NEWPORT -- The last thing London McCabe said to his dad Matt McCabe was "Bye-bye." Since then, Matt McCabe has learned three things.
"I've learned the pain will never go away," says McCabe. "It will get softer over time, but it will never go away. I've learned I'll always be a father and that I need to talk about it."
Now, on this first Father's Day without his son, that's how McCabe, 41, is honoring the blue-eyed, golden-haired boy who loved hats, cuddling and music. By talking.
He's talking about the joy London brought into his life, about the love they shared and about the fallacies in society around people with disabilities.
"London was autistic, but he was important as a person," McCabe says. "He didn't deserve to die. He wasn't suffering. A lot of the media like to portray people with autism as suffering. That the person who killed them have done a mercy. That is not the case."
It has been a little more than seven months since McCabe's ex-wife phoned police on Nov. 3 to say she had thrown 6-year-old London off the Yaquina Bay Bridge, a drop of 133 feet. His body was found by searchers later that night. His mother, Jillian McCabe, has been held in the Lincoln County Jail since then on charges of aggravated murder, murder, manslaughter in the first degree and manslaughter in the second degree. She has pleaded not guilty.
This will be the first year that Matt McCabe, as a father, celebrates Father's Day. London didn't understand the significance of holidays, so it went largely unobserved. Like so much else in Matt McCabe's life, that too has changed.
"I didn't really appreciate Father's Day while he was alive," says McCabe. "I appreciate it now. He was a beautiful little boy and he loved me very much and I loved him very much. His autism prevented him from speaking. He was working on some words but we could never have a conversation so I never got to hear him say that he loved me. But I know that he did."
McCabe was 34 when he learned he was to be the father of a son. He dreamed of a boy who would earn straight As. Just like his dad. When London entered the world, McCabe realized a C-student would be just fine. Then, with the autism diagnosis, McCabe again shifted his hopes - a normal life, whatever that meant for his son, was all he asked.
London was diagnosed when he was a toddler. Looking back, McCabe says he displayed all the classic symptoms. He was late to walk. He didn't respond to his name. He didn't make eye contact. At the time, McCabe told himself that boys developed late. The family doctor said the same. "They don't want to make you worry," McCabe says. "The autism specialist took one look at him and said, 'He's autistic.'"
By the time he was 2, London was enrolled in the Early Intervention Program in the Hood River County School District.
Cassie Whitmire, program coordinator, remembers London as "just the sweetest boy."
"He was a very gentle soul," Whitmire said. "He was mainstreamed. He was in an inclusive preschool which was a wonderful thing. It took him awhile to connect with the other kids, but he did so. He loved hats. He really enjoyed dressing up, putting on scarves and hats. The other kids really appreciated that and would engage with him. He just was a very gentle, loving little boy."
London continued his schooling in Hood River, but in 2013 life for the young McCabe became decidedly more challenging. Jillian McCabe entered therapy for mental illness. Then in September, Matt McCabe was hospitalized for an inoperable mass in his brain stem. It had happened once before when he was 20, but the mass had gone away and he had recovered after six months. This time, the recovery was slower.
"It affects my speech, balance, my vision, digestion, heartbeat, everything," says McCabe. "It's kind of your control center. I was in the hospital because they were afraid my heart would stop or I would stop breathing. They wanted to be able to resuscitate me if they needed to."
In February 2014, he said, Jillian McCabe was admitted to the hospital for a mental breakdown. Matt McCabe and London came to the coast so his parents could care for them as McCabe continued his recovery. London, then 5, was growing and learning.
"He was making really good progress," McCabe says. "He was learning words in school.
He would spontaneously say a word that was different from time to time. His grandmother came to visit and he ran up to her and said "Grandma," and he had never used the word before. He was starting to color. He was very active. He liked to run and jump a lot. He didn't have any fear so he would sometimes jump off the tops of couches and things and I'd have to catch him. He was strong as well. He'd jump higher than I'd think he should jump and be fine when he landed."
In September 2014, after spending time in the hospital and a halfway house, Jillian McCabe was deemed healthy and sent home.
"Everyone said she was better," McCabe says. "She said she was better, but she wasn't."
The last time McCabe saw his son alive, McCabe was on his way for a walk - part of his physical therapy.
Jillian McCabe's 911 call came in about 6:25 p.m. McCabe was at his parents' home in South Beach when police came to tell them. They had not yet found London's body.
"When I found out, I was hoping he had escaped somehow," he says. "That he was being held by someone, not that something that horrific had happened. Because it was horrific."
The police were still with the McCabe family when London's body was spotted at 10:30 p.m.
The shock and grief in the community were palpable. Almost instantly, stuffed animals, flowers, balloons, toys and notes crowded the bridge. But along with the outrage and disbelief came another reaction, one the Autistic Self Advocacy Network says it sees far too often.
"There is this misinformation that we would be better off being dead than autistic or that your family would be better off if you were not there, that you are draining the life force from your family," says Julia Bascom, deputy executive director of the network, based out of Washington, D.C.
"Usually when there is a case of filicide and the victim is not disabled, there is a huge public outcry. When the victim has a disability and that comes to light, the conversation really changes. They say, 'It's a tragedy, but have you ever lived with someone like that?' The message families are hearing is that autism is something to be feared. We think that has very destructive consequences."
Jillian McCabe's trial is scheduled August 2016. She and Matt McCabe have since divorced, and he has not spoken to her since his son's death. He isn't sure there can be justice for his son, but he does know London would not have wanted to see anything bad happen to his mother.
Whatever the outcome, McCabe knows it won't change a thing. And there's another fallacy he'd like to set straight.
"There is a misconception after the trial or after a certain event, there is closure and people move on," says McCabe. "Parents don't move on. There is never closure. It may not be something they talk about, but it's something they feel every minute of every day. And that's why I'll always be a father. Because I'll always have the memories and the loss."
-- Lori Tobias, special to The Oregonian/OregonLive