Part Two: Age 13 - The Accident

A four-part series detailing the life-altering experience of a boy who, at the ages of 10, 13, and 19, faced three traumatic events that would shape his success [and failure] for years to come.

The Accident

As I hung up the phone, my Father asked, "Ryan, who was that?" peeking his head over the bathtub's edge.

Our house had one bathroom at the end of the hallway, so if the door was left open, you could see to the other end of the house. Yup, line of sight wasn't an issue in the Hopf residence. I'm not sure why Dad left the door open while he was in the bathtub; maybe it was because there was no fan. Either way, I vividly remember having many conversations with him from the other side of the house. Perhaps it was for the better, though, because I had an equal amount of fear and admiration for the man they called Walter. With the soap-covered bubbles on his head, he was far less intimidating, which made our conversations much more manageable.

Walter was a competitive man with an excellent work ethic, which left little room for emotion or vulnerability. Working three weeks on and one week off in the oil patch was all he knew. Leaving high school early and moving off the farm to make his own money was typical for the 1970s. He was 19 when I was born in June of 1977, so it's probably safe to assume he had much growing up to do in a short time. We didn't see eye to eye on almost everything. Which likely was a result of how close [in age] we were, or perhaps, our equally competitive personalities were to blame.

This day, however, was a good day for us.

Looking down the hall at his dripping head of water, "That was Mom," I said. "They are getting ready to leave the hotel and continue to Vancouver. I told her you were in the bath."

My Mother, Shelley, was 30; this was the first time she had left us to attend a work conference. It was the start of her first career. She was 17 when I was born, so the typical career path wasn't an option, but now that I was 13 and my brother Joel was 8, she could afford to spend some time on her interests too. We were happy for her; she worked at a photography studio and had recently moved into the photo touchup and restoration department. It was 1990; Photoshop didn't exist, so brushes, paint, and a steady hand were required for this work.

I remember visiting her at the office a few times and eating lunch together across the street at a local restaurant. Of course, being a tween, lunch was the most memorable part. Her office always had several family portraits leaning against the wall, waiting for their turn under the brush. I never understood why people chose to capture their family in an awkward pose to celebrate their happiness. Why wouldn't snapshots in time be actual events showing genuine emotion? The only thing real about a family portrait is the forced gathering of people who don't want to be there.

I would grow to hate family portraits. It seemed tragedy struck every time we took them.

It was nice to get a call from my Mom that Saturday morning. She asked how everyone was and if we were excited about the day. All three of us had different plans. My Dad had a work function. My brother was going to stay with our cousins. And I was going with my Baba (grandma), Gido (grandpa), Auntie Judy, and her new boyfriend, Barry, to a family friend’s wedding in a suburb of Calgary known as Airdrie.

Having a presentable style was essential to Mom, so there was no way I was going to a wedding without the proper attire. She took me shopping at Kingsway Garden Mall to get new clothes for the wedding. I picked black pants and a colourful shirt, just like the outfits I would see in music videos. Queue the cheesy 1990s pic 👇🏼

When I answered the phone that morning, Mom was calling the house from Jasper to check-in. There were no cell phones back in 1991, so the old trusty landline was the only method of communication. The nice thing was there was also no voicemail, so I had plenty of time to get from my room to the phone hanging on the wall in the hallway.

As we chatted, Dad scrubbing his hair played in the background, which was a little funny. Like most kids, I was easily distracted, and I'm sure my 1-word answers to Mom’s questions weren't contributing much to the conversation.

As we were wrapping up the call, Mom said, "Well, have a good time, Ryan, and say hello to everyone for me. I love you."

I responded with a robotic, "I love you too."

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Mom and I were chatting in the kitchen the day before she left for her trip. I was hanging off the door frame by the stairs which led to the back landing, and she was fiddling with something at the kitchen counter.

Out of nowhere, she said, "Ryan, I want you to know that if something happens to me, I love you very much."