The Vancouver Initiative for AIDS Innovation

Gaunt, pale, skin and bones. Not how I would like to describe my father. But that is what he looked like.

Back in 1996, I was wide-eyed and held my dad in deep admiration. He was a musician turned bank manager, drove a grey-silver BMW and was the only person on the block who wore a suit.

He would take us to a park in White Rock, where my sisters and I would run around the grass, climb onto a weeping willow and swing from the vines. I leapt after grasshoppers, catching them in my hands. I'd tilt my ear toward my fist, to listen to the clicks, and then drop them into a plastic bag. Back home, I would release them into our backyard in hopes of creating a grasshopper farm. It never worked.

My father was caring and charismatic. My mother was the discipliner, watching our finances and well-being. We went camping, had a boat and they helped me with schoolwork. Everything was all right.

I was, I admit, a naive, nerdy child from the suburbs. At almost 15 I started dating my neighbour, four years older and quite handsome. One day, my dad saw me hugging my boyfriend. "Hey, we're going to have to take you to the doctor”, he yelled. “Are you using condoms? We need to make sure you're not pregnant or have AIDS."

I had never been so embarrassed or confused. That didn't sound like my dad – it didn't connect. Why would he say that? "Dad! You're embarrassing me!" But this was his first-born's first boyfriend. "I was just kidding around”, he said. Be careful. Guys only want one thing, you know." I was still red, blushing. "Ugh, that's gross, dad."

Little did I know I was to get dumped on MSN a couple weeks later for being a freeze.

From then on, I knew something was wrong. My dad and mother were more distant, arguing regularly. He had lost his job as a bank manager. His behaviour became more irregular, his mood all over the place. He began to lose weight and his behaviour became more erratic. I didn't know what was going on.

My teenhood was a blur. Threats, dad taking jobs that only lasted a day, arguments, moving, my mother becoming frightened, angry and unsure.

My father was diagnosed with HIV and Hepatitis C. The bank manager on a blue-collar street was now an addict. We lived inside a tornado of confusion, hurt and loss – rehab, medications like Pegatron and Ziagen, hospitalisations.

My father had become one of my mother’s children. He was no longer the provider, but the patient, the recipient of our family's anger. The pedestal I had placed him on had been kicked over and destroyed.

Treatment kept the Hepatitis C at bay, but he became tired, paranoid, less himself, It sometimes felt like living inside a movie about mental illness, when he wore a tinfoil hat and wanted an alarm system on the roof to protect us from aliens, or from whomever he thought was following him.

But this doesn’t do my dad justice. Between schizophrenia and addiction he had lucid periods. He helped me with homework, could still recite Shakespeare and held my sister as she cried through toothache. His sober periods sometimes lasted a year, bringing much-needed peace and support.

But we never fully trusted these good times. His addiction was a persistent demon.

I learned more about my father as I grew older. His father was an abusive alcoholic. One of seven children in a poor family that moved frequently. The first child to be financially successful. Married at 21 and divorced after a couple of years.

Understanding his background has since made more sense of his pain and addiction. How happy was he with himself even before he started using? How much of him was a facade? How long did he suffer from his past?

My Oma told me how my dad once stopped by her place in Vancouver. He was ashamed of being away on a binge. She tried to coax him into coming home. They sat on the porch and spoke of the past, his insecurities, his regrets, of not being able to stop using. My Oma had been trying to quit smoking for 25 years, and hadn’t then smoked for six months. While waiting for the bus, she and my dad smoked their last cigarette – both admitting they shouldn't be doing it, but supporting each other nonetheless.

He never came out of his addiction. His HIV and Hepatitis C were well-controlled – his addiction was his way of coping with his mental illness and shame.

I became a surrogate parent and partner for my sisters and mom. I learned about CD4s, and that cocaine was much better than marijuana, because it doesn't make you tired.

My father was in several car accidents – refusing to signal because he thought he was being followed. So we became regulars with the police. He attended church, became Buddhist for a while, went to AA. His past friends became frustrated with his inconsistency – they thought he could be cured if he just tried a little harder.

My relationship with him was all over the place. Some days I felt close, but was afraid of having any expectations, of being hurt. I just wanted to go back to the days where he was my hero.

My father died of an overdose two years ago. In his last four months he was in and out of a psychiatric unit. He was safer there, stayed clean for longer and had more support. But he was smart and kept his paranoia to himself, faked being better and often cheeked his medication.

During my nursing practicum, I visited him regularly at the hospital. I witnessed the disjointed health care system, the lack of follow up with psychiatric patients. It was disheartening. Illness had sucked away his identity and self-esteem. But his charisma and intelligence were still very much intact.

Wherever he is now, I know it is a better place. I hope his suffering is over.

The eight years of his illness were a huge education on the fragility of humans. I was never quiet about my experience. I found support by being open – sometimes shocking my friends. I didn't sensationalize, but tried (so far as I understood things myself) to educate them about what was going on.

Surprisingly, I was never mocked or harassed. Yes, some were quite ignorant, but what could I expect from teenagers in the suburbs? I felt alone at times and had a lot of teen angst. But I learned to exorcise my demons on the dance floor and in the mosh pit. I didn't know what else to do. I was very lucky to have the strong support of friends and my grandparents.

I’m now a nurse in the Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. I work with clients whose personal stories have been worse than mine in many ways. My father taught me about the different faces humans present, the demons they suppress. I have come to see people for who they are – not their behaviour, illness or mistakes.

My father may have had an addiction, HIV, mental illness – all huge stigmas. But he was much more than that – well-read, personable, outgoing, a great father and a caring person.

He was also the first person to introduce me to sushi. I owe him.

I love you and miss you, dad.

© Christina M.Tan