Earlier this year, a close family friend decided to re-create a scene from Leaving Las Vegas in the sanctity of his apartment, a dwelling that he occupied alone. According to the autopsy report, he died from alcohol poisoning some 10-12 hours thereafter.
The above person lost his wife to cancer some three years prior, and only a select few were aware of his intense personal struggle in seeking to cope in the days, weeks, months and years thereafter. Much like myself, he hailed from a family where tears were not tolerated if shed by boys, where overt displays of emotion – save ‘competitive aggression’ – frowned upon and ridiculed if publicly exhibited. Instead of taking an extended sabbatical from work in order to ‘grieve’, he instead chose to immerse himself in work.
There is no describing the sheer breadth of emotions which runs through a person’s mind upon hearing of the tragic death of a loved one. Truth be told, I sincerely believe that some of the blame resides squarely on my shoulders. In particular, I vividly remember the nights spent on his balcony, sipping single malt scotch into the early hours of the morning and staring out onto the endless blackness of the Tasman Ocean. Scarcely a word was exchanged between us and I naively assumed this silence to be illustrative of the close bond between us, as if ‘words left unspoken’ said more for our friendship than conversation.
In the months following my friend’s passing, I sought frantically to use my mind as if a camera, seeking to recall cherished moments spent in one another’s company. Particularly poignant is the one evening where I asked that he indulge me with anecdotes of his wife during the brief years they spent together. His response, proffered amidst a haze of alcohol induced fatigue, was that he had long ‘discarded the film and kicked in the lens’.
Even then, I knew that he hadn’t. The ‘lens’ may well have been broken given that his eyes had long ceased to recognise beauty or hope, but no amount of alcohol could serve to displace his wife’s memory in its entirety. The black and white wedding photographs, the chalkboard above the kitchen counter where they would write loving notes to one another, a wardrobe full of female attire, the dressing table bearing cosmetics and women’s accessories … all these items had remained untouched for some three years.
The above person lost his wife to cancer some three years prior, and only a select few were aware of his intense personal struggle in seeking to cope in the days, weeks, months and years thereafter. Much like myself, he hailed from a family where tears were not tolerated if shed by boys, where overt displays of emotion – save ‘competitive aggression’ – frowned upon and ridiculed if publicly exhibited. Instead of taking an extended sabbatical from work in order to ‘grieve’, he instead chose to immerse himself in work.
There is no describing the sheer breadth of emotions which runs through a person’s mind upon hearing of the tragic death of a loved one. Truth be told, I sincerely believe that some of the blame resides squarely on my shoulders. In particular, I vividly remember the nights spent on his balcony, sipping single malt scotch into the early hours of the morning and staring out onto the endless blackness of the Tasman Ocean. Scarcely a word was exchanged between us and I naively assumed this silence to be illustrative of the close bond between us, as if ‘words left unspoken’ said more for our friendship than conversation.
In the months following my friend’s passing, I sought frantically to use my mind as if a camera, seeking to recall cherished moments spent in one another’s company. Particularly poignant is the one evening where I asked that he indulge me with anecdotes of his wife during the brief years they spent together. His response, proffered amidst a haze of alcohol induced fatigue, was that he had long ‘discarded the film and kicked in the lens’.
Even then, I knew that he hadn’t. The ‘lens’ may well have been broken given that his eyes had long ceased to recognise beauty or hope, but no amount of alcohol could serve to displace his wife’s memory in its entirety. The black and white wedding photographs, the chalkboard above the kitchen counter where they would write loving notes to one another, a wardrobe full of female attire, the dressing table bearing cosmetics and women’s accessories … all these items had remained untouched for some three years.
At this point, I find myself having said more than what may be appropriate in the circumstances. Suffice it to say that I am here now, absent a close and cherished friend. To my own amusement, I am highly cognisant of my own inability to grieve. On occasion, I feel a hollowness in my chest which equates to a noticeable presence, yet somehow I have continued to go through the routine motions of life in much the same vein as before.
Following my friend’s funeral, his parents kindly asked that I take a keepsake from their son’s apartment, as a means of keeping his memory alive. His mother, fighting back tears, noted that their own home was replete with wedding photographs and other memorabilia celebrating their son’s life, alongside that of their daughter-in-law. After having been offered the keys, I spent close to an hour holding a framed picture of my friend and his wife, taken shortly after their courtship commenced.
As an atheist, I am incapable of drawing hope from any underlying belief in a supposed omnipotent deity. Instead, my sense of ‘faith’ is distilled from the comfort and companionship afforded by close friends and family. In having lost two exceptional friends to the nuances of providence, I wondered what salvation, if any, could be drawn from the mere memory of a person. The grief I felt was beyond description, but I could not shed so much as a single tear even though a part of me pleaded for the release that is afforded by weeping.
My parents, and those of my now deceased friend, taught their boys that crying was inappropriate, unacceptable, undignified. So hard have these lessons been, that we were both rendered incapable of mourning for loved ones.
