Gord and Roy
In my best recollections, when I heard that Gord Downie died, I was driving on Perimeter Road in Greenville, South Carolina. I was heading toward Ethox Chemicals and was wondering how I could turn my transport truck around in their tight, gated parking lot. It’s not crazy hard to back into their docks; just time-consuming. I was listening to CBC (the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) on Sirius satellite radio, when the news came. Within moments I stopped on the side of the road because I was too upset to be amongst people.

Or maybe I remember incorrectly. Perhaps this scenario happened when Roy Halladay died. A quick bit of research tells me that my confusion makes sense. They passed away three weeks apart, to the day, in October and November 2017. I was equally sad in both cases.

For those not familiar with these two legends: Downie was the lead singer and songwriter for the iconic Canadian rock band The Tragically Hip. He died after a long and highly publicized battle with glioblastoma, brain cancer. Halladay was a Hall of Fame pitcher who spent most of his best years with my beloved Toronto Blue Jays. He died tragically when a small plane he was piloting crashed into the Gulf of Mexico.

Even though Downie’s death was expected, I cried more than I thought I would. I reflected on the Hip’s final concert, in August 2016. They performed in their hometown Kingston, Ontario. The show was simulcast on huge screens in hundreds of locations across Canada, including Burlington’s Spencer Smith Park, our gorgeous lakefront oasis. Kim and I were there, taking in each song from the relative comfort of our blanket on the grass. Downie displayed so much raw emotion, on his face and in his voice, clearly understanding that this was the last time he’d be singing live. By the time the last song, Ahead By A Century, was over, we could see a lot of moist eyes in the crowd of thousands of people.

Halladay’s death was purely shocking. He was recently retired and doing what he loved; what he was ostensibly forbidden from doing while he was pitching in the big leagues. I remembered all the hitters he drove crazy with his uncanny control and composure on the mound in 287 starts with the Jays over his 12 years with the club.

When I heard that Tom Petty died, I was pulling into a Flying J truck stop in Blacksburg, South Carolina. I was a little shook up over that one too. There had been no word that he was ill. Eventually it was revealed that he passed away from an accidental overdose of different medications meant to manage severe pain.

Other celebrity deaths throughout my adult years have left an impression on me: Princess Diana, Robin Williams, Prince, Michael Jackson, George Michael, David Bowie. All of their deaths spanned nearly three decades and all happened either before I became a long-haul truck driver or while I was at home for a weekend or during vacation time.

The Tragedies
Far more distressingly, a nearly incalculable number of mass shootings and school shootings have happened over the past eight years when I’ve been on the road. I can’t begin to keep track of them: the number of people shot, the number killed, the locations where they happened, the soul-shattering stories from loved ones. They keep coming and all seem to flow together like one endless sickening slaughter.

A couple stick out to me more than others, because they happened in Toronto. Monday April 23, 2018 was case in point. Ten people were killed and sixteen more were injured when the driver of a rented van mounted a curb on a stretch of busy Yonge Street and deliberately plowed down pedestrians. Three months later, on Sunday July 18, a man opened fire in Greektown, on Danforth Road, and killed two young people, injuring 13 others.

Somehow, I can’t place my exact location when I became aware of either of these events. It seems to me that I had stopped somewhere and checked the breaking news alerts on my phone. Regardless of my whereabouts, I recall that any sense of contentment I felt at the time was suddenly gone.

Dad
My Dad died on June 20, 2023. It wasn’t just that he passed away. After all we had been expecting it since his stroke three months earlier. I regret that throughout his last few weeks with us I couldn’t be there every step along the way. Each Sunday I had to leave on another five-day truck trip. Such is my work life.

It certainly helped knowing that he was stable and wasn’t in pain. All his daily needs were taken care of by the nurses and caretakers that had been summoned to visit regularly. My endlessly resourceful Mom took care of the rest by tending to all his remaining needs. She had friends who lived nearby that could help if and when necessary. Kim could always drop by if and when needed, because she worked in the area.

The sense of helplessness I felt was offset by the understanding that I wouldn’t have been of much practical use and I couldn’t do a thing to keep Dad alive any longer than nature or forces from beyond dictated. That realization kept my worries at bay until near the end of Dad’s life.

If I had known exactly when he was going to pass, I wouldn’t have left for my trip that week. I would have stayed home to be with him during his final hours, and be there for his last breaths. I would have been there for my Mom, to support her through the loss of the love of her life, her husband of more than 57 years. Instead, when the moment arrived and my Dad left this world peacefully Mom called my wife Kim, who then came right over.

The last time I saw my Dad, I was about to leave and promised him that I would be back in just a few days. From his laying position on the hospital bed that had been set up in the TV room of my parents’ house, he looked at me with a sorrowful expression that I would later realize that he knew he wouldn’t see me again. I remember it distinctly.

I wanted to be there and nowhere else. Instead, I spent the hours before my Dad’s death trying desperately to load my trailer at a couple of customers in the Charlotte area.

I was at a small steel company and told an office staffer that I had to get loaded quickly and get home because my Dad was dying, possibly any time now. My entreaty apparently made no difference because I was kept there for nearly 90 minutes. I sat in my truck in the giant parking lot behind the huge building, with no idea when I might get loaded. Meanwhile, I texted everyone that I was close to – everyone who knew my Dad – and told them it likely wouldn’t be long now until he was gone.

Finally, I got the call to say that I could drive inside and get loaded. I told the loading guy my story and he shook his head. He said that if he had known the situation from the get-go, he would have helped me right away.

I was less than an hour down the road when I got the heartbreaking call. Kim said Dad was gone. She was with Mom. I accepted the news with some tears but assured Kim I was okay to keep driving. I soon discovered that it easier for me to hear the news than it was to say the words ‘My Dad is gone.’ When I called my friend Dave – a fellow trucker – to break the news, my voice cracked and I welled up. Still, I maintained enough control of my emotions to continue down the road, pick up another load, and pull into the rest area in Low Gap, Virginia, for the night.

I parked on the side designated for cars because I knew I can always get a spot there, alongside the few other trucks that had the same idea. On this evening, I was pretty worked up so sleep wasn’t going to come soon, despite having worked a long day. I immediately started writing a death notice for Facebook, so that my wider circle of relatives and friends could know the news. The words came quickly and easily, from my mind and heart to my fingers and the tiny keypad on my phone.

It wasn’t much over half an hour before I had composed a decent announcement. It took me fifteen or so minutes to collect a few good photos of Dad from my photo stream. Then I posted. The condolence messages began arriving almost immediately. Meanwhile, I pulled on my workout clothes and headed outside my truck for a breezy workout. The attempt was as much to blow off some emotion, and to alleviate the all-too-familiar stiffness of another tiring work day.

Of the many hundreds of days that I’ve spent on the road, I’ll remember that day best. That’s saying a lot since I’ve been driving long-haul for nine years now. There’s a lot of competition for moments that stick out: a slew of near misses when someone pulls out in front of me all of a sudden; a seemingly endless string of bad customers that say and do ridiculous and time-wasting things; a ton of scary winter weather that has propelled me into long bouts of ‘white knuckle’ driving.

Peter (Pop)
Inexplicably, I don’t recall exactly where I was when I learned that my Father-In-Law Peter died. That’s weird because it happened just months ago. He passed away sometime in the morning, so it makes sense that when Kim called to tell me, I was driving somewhere in North Carolina on the way to a customer to do a delivery.

I do know for certain what happened during the two-plus weeks of his sudden and rapid decline, in late July and early August 2025. Kim and I were on a two-week trip in Alberta, traveling from Edmonton to Jasper to the Columbia Icefields to Banff and Canmore, and then Calgary, with a sideline excursion to Mount Robson just inside the British Columbia border.

We were on our second day in Edmonton, visiting my best friend and his family, when Kim got the call from her sister to say that Peter had gone to the doctor and the news was bad. He had been feeling under the weather for a few weeks but no one thought too much of it because he was 97 and these episodes happen at that age.

Throughout our vacation, Kim fielded many calls and texts relating to her Dad, from her sisters, her Mom and her nieces. They all related to Peter’s deteriorating condition and his pending move from his beloved home in Waterdown to Carpenter Hospice in Burlington.

As we progressed from one destination to another, it became increasingly clear that the end was near for Peter. Initially Kim said we’d be prepared to come home immediately. We were told there was nothing we could do, everything was being handled, we had time and we should enjoy our trip. Still, we were torn.

By the time we got to Calgary Pop had left home for the last time and was welcomed to a large, comfortable room at the hospice. With just a few days left on our trip, we were hoping hard that we’d get back in time to see him and tell him what he meant to us.

We did.

Pop had one last day of clear thinking and communication. Even though he couldn’t speak any more, we all held his hand and made sure he knew he was loved. Infinitely, immeasurably.