Between the Lines of Care

Some days shift quietly, with a single sentence.

I remember coming into work years ago and being told that one of our clients had died. Was it true, I wondered. Had he died alone? Had it been peaceful, or had he suffered? It was still early in my career, only about the tenth death I had experienced in this work. I did not yet know how many more would follow in the years to come.

Before he was ever a “client,” he had been one of the first people I met on the streets in Duncan. He had a flirty personality that caught me off guard at first, but over time it became a running joke between us, something familiar, something human.

We spent years in conversation. We talked about his life, the struggles he carried, the family he loved, and the dreams he held onto. He wanted to get sober. Not in a vague or distant way, but in a way that was tied to something real: being present in his daughter’s life.

He dreamed big about what sobriety could give back to him. At the same time, he was honest about what it would take. He knew that without alcohol, he would have to face a level of pain and suffering that he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

Life had not been easy for him, though he never presented himself as a victim. He spoke openly about the choices he had made and took ownership of the life he was living. As an Indigenous man, he had also lived in the shadow of things larger than himself—loss, displacement, the lasting impacts of residential schools and generational trauma—but he never used those realities to excuse himself, only to help explain the road he had travelled.

Throughout the day, I found myself thinking about him. In quiet moments, the kind you only notice when something feels off, I sat with the reality that he was gone. I tried to imagine what the streets would feel like without him in them.

Every interaction I had with him left me smiling. That’s what stands out now. People often dismissed him, assuming his words didn’t carry weight because of the alcohol. But if you took the time to really listen, he had something to say.

I remembered one day during a Street School session I was facilitating. I was struggling to get people to speak, to share what they wanted for themselves and what they hoped might change. The room was quiet.

Then he stood up.

I had seen that kind of moment before, the way Elders in the community sometimes rise to speak, not loudly, but with presence. He said, “All my life, I’ve been told I need to use my voice.”

I don’t remember all of the words that followed. But I remember how it felt to hear him. The clarity. The authority. The way the room shifted. He had a voice. He always had. It just wasn’t always heard.

Loss in this work does not come with ceremony. It comes in passing conversations, in empty spaces where someone used to be, in the quiet realization that you will not see them again.

But what remained were the moments. The laughter. The honesty. The glimpses of who someone truly was beneath everything else. He was more than the life he struggled with. He was thoughtful, self-aware, and deeply human. He was someone who loved his daughter. Someone who carried pain and still showed up with humour and connection.

I knew that I would spend moments in my life thinking about him, and I would remember him for all of those things.

He was one of a kind.