed, and I wish that he had had access to better tools and guidance when he tried to get off of it. Most of all, while I understand that stories are very powerful, I wish that I did not have this one to tell, that instead my father could have known me as a member of Parliament and one he would be incredibly proud of.
I wish that we all had so few stories to share that a night like this, set aside in the Canadian House of Commons for this purpose, would not be necessary. However, all the wishes in the world will not change the past and they will not change the current reality. It is way past time we took meaningful action to tackle the opioid crisis and other significant issues of mental health in this country.
Tonight I have hope, hope that one day people will speak about this as a time when their elected Parliament set aside hyperpartisanship to find evidence-based solutions to a significant crisis, hope that one day someone will talk about how the trajectory of their life changed for the better because of what we are doing here tonight.
I am honoured to be with friends here, now, with the responsibility of turning this hope into action. Let us get to work.
