by Nicola Ryan
“I’m mostly fine, but unfortunately, I’m the same person.”
Even filming from a hospital bed at the Miller Centre, he’s still the same irreverent Andrew Strickland.
In a twenty-minute video beamed across socials, the musician, filmmaker, and father of three offers an update to his friends and followers. Speaking directly to the camera, though his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, he calmly recounts a harrowing story. In July of this year, he suffered a severe accident while working on the set of a local television show. A fall from a catwalk over ten feet high left him with a fractured neck, head trauma, and a complete spinal cord injury. He woke from a coma five days later in the ICU, battered, disoriented and permanently paralyzed from the waist down.
As he describes how he’s adapting to such a massive life event, his words are candid, poignant, and so wryly funny they evoke tears and laughs in equal measure. In the comments, his friends express how grateful they are that he’s alright and still unmistakably himself. Andrew’s facing some major changes. But reinvention is what artists do best.
The 39-year-old Carbonear native’s been a fixture in the local music scene for years. As his alter-ego, Dicky Strangler, he’s played with several bands, including Smiley Ralph and the Long Distance Runners. His debut solo album, Goodnight Nobody, was released in 2023. As a filmmaker, he recently finished Oliver – a short film he wrote and directed with creative partner Andrea Dunne. Starring Percy Hynes White, it premiered at the Atlantic International Film Festival in Halifax in September. He’s also built a steady career behind the scenes in television and was working as a set dresser on a long-running series that morning in July.
“I don’t have any memory of what exactly happened,” he says when we meet in person at the Miller Centre, the province’s public rehabilitation hospital. “Someone asked me to run a wire up through the catwalk above the set, and I was like, yeah, I can do that before lunch. And I went around and I found the steps and that’s the last thing I remember.”
He looks well now, sitting up in a wheelchair, smiling easily. The neck brace is gone, scratches and bruises all healed now. In person, his eyes are dark blue and soulful.
“Most days I’m pretty fine. I’m dealing with it really well. …Suspiciously well,” he adds with a chuckle. “The neurosurgeon told me that they didn’t think I was going to come out of it at all. They were very shocked. They told me it was amazing, like a miracle, that I am so cognitively better than they thought I would be. There were people who thought I was going to die. A lot of my close friends were really upset because they didn’t think I was going to be the same person anymore.”
But a rock n’ roller like Andrew won’t go out that easily. “I eat Cineplex hotdogs on the regular, I can’t die,” he jokes.
“I don’t know what it is. My attitude is more like, it sucks, but this is it. It’s not the end of the world. Really, I’ll tell you, the floor above my floor here, twelve feet above me, is palliative care. A whole floor of people in the last moments of their lives. That’s where my best friend died ten years ago. So, knowing that’s right above me and I’m not up there, really puts things into perspective.”
Across Newfoundland and Labrador, about 100 people sustain spinal cord injuries each year. For Andrew, rebuilding begins each morning at the Miller Centre, where rehabilitation fills his day.
“I wake up in the morning, I have my breakfast, and then it’s straight into therapy. There’s rec, which is weights and stuff, then physio, which is a lot of wheelchair skills and upper body strength, and OT, which is more everyday living, relearning how to do things,” he says. “It’s good and it’s exhausting – mentally and physically.
“I’ve had a very privileged hospital stay, though, I will say,” he continues. “I’ve had a lot of visitors. A lot of people here don’t have a support group like I have. My parents are here every day (every friggin day), bringing me stuff, God love them. Andrea’s here almost every day, other friends are here almost every week, and people are bringing me food. I’ve been pretty fortunate, actually.”
That support helps keep Andrew grounded while he focuses on his children, Bowie, 10, and five-year-old twins Casey and Sloane.
“I’m not going to sit around and mope,” he says. “I have kids who probably don’t want a dad who’s just going to be moping all the time. My life’s totally different, but there are still a lot of things that I’m still able to do that I enjoy doing.
“The most important thing I can focus on is showing my children what it looks like to never give up. To show them what perseverance looks like, what determination looks like, what survival looks like. And I’ll take this experience and do what I do best, which is to turn it into something good. Actually, I have no idea if that’s what I do best. Maybe I’m bad at it.”
Andrew also credits much of his progress to his creative pursuits. Among them, music’s been central to navigating recovery.
“I remember when someone brought me a guitar and I was really nervous because I didn’t know if I could still play,” he admits. “When they handed me that guitar, I didn’t know what was going to happen. I was terrified. Then it was fine.”
A spare room at the Miller Centre with an upright piano became a de facto weekly jam and recording space.
“Those were some of the best times I’ve had in here. I’m really lucky that I’m an artist, you know, because that is an outlet,” Andrew says. “A lot of people aren’t artists, what do they do with this? What do they do with that energy?” He’s finishing a new album now, writing films and planning for what’s next. “That’s just the way I am. I’m a creative person, and the only time I feel really productive is when I’m creating.”
Still, it ain’t easy. There’s no change without challenge. Some moments are terrifying, the future’s wide and unknown. But Andrew meets it with quiet strength.
“Life throws curveballs. It’s up to you whether you want to deal with it or be afraid of it and back away from it,” he says. “The only way out is through. That’s it, that’s a choice you make. You can run away from your problems, or you can face them head-on and come out the other side, most likely a better person. You gain wisdom and life experience. Not all life experiences are going to be good experiences. It’s all about how you deal with that and how that builds your character.”
Deadpan, he adds, “And since that video I’ve had so many women messaging me, goddamnit.”
