Old Bear

I remember car rides to and from new adventures, practices, swimming lessons or family events, looking out the window, pondering what happens when we die. Hopes of you carrying on staying young and spry at 80 forever and you’d wait for us to catch up. We’d keep playing crib, stay up watching movies, and choosing new adventures to go on. But it wasn’t that. And it stopped. And it hurts. I look back at all the memories you helped create, with people you touched along the way, and the values you instilled deep in my framework. I see you. I feel you deep in my soul. And I miss you. I’ve always thought about writing stories about you. My hero. My go to phone call after a hard day at work or when I needed advice, the first person I wanted to go to breakfast with early on a weekend and take time to visit at home and be together. I know that you said you’d never want anything written about you, but you deserve it.

My earliest memories of my dad and I go back to a Lazy Boy armchair, a patterned couch and a children’s book by the name of Old Bear. For those unfamiliar, Old Bear is a story from the greater “Old Bear and Friends” book set. This was the one my dad and I gravitated toward and would read repeatedly throughout the years. Of course, I mixed in lots of armchair nights with Mom with “I’ll love you forever” and The Berenstain Bears.

Old Bear is a story about an older toy bear, who the other toys of the toy room noticed had been missing for some time. The story begins with Little Bear, Duck and Bramwell bear reminiscing on the last times they saw Old Bear. About how they missed him. And wanted to bring him back to the toy room with them. The last memories they had, were that of Old Bear being taken up and into the ceiling, never to return. The toys had had enough and were determined to find a way to bring back their friend. The book carries on with different plans of rescuing Old Bear from the attic, from toy block towers, bouncing on the bed, and climbing large plants. None of which worked. It wasn’t until Duck and Bramwell devised the final plan to reach the attic door. A wooden toy plane. Rabbit would fly. Little Bear would jump up to the ceiling and climb into the attic, with the hopes of finding Old Bear and bringing him back down…

Trips to the Duck Pond in Bridgewater. The zoo. Monthly visits to great aunts and uncles. Big family meals and sleepovers at my grandparents’ place. Staying up watching cartoons and Mr. Bean while I’d hear my dad, my grandparents and aunts, uncles, or other family members caught up in the latest game of whist, Auction 45’s, or crib. I remember going to work on weekends with Dad. My brother and I creating games out of long hallways, cubicles, and some coins or a ball. Every soccer and basketball game. Late night trips to the grocery store for snacks. I remember the trips he planned to the finest details. To Florida, New York, Boston, and Portugal to name a few. I remember his sole focus being that my brother and I had the most fun, the most opportunities, and creating memories with our family. I remember the two recipes he cooked well, Lasagna and BBQ. I remember you taking the time and demonstrating the most patience you had in teaching me long division (I still have little to no idea how to do it). I remember your smile and kindness during the hard days of losing the ones we loved to disease and old age.

I remember his work ethic. No one worked harder than my dad. He cared about the people he worked with, and he cared about doing things the right way. If something went wrong, he’d stay late, go in on weekends, and work at home to make sure the work was done right, and the sheets balanced. And with all this work early on in my life, I always felt his presence. He dedicated his life to put our family first. I always admired his ability to contain stress from work and still be present at home, tuck us in at night, read a bedtime story, whatever it was, he was there and he made me feel loved.

There were so many firsts in my life with my dad. I remember following his lead and wanting to be with him on trips, at my grandparents’ place, waking up in the mornings to go in and see his bright smile, and warm welcome of “Hiii Matthew,” or “Hi, my son”, which was usually followed up with a hug. I remember his love and commitment to my mom. Their beautiful friendship, companionship and deep connection to one another. I remember him teaching me how to ride my first bike. To drive my first car. I remember walks in the woods, trips on the boat at our Little Mush a Mush cottage (with a lake that always creeped me out - what lies beneath type vibes). I remember the friendships he created and maintained so well over the years. The first observations of loyalty, love, humour, and caring for so many friends and people in his life. He cared and showed up for a community and never asked for anything in return aside from the same core values of mutual respect, ability to poke fun and shoot the shit for hours, and knowing they’d be there for him, like he’d be for them. I felt tradition through my Dad. Seafood chowder at Christmas was something him and I did together every year. Early on showing me the ropes of the process, with some dud batches over the years, and then him slowly allowing me to take on more and more responsibility, adjusting the recipe, staying away from the no go ingredients, to then allowing me to take the reins. I remember him dragging live Christmas trees into the house every year despite how much they made him stuffed up. I remember being with family around important milestones, achievements, birthdays, holidays, graduations, engagements, and weddings. I remember him being there for us. For everyone. Whenever something went wrong. My Dad was there.

His smile made me happy, even during the toughest days, he’d always make me smile. His laugh was contagious and reminiscent of deep vacuum sound that presented itself frequently in conversation, at card nights, while watching a movie, telling stories around a fire or living room, or engaging in self-deprecating humour with a new waiter or waitress who couldn’t understand his south shore accent when trying to order water. I remember him taking us to Canada’s Wonderland, having hyped up Top Gun as his favourite ride he’d been on when he was younger. Only for us to arrive, automatically choose that as our first ride to go on with him, and him being nauseous for the rest of the day. Poor fella.

I remember trips to Blockbuster on a regular basis, him coming out of his office and saying he was going to bed, only to creep closer to the couch to watch the rest of the latest movie I had rented. I remember me begging him to rent the Exorcist and watch it with me (I know, I know). It was a dark winter night, and we watched the first half before dinner. I was scared shitless and he comedically yelled at me telling me to get my ass back downstairs to finish it because I made him watch it again. He started my passion for loving film, loving Batman, and showing me the best movies as a kid. We experienced movies together, his reviews of any new action movie usually ended with 1000/10, and we always talked recommendations, new TV shows, and new movies coming out. He loved sending me videos and new trailers for “his shows” through his nightly iPad adventures, and he always said “it’s a date” if I asked him to go to the movies. He would never buy the popcorn at the theatres where it was a “rip off” but would have no problem with taking 73 napkins in to create the perfect bowl for “just a bit” of mine. We drank $20.00 beer at Phantom of the Opera in New York, and he bought my brother and I the most expensive Beauty and the Beast stuffed animals to help us remember our first Broadway show in Toronto.

His love of music has left a lasting imprint on my taste, my choices, and variety of musical influence in my life. Early days of Top 20 countdowns where Enya and Faith Hill dominated the charts in the 90’s. To dancing in the living room. “I wear my sunglasses at night..” The Eagles, Elton John, Chris De Burg, Abba and Cher. He showed me how to burn my first of many CD’s, mini disks and we always heard the newest downloads blaring in his office while he was working away or researching our next trip. I remember when I started to venture out into “that rap shit” in my mid-teens and I had burnt a CD with the first song being “What’s Luv” by Fat Joe, Ja Rule, and Ashanti. I remember driving with him one day and the everlasting start of an absolute jam beginning with “Put the fuckin…” and my dad proceeds to eject the CD, put his window down while driving and throws the CD in the road. He wasn’t impressed. His music taste was impeccable, and he had a major influence on why I started DJ’ing and expressing myself through music.

I remember one night being back home in my hometown on a long weekend and heading to my friend’s place for the night to drink with everyone who was home from university. I remember a text stating “Snydes, Caesar night.” I followed suit and arrived with some spicy clamato juice and vodka. The night progressed, 15 shots later, and I’m calling my dad as instructed, and he comes to pick me up and take me home. He picks me up and “Need You Now” by Lady Antebellum is playing. Fitting. In my drunken stupor, I had the bright idea of cranking the heat (completely unnecessary – we were all in shorts and t-shirts). This was a terrible idea. I proceeded to puke my dinner and Caesars up all over the dash and passenger side door. The worst part was that one of my friends was still in the back seat also waiting to be dropped off at his place. Tough look.

We finally get home, and I am completely wasted. I try to go into bed and end up passing out, seated upright on my front steps and stayed there for hours with warm spits, spins, and shame. Eventually the clock hit sometime in the early morning, and I stumbled into my bed to pass out again. A few hours later, I wake to the shift in compression on the side of my mattress, to my Dad sitting next to me, with a shit eating grin on his face. He doesn’t say anything, smacks me directly in the forehead, with a perfect high five sound and says:

“Should’ve had a V8.”

Now that I’m a bit older and wiser (I mean thank God – puking in my family car - ugh), there are so many hidden lessons that my dad imbedded along the way that I was too young and stubborn to acknowledge at the time. As I progressed through high school and university, I struggled in silence – and nobody really knew what I was going through. No fault of theirs, they didn’t know. How it came out at home often looked like me being defiant, trying to be independent but usually impulsive or irresponsible. I was dysregulated, irritable, and at times, miserable to be around. I was short with my dad, I would often be quick to snap out of anger and annoyance of him asking me to do something for him, or him being frustrated with another poor financial decision I had made of impulse and immediate gratification. During my late teens to mid-twenties, my ego took over and I consciously made decisions to move away from the guidance my dad had provided me. Drinking heavily at school while chronically depressed, smoking weed to escape, trying a variety of drugs as the years progressed to get lost and distracted from my internal pain, to coming home hungover in the summers, to be a monster of moods to engage with. We were always connected, but I think part of me was trying to prove something to him during these years, that I could do it. That I could be successful or what I thought he wanted me to be. He was an accountant and being financially responsible comes with the gig. I was impulsive, I enjoyed shopping, having things, and food. I spent frivolously, and I didn’t value what he had to say. Listening to him stopped the fun. I reacted emotionally to questions. I broke down after being asked to do minimal things at home. I felt criticized when all he was trying to do was help. And I strayed from following his advice.

The night that I told my parents I tried to kill myself twice at 26 years old I remember losing my mind and feeling alone. And at the same time, all the years of my negative perception of not living up to what I thought my dad wanted me to be – left out the window. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s such a core component of family over everything, of showing up for the people you love most no matter what the situation, and my mental health journey not to highlight again. After years of us not connecting – me not being able to ask for help, not being able to communicate my needs to him in a calm and logical way, and him not being able to get through to me with the only ways he knew how – we came together as a father and son that night. That night standing in my parent’s driveway, asking for help, crying, at my rock bottom and my dad asking me to come back in and talk. I did and I remember sitting by him on his Lazy Boy chair yet again, calmly, and him telling me he loved me and that he’d help me. And he did. He suggested going on short term disability. He told me to come home and stay with him and Mom. He took me to breakfast, he took me to the beach, for errands, whatever he could do. We watched movies, we connected, we talked, and we started to form a new way of communicating. He helped get me back into a routine. He made sure I was okay. He started to learn new ways to apply what I was telling him I needed from him, and he changed for me. He changed to be more patient, he validated what I was feeling, that I was struggling, and he took it at my pace. He showed up yet again for a person he loved, and I’m forever grateful to him for this.

As the years progressed, we experienced new challenges as a family, we travelled more, we were connected, and we were able to enjoy food, accomplishments, and being together. He was the one I wanted to come home to go for early morning breakfasts at his favourite spots in town, I wanted to go out and do errands and run into his old friends and acquaintances. I wanted to help him at home with the things he should’ve been asking for help with. I wanted to solve his problems with technology. I wanted to be present. He was my best friend and I just wanted to be with him.  

Two of my dad’s last big projects that brought him great joy included being a founding member of the South Shore Hospice Palliative Care Society and my wife and I’s endless three-year wedding planning over COVID. Even while his health was declining, he showed up for us and helped us plan our dream wedding with finding deals, coordinating licenses, and helping us plan logistics of our big day while being across the country. He loved every bit of making our day the best day possible, while dealing with the inevitable of his body shutting down. My wife and I were home on a trip a year prior to our wedding to surprise my mom, and I knew early on with his health challenges that it was only a matter of time before the end was near. We had had a few health scares while being home on this trip, and both my mom and I being in healthcare, knew that it was the beginning of a challenging road ahead. My dad always gave to others before taking care of himself, and eventually this caught up with him. Over the last year of his medical issues, our calls became shorter, he was sleeping more and more, medical appointments and investigations, and eventually a diagnosis we were all dreading.

Living across the country in BC, it’s always been a challenge for me to organize gifts and send them home on time. It sounds simple, but I’ve always struggled with it. It’s something I’ve paid more attention to over the past couple years and in late November 2022, my wife and I took a trip to Seattle to go Christmas shopping at her favourite store: Target. And let me tell you, Target is not this guy’s favourite store. I go for my wife because I know it brings her great joy, and over the years I’ve learned to peruse quietly, and to appreciate the deals and experience. And in November, I came across this piece from the Chip and Joanna Gaines’ home collection. Here sits a toy wooden plane. One with a propeller, two pronounced wooden wings, that looked spot on to my childhood memories with my dad reading Old Bear. Working on my new goal of sending gifts home on time, and knowing that this might be my dad’s last, I sent him two things for Christmas: This toy plane and a card telling him everything I needed to say. That I loved him. The impact he had on my life. And that he was loved by everyone he touched in his life. I sent it express, my mom, brother and him read it together and called me to let me know it arrived. We cried. He was able to read it and he kept the toy plane by his side while he was in hospital.

About a week later, my mom called telling me to come home, and I booked one of the last flights out before Christmas. My friend’s started to hear about the news, and one message that I will never forget, offered for me to use their priority pass for flying home. All of the flights home that night were cancelled due to crew issues, and because of this priority pass, I was able to skip the queue of hundreds of people’s plans ruined and get out on the last flight to get home to my dad. I arrived in Bridgewater late on Christmas Eve to say goodbye to my dad. He woke up, grabbed my arm, said “You made it.” And fell back asleep. He passed away the following evening on Boxing Day.

The past eight months without my dad have been the hardest times in my life to date. I’ve experienced death many times in my life prior to Dad. My grandparents, close friends, family members – but nothing hit like this. The grief that I’ve felt has been a gradually steep learning curve of lessons in regulation and feeling deep, unprecedented amounts of pain that simultaneously fill your heart with unwavering gratitude for the person he was and unequivocal heartbreak of losing one of the most important people in my life.

The best gift in life that a parent can give their children is a life with no regrets. Eat the food. Travel. Focus attention on the people who mean the most and bring you joy. Eat the scones. The chips. The tall glass of milk. Be silly when you want to. Blare the music. Show up the best you can. My dad lived his life fully. He lived his life for his family, for the people he loved, and to provide the most people he could with joy, a smile, and laughter. And I know that the further I strayed away from the core values and lessons he instilled with me as a child, the more that I lost myself and who I was. And the closer we came to rejoining each other on the path to collaboration, love, and understanding, the better off I was, to eventually becoming who he wanted me to be: Happy. Following my dreams. Continuing to sing his songs. And to pass along his lessons and values to the people in my life, my family, and my friends.

At the end of the Old Bear story, the toys carry out their plan, using the toy plane to fly and rescue Old Bear from the attic. Little bear jumps from the plane, to eventually find Old Bear tucked away in the corner. Little Bear asks Old Bear if he’s been lonely, to which Old Bear responds with “Yes, I have been, but I’ve been asleep a lot of the time.” Shortly after agreeing to come back to the room, Little Bear and Old Bear parachute back down to the toys in the playroom to be together again. Tucked away in bed. Ready to tackle the next day.

I’m sure for many of you the grieving process has looked different at times but carried some or many of the same emotions of sadness, depression, anxiety, frustration, anger, joy, laughter, and some more in between. And for me much like the toys in Old Bear, grief is best served with working towards bringing the ones you’ve lost back to life whatever way you can. To remember them for the joy, the experiences, the laughter, and the lessons they provided you with along the way. I still have a long way to go. I’m surrounded by people that love me, that have supported me, and who have given me space to process this incredible loss in my life. I know my dad is proud of me. I know he’s waiting. And the brightest part of me shines because of him. Because of his guidance, his love, his patience, and the endless amount of memories and stories I have to share about the wonderful man James Snyder was and always will be to me.

Share them with others. Show the pictures, tell the stories, and share how much they meant to you. And to know that they’re still with you. I know my dad is with me every day.