“Time does not change us. It just unfolds us.”
― Max Frisch
That construct of time is a funny old thing. It’s inevitability. It’s presence over us at every moment. Well, every second and in between. It has many sides and with it many aspects. In lie its ability to show unwavering beauty, the window of growth and life, juxtaposed alongside its cruel and lugubrious touch, of which has left mankind philosophical and disquisitive, as the hands inexorably continue their rotation.
A struggle in the comprehension of our lack of control over time is something I’ve wrestled with regularly. The experience of a year seems to be flash by without resonance as we ourselves grow older, due to the amount of years we collect. The fraction of a year in our own age means their significance as a unit of time is diminished. From a juvenile comprehension, a timespan of a decade seemed that of an eternity, but as I write this today, ten years ago feels like it was only yesterday. I can see it, hear it, smell it. My understanding of myself in that time is different, and my god, do I look different, but ultimately, as time goes on, our calibration sits in a role of catch up against the realities of our lives.
With life experience, time is a sobering reminder of a situation merely being a snapshot of time itself. The place, the people, and vocation; variables in a vignette of your existence and how you spend your precious time. And with that, a month ago of when I write this, the anniversary of two years has elapsed since I last saw James. At the point of realisation of this fact, I was left dumbfounded. How can it really be two years? Where has that time gone? How am I two years out of my thirty-six, without my friend?
There’s no doubt that those two years have been the hardest in my life. Grief, alongside a few other difficulties in my life, has eroded the state of my mental wellbeing and cultivated a difficult day-to-day struggle for me. I have experienced grief before in my life. Family members have passed and given me a taste of what grief is. Of want it can be. But this time it has affected me in a completely different way. The variables of which packed a bigger punch. There’s no doubting that this time felt unjust, so many unanswered questions, and someone so close, so young, ultimately pulls the rug from under your feet. Your whole being.
19th of March 2022; a drizzly day in central London. With my birthday being the day before, I had invited friends to watch the ‘Super Saturday’ concluding the years 6 Nations rugby tournament in our friend Dom’s Fitzrovia pub, The George. James and I, alongside another friend, walked to the pub from south London, culminating in a good conversation and plenty of steps, over the course of a few hours. General merriment was had at the pub with other friends. Many hours later, with the conclusion of the rugby, there was a clear misunderstanding between James and myself when I told him that I was due to get a train home to Cambridge once the last game had finished. James was frustrated at this, as he wished to continue the evening further – however, it was always the plan for me to get the specific train. Sadly, as we left the pub, there was an argument between the two of us, resulting in James leaving and me continuing to the train station. Our last words to each other were heated.
A few months drifted by. We’d been in touch via text. He asked me to meet up on a particular date but I sadly couldn’t make it. Then a couple of weeks later, I was informed of his death. A painful memory. One that is, and no doubt always will be, difficult to sit with.
The fact that when I last saw him was in confrontation is another hardship I have to live with. There’s no control on what the experience is the last time you’re with anyone, but in such circumstances that were to transpire, it often feels like a failure on my part. It raises so many questions. In hindsight, it was clear that he was both struggling and hurting, which manifested in our final exchange.
When I delivered my eulogy at James’ funeral, I mentioned that our relationship was similar to that of brothers. We argued a lot. Particularly when alcohol was involved. However, it was always fine. Always resolved and talked over, and, if anything, formed an even stronger bond. I have to take solace in the fact that the chances were high that the last time I saw him would result in an argument, simply by virtue of the odds. It’s just a shame it did. A real shame.
I’m sure if you’re reading this, you yourself have experienced grief due to his death and most likely are still very much within its dark grasp. Quite frankly, it’s shit. I hate it. It’s hollow, vacuum, blood –sucking, deranged, spiteful, and lingering existence feels like the work of greater being playful by torturing our unsuspecting lives. It’s always there, standing at a distance, ready to remind you it’s there.
I’ve heard many analogies for grief over the last two years. A lot ring true and have been a comfort in helping me understand my new reality. The common theme is that grief is always there. It doesn’t diminish, yet our world around it grows. I find this one to be true so far in my experience. My own adapted analogy is that if you imagine grief being a circle within another circle representing our world. That circle grows bigger but the grief circle stays the same size. Now think back to the old screensaver of your DVD player now collecting dust in the attic. The DVD sign bouncing around the screen. Its fine when that bounces around the larger circle of your life without obstruction, but every so often, it will bounce onto the grief circle. That’s when you feel it. As the larger circle grows, it’s less likely to hit it, but it’s inevitable that it will, only less frequently.
I’ve learnt that no grief is the same. There’s too many variables at play in each distinctive case. You, the person you’re mourning, your relationship with them, your stage of life, your understanding of the world at that point, and how they’ve passed. This means that grief won’t get easier the more you experience it. It’s just that perhaps you understand what you will go through to a degree. It’s a nuanced recipe of pain and longing, but the ingredients are different each time.
It’s important to be positive. To remember the good times alongside sitting with the difficult ones. It needs to be an equilibrium, rather than a weight on one’s shoulders. I will endeavour to do that with James. I have the most wonderful memories and am thankful for what he taught me about friendship, loyalty, curiosity, and knowledge. I will cherish those.
I also now understand myself better through this. I know what helps me in these times. I look for salvation in physical exercise, in creative expressions, and in people. They have proven to be invaluable in my mental wellbeing. The Row is designed to enable this. My interest in reading and writing has helped me have a time of introspection and learn how to express myself through language I may not have had previously*. My family and friends being there for me and for each other. My wife, Flick, and my son, Zander, give me such love and comfort each day, showing me there’s some optimism for me in this world. I love them dearly.
I try to look forward as much as I can as of right now. I will have those moments of grief as part of that. I know they will become less frequently than the daily, almost hourly, moments that I experience currently. I hope that the memories of James will eventually outweigh the sorrow. I feel I summed this up well with the final part of my eulogy for him. I will return to these words when I need to, and I know that positivity is the path I need to take, forever more:
Through this, I’ve realised that my life is very much different now to what it was only a matter of weeks ago. With James’ absence it now lacks a comforting synergy that I unconsciously relied upon. I will have to learn to navigate life now in a different way. While our emotions run high as of now, the lumps in our throats will ease over time. They won’t disappear and nor should they. As it’s our responsibility to remember James. The amount in attendance today is a measure of the man. In moments I find myself in a lost direction, I’ll look to that occupied place in my heart and those glorious memories in my mind for guidance, as I know that James will forever be by my side.
Time will continue to pass. The days and months come and go, much like they always do, and soon it will be the three year anniversary of when I last saw James. I’ll return to this blog entry. Assess how I feel. Most importantly, I’ll remember the good times as I raise a glass, and no doubt a tear, to my friend James.
This clip from actor Ethan Hawke, puts into words the value of art when grieving much better than I ever could. I found this as a compass when searching for meaning when initially grieving James. I hope the message resonates with you as much as it did for me.
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