My son received compassionate care while dying. He deserved the same care while living

This First Person article is the experience of Angela Lavallee, Neyo Kookum Iskwe — Four Grandmothers Woman, a First Nations mother, grandmother, knowledge learner and community heart helper. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see this FAQ.

As caregivers mark their calendars to celebrate their children's birthdays, weddings, graduations or special events, my mind, body and spirit will always remember Nov. 2, 2024, as the day I had to take my 27-year-old son off life-support.  

As I was holding him through his last breaths on Earth, I remember trying to quiet the grieving cries of loved ones at his bedside. I wanted to silence the human world, soothe the aching pain of my broken heart and stay attentive to the spiritual sounds of my son laughing.

I wanted to lean into the hope that he was going to a place where he would be free of the suffering. 

As I process the grief and loss, I reflect on the realization that my son's story and cries for comfort in healing will not die with him. I feel the years of injustices unravel as I am trying to embrace the peaceful purpose of having to bury my son. 

However, the fire he continues to light within me is burning with a purpose, and I cannot allow his voice to go ignored. I invite you to see my son through my eyes and hear it with your heart. I invite you to walk with me, as I share the essence of who he was.

His spirit name is Blue Thunderbird Man, and his legal name was Kyrel Lavallee. He was my sacred fire-keeper and only son. 

He had a passion for writing lyrics and was fascinated by ancient Egyptian mythology, aliens, Marvel movies, documentaries, multidimensions and the mysterious paranormal powers of the world.

He had an adventurous life that took him across Turtle Island, where he filled space sharing stories about humour, survival, hope, healing and love, and making memorable connections. Kyrel had a generous energy, and he would often give his clothes, money and food to those in need. 

He loved helping others, but also required the necessities and empathy he was so freely giving to others. 

At war with addiction

Kyrel had an illness that many people stigmatize as preventable — substance use addiction. At a young age, he started using alcohol and drugs to cope with his trauma. It became his confidence-builder to interact socially with people. 

We spent years navigating health and community resources that offered tools for him to live a life of sobriety, and tending to the wounds of ongoing traumas.

His sisters and I had the honour of being trusted with the staggering and tough stories where he was at war with addiction. As his mother and primary caregiver, I understand the core of his intergenerational traumas, pains, grief and losses.

Right to the last hours of his life, we advocated for him and his ongoing need for support and social guidance. 

We know our Canadian health system is intended to provide quality care and should offer a sense of dignity, respect and well-being to all people.

But part of my son's story involves his cries for comfort and non-judgmental healing services, only to be dismissed by some of the people working in our health system. 

Hours before my son was admitted into an intensive care unit at an Edmonton hospital, he was discharged from a detox centre elsewhere in the city.

He was trying to access resources to heal from the spirit of addiction. One of my son's last text messages to me reads, "I signed up for two different treatment places but a call ASAP isn't guaranteed.… They'll be discharging me when my withdrawal symptoms are gone."

And sure enough, on the morning of Oct. 29, 2024, instead of accommodating his pleas to remain in the detox centre either until a treatment bed opened up, or we'd safeguarded a plan to get him back home to Manitoba, he was dismissed and sent on his way.

Sadly, being sent on his way pulled him back into the pathway of addiction. It was a route he struggled not to take, but as we know, it's often more accessible than healing and wellness resources.

Less than eight hours after being discharged from detox, my only son was found outside a homeless shelter, unresponsive.

Left with 'what ifs'

Kyrel is one of many who are dying in a pandemic of accidental overdoses. 

We are left with the residue of unanswered questions and unloading the "what ifs." What if they allowed him to stay until he secured a bed in treatment? What if they'd comforted him until we'd made our safe plan to get him back home?

What if they'd accommodated him until he continued his sober pathway at "ma's treatment"? When he was home, I sometimes had the capacity to be his safe place between detox and treatment.

I honour every moment my son fought to stay sober and would make space where he could heal and be away from energies that dragged him into the cycle of addiction.

What if people did not have to be on their deathbed to be treated with such dignity, respect and comforting care?

What if every person who wants to be on a pathway of healing and sobriety had the resources between detox and treatment? What if they had focused more on hearing my son's voice, instead of measuring his needs based on withdrawal symptoms?

I spent the last three nights and four days of my son's life crying, talking, singing and pleading with him to keep fighting.

In the darkest of moments, it was therapeutic to feel and see how the doctor and nurses at Royal Alexandra Hospital in Edmonton tended to my child and made space for our family to be with him. They did not use any words that made his illness less than, and treated him with dignity, respect and care. The nurses spoke to him with such tenderness and love. Each night, the nurses made a bed for me next to my dying son.

The doctor was transparent in the whole process and did not refer to my son as an "addict," a "user" or a "homeless person." Nor did he use the word "overdose." We had access to seeing his charts, brain scans — every process so diligently explained — and could smudge with our traditional medicines in his ICU room.

What if people did not have to be on their deathbed to be treated with such dignity, respect and comforting care? 

Kyrel is more than just a number in the statistics of people who died by overdose. He was more than his struggle with addiction. My son is a sacred fire-keeper, helper, brother, uncle, nephew, cousin, grandson and friend. 

We need to fill in those gaps where we are losing people like my son. We need more healing resources to support folks who keep trying to save their lives and find the courage to seek help. 

My son had a purpose in life, and his legacy will not die with him.