My Greatest Joy, my biggest failure
On January 11, 1982, 9:00 a.m., in a room full of hippies, I gave birth to a beautiful boy, Chandis Adam Strehlen.
His father, K.C. Tebbutt was present, as were four midwives, and several friends.They surrounded me in my small bedroom, as I lay on my futon on the floor with my precious baby in my arms. Months before, K.C. talked me out of aborting him. Now, I was holding a creation of God. I was thrilled and blessed.
We lived communally in a big old house in Victoria, BC. We called ourselves “The Family” and embraced a New Age lifestyle. Our ancient, three story house had a backyard garden, coal and wood heat. We shared vegan potlucks and adventures to Sooke potholes every summer, group therapy and yoga sessions, Dance, music and art filled our lives.
I was estranged from my genetic family, who had not been in contact since I was a 14 year old runaway. This group of people adopted me when I was pregnant with Adam, and I felt that I belonged to a better, healthier, family. I was full of communist dreams of a utopia of sharing lives, through cooperative parenting and other life events.
My two sisters showed up to “view”, Adam. They were disdainful of my circumstances and made sure to tell me. My older sister said, “There’s something weird about Chandis Adam”.
In a way, she was right. Adam was unique. Everyone would mention his translucence, his beautiful green eyes, his ethereal gentleness, and his sweet nature. He was an easy baby to care for, he never had tantrums, or was never demanding. He was healthy and happy. In fact, he was too easy going, sometimes, and would not mention any pain or discomforts.
The communist utopia was a lovely dream. Not long after Adam’s birth, We disbanded our communal family, to pair off, have children and become yuppies. His father, K.C. closed the gallery we opened together, took my money and went to live in Taos, New Mexico, to pursue his dreams. I made sure to have Adam call him once a year, and never asked K.C. for anything, nor did he offer.
Adam’s sister, Sola, was born December 16, 1984. When I brought her home, Adam was absolutely thrilled. He took on the role of big brother like it was natural. He was always eager to help care for her. I don’t recall the two of them fighting much, and their teachers would often comment how they were best friends.
Their teen years were difficult because of my unstable financial and physical situation. We moved a lot and I was not home enough because of my work. As a single parent, without support, I struggled, but my children were resilient, and Adam was a constant support for Sola.
He was always cheerful, and adaptable. He had many friends, and would always include Sola in his activities. His free spirit was inspirational, and his loving nature attracted many. He laughed a lot and easily, he played music and sang all the time. He made my life as a single mother much easier because he was never in trouble at school, or in the community. He was unusually honest and honourable. The teenage girls looked to him for support, because he made everyone feel safe.
Around 1994, my cousin, Dayanna, began showing signs of mental illness.She was 34 years old, and was eventually diagnosed with schizophrenia. She would visit us on occasion, and once tried to light herself on fire. My teenage children witnessed her strange behaviour, but, at that time, none of us knew what was going on. It was our first experience with severe mental illness.
When Adam turned 17, he went to visit his father in America. For three years, they had many adventures, and I believe Adam had the time of his life. They played and recorded music, Adam toured briefly, they made paintings and Adam sold several of his own, including a spectacular dragon painting for $1800 US. He found true love and was engaged to be married to a lovely Christian woman named Aimee.
But around 2001, his illness reared its ugly head. His fiance noticed changes and advised him to return to Canada, so he hopped a bus and came home.
I noticed a change the moment I picked him up at the bus station. His behaviour was alarming enough that I tried to get help many times, including several visits to the emergency room, where they turned him away, without treatment or follow up. Since he was now an adult, my hands were legally tied. All I was offered was an informational workshop. No caregiving support, no guidance, nothing.
If I thought I was alone as a single parent before, I was now completely isolated. Adam’s family, including his father, K.C. and his famous uncle Joe Average, refused to have anything to do with him. My own family ran for the hills, except for my mother and my cousin, Glenn. Sola was extremely traumatised, and I could not get any support from our healthcare system for her either.
In the height of Adam’s psychotic events, he would snap out of it when his sister or I intervened. This was because he loved us and I know he was trying to control himself.
His Hell was so real, and I was helpless and hopeless, and his sister was suffering and I was too busy to comfort and care for her.
The next 20 years was an odyssey of epic proportions. It took me until 2013 to finally get supported housing for Adam, and they offered it in the DTES. At first I was relieved to finally have a safe space for Adam, but I soon realised that this was the beginning of the end.
Adam was grateful for his new home, he claimed he lived “in a mansion”. He never complained about physical pain or discomfort. Once I asked him if he was hungry, he replied “I try not to be”. He would walk miles in inclement weather in a t-shirt; once he was lost in the snow and the police rescued him and let him sleep in a cell overnight. When they showed up at my door on November 18, 2013, they mentioned Adam was never involved with police except for health emergencies. At the end of his life, he had lost all his molars, and never mentioned the agony, which was probably constant. I imagine this is why he started smoking meth around 2015. It was cheap, easy to get, and was probably a great analgesic.
Adam was a man of pure heart. He was full of goodness and didn’t recognize evil intentions. He couldn’t lie to save his own life, did not steal, or deal drugs or lust after women. He proudly paid his debts, complied with house rules, phoned his mom every day, worked hard collecting cans for cash, refused to beg, and gave money and possessions to strangers; friendly to everyone. He was a perfect victim. He was victimised, and eventually murdered, by drug dealers.
This brings me to my conclusions. Had I gotten full legal guardianship, I might have been able to help him more. I could have forced him into rehab, or taken more control of his living situation. During Covid lockdowns, I was barred from entering his supported housing. Two years later, and after his death, Sola and I entered his room. It was a dismal, bare room with nothing but a bed, a pillow and a blanket, and a crack pipe on the floor. Not a scrap of anything, not a piece of paper, not a sock, nothing on the dirty walls, nothing of Adam in the room, it was as if he left many years ago.
I miss him terribly, he was my rock when I was sinking. He was my light when I was lost. He gave meaning to my life. I didn’t appreciate him enough. I relied on our so-called professionals, and our so-called family, to help us, instead of taking control of my precious son’s life. There seemed to be no real concern for his long term well being, and the staff at the M.P.A. who operate the Hampton Hotel made little attempt to include me in his care. I feel they only supplied the bare necessities, his meds, three hots and a cot. He would often show up at my house in filthy clothes, unkempt nails and feet, unshowered, poor dental hygiene, and hungry. Because of his illness he was unable to do personal care. Perhaps, if I had been more assertive, he would be with us today, a healthy, happy man who loves everyone.
In spite of this, there were many kind souls in his lifetime and, eventually, in the DTES looking out for Adam’s well being, and to those people, I can’t thank you enough. He would often excitedly report how strangers would give him money, food, etc. These were the final joys in his life.
I am incredibly grateful for those people who were really there for us.
