Gabriola Sounder
This is the third article in the Building Hope series about the poisoned drug crisis and its impacts on Gabriola Island. Part 1 of the series can be found here. For a list of resources and supports in relation to these subjects please visit https://ghwcollaborative.ca/poison-drug-action-table.
As presented in previous articles in this series, local and provincial data from recent years show that men have higher rates of death as well as paramedic attended events for drug poisoning. In 2025, up to April, deaths among those between the ages of 30 and 59 accounted for 68 per cent of drug-toxicity deaths in the province, and 77 per cent were male, according to the BC Coroners Service.
In this third instalment of the Building Hope series, two Gabriola residents who have lost family members to drug overdoses share their stories. Both of these men began using substances from a young age. Their stories demonstrate the presence of co-occurring disorders such as mental health diagnoses, childhood trauma and intergenerational substance use.
The first narrative is from the perspective of Hilary whose son, Nick, died in 2015 at the age of 34. This account was written by Dyan Dunsmoor-Farley, based on a transcript of an interview with Hilary conducted by Trisha Matson in May 2025 and approved by Hilary prior to publication. Per her request, Hilary’s last name has not been published.
The second narrative was written and submitted by Shannon Krell whose brother, Ryan, died in May 2020 at the age of 46.
“He Was So Much More Than His Addiction”
A mother’s story of love, loss, and the urgent need for compassion
By Hilary
My son Nick was born with his feet running—joyful, funny, bursting with curiosity. He was my youngest, and he adored his big brother. From the beginning, he was kind and helpful. I used to call him the “playground patrol”—he’d step in to help little kids solve arguments. That was Nick. He just wanted everyone to be okay.
But school was never easy. Nick had severe learning disabilities, though we didn’t fully understand that until later. He struggled quietly—he wasn’t disruptive, just lost in a system that didn’t know how to help him. But he was an incredible athlete. Soccer and volleyball gave him confidence and joy. He built close friendships. For a while, sports helped him feel whole.
What I didn’t know, until Nick told me in his twenties, was that he had been sexually abused as a child by someone I had let into our home. That truth shattered me. I had grown up with abuse myself. I know how deeply trauma embeds itself in the soul. And I believe that trauma—combined with learning struggles and heartbreak—laid the path to Nick’s addiction.
His drug use began in his teens. At first, I didn’t know. Later, it became undeniable: crack cocaine, alcohol, marijuana. He was prescribed opioids after a violent assault, and that only deepened his dependence. Still, Nick tried. He helped us renovate our home. He built a beautiful garden suite for himself. He loved our animals. He enrolled in a care aide program and did well. He met a woman, helped raise her son, and for a time, he felt proud and hopeful.
But addiction is relentless. It isolates. It shames. Nick would disappear for days. Miss work. Shut out the world. I would search for him, knock on doors, beg him to come home. There were moments of light, but the darkness always crept back in. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, PTSD, depression, and social anxiety. The system offered little in the way of lasting help. He refused treatment programs, partly because the one I worked at—brief, intense, and often retraumatizing—left me questioning their approach.
On June 30, 2015, Nick died in a small rooming house, surrounded by people who didn’t realize he was in distress until it was too late. The coroner’s report said he had fentanyl, tainted fentanyl, crack cocaine, heroin, and alcohol in his system. I didn’t even know he had used heroin. I’ve never read that report again. The pain was—and is—too much.
Nick was not his addiction. He was so much more. He was loving, generous, hilarious. He had dreams. He was loved—deeply, unconditionally. And he loved back. Always. I told him constantly: Never forget how much I love you. He knew.
If I could ask one thing of people reading this, it would be this: look differently at those struggling with addiction. Don’t judge. Don’t turn away. Every person you pass on the street has a story. Every one of them was a child once, full of dreams, never imagining they would end up where they are.
Addiction is not a choice. It’s a disease—like cancer, like MS. It needs compassion, treatment, and care. No one can beat it alone.
Please remember my son. His name was Nick.
“Please Don’t Give Up On Me” — A Sister’s Plea for Change Amid the Overdose Crisis
By Shannon Krell
My brother, Ryan Krell, died alone in his home in May 2020. He was 46 years old, in recovery, and cooking a healthy dinner when his heart stopped. He had been out of the hospital for just 24 hours.
Ryan wasn’t just another number in the overdose statistics — he was my only sibling, a cherished son, a devoted employee, a brilliant and funny man, and someone deeply loved by everyone who truly knew him.
He also struggled with substance use and mental health, and like too many others in this province, he fell through the cracks of a fragmented and under-resourced system.
Ryan and I grew up in a home marked by addiction, but we were resilient kids. He was a high-achiever, getting involved in all kinds of adventurous professions, he was scuba diver instructor, ski instructor, he rebuilt VW’s for fun, he was an avid kite surfer and a highly trained yoga instructor. Ryan was also kind- hearted, and after coming out as a young gay man, he carried himself with courage and dignity in a world that didn’t always make space for him.
But over the years, I saw his substance use deepen. There were signs — changes in personality, cognitive issues, paranoia. I tried everything I could, from helping him get into treatment to literally chasing him down the streets of Vancouver trying to get him psychiatric care and care for his highly
escalating addictions. At times, I was overwhelmed — embarrassed by his behavior, scared for his life, and furious that the person I loved seemed so far away.
What hurts the most is knowing how preventable his death was.
When Ryan was finally certified under the Mental Health Act, he was admitted to St. Paul’s Hospital. He stayed for just two days — in the middle of a global pandemic — before being discharged with no follow-up care, no wraparound support, and no real safety net. Just hours later, he was dead after a relapse.
There was no system to call that day. No place to say, please, someone help.
His death broke me, my family and all of his loved ones. In those first weeks, I couldn’t get out of bed. I’ve never experienced grief so heavy, so visceral. And woven into that grief was guilt — for being angry, for feeling ashamed, for not being able to save him when the system wouldn’t.
Ryan worked until the last day of his life and was a very well respected IT professional for the Vancouver Coastal Health Authority. Even in his most difficult moments, he showed up for others. But when he needed help — coordinated, compassionate, evidence-based care — it wasn’t there.
That must change.
We are losing thousands of people in this province, and it’s not because they are beyond help. It’s because our system is beyond broken.
We need more than short-term fixes or political soundbites. We need meaningful coordination of services, expanded access to proven supports, and a public that is accurately informed about the evolving, evidence- based strategies that are saving lives — things like safe supply most importantly and peer support, trauma- informed care, and integrated mental health services.
We also need to open our hearts. I want to challenge every person reading this: please be curious about those who are struggling. Don’t turn away. Don’t let fear or judgment block compassion. You don’t have to agree with everything, but you can be open to hearing someone’s truth.
Because every person who dies from overdose is someone’s child, someone’s loved one. Someone who mattered. Just like Ryan.
He said to me, before he died, “Please don’t give up on me.”
I stay involved in this work to show him I never will. And neither should we as a community.
Next in the Building Hope series, two narratives will present the experiences of two people in recovery from drug addiction.
Community input is an integral part of this series. Please share your thoughts or questions by emailing gabriolapdat@gmail.com
All responses will be treated as confidential and will help us gauge the impact of the series.
This series is made possible by funding from the Community Action Initiative.
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