I wrote about my friend Stuart, who was knocked from his bike and ended up in a coma, a couple of weeks back. At the time I was furious and grief-stricken and exhausted and had to put something down. The response I got from strangers and friends alike was overwhelming.
Can I just say thank you to everyone who sent messages of support and love. It meant more than you know. It meant more than I thought it could.
It strikes me now that I’ve been so busy trying to distract myself by playing the fool via Twitter and Tumblr that I’ve not revisited Stuart’s story in writing.
My friend was moved from the neurological unit back to our home town, Brighton, about a week ago. The doctors decided there was nothing more they could do as the damage to his brain is too extensive, and scheduled the withdrawal of all life support on Monday. Stuart was expected to die quickly. We had all in one way or another prepared ourselves for his death, but then the unexpected happened: he carried on breathing on his own. He still does.
This is the worst possible outcome. I make no apologies for that statement, and Stuart would be the first to agree. In fact, he’d wallop me on the back with a ‘You’re right, you lovely fucker!’ and give me a huge hug.
Did I say how much I miss him?
We, his family and friends, find ourselves unable to grieve, yet still mourning for a loved one who is no longer with us. We will visit him in the hospital, stroke his hand, read him stories, tell him dirty jokes, bring him flowers, kiss his face, show him photos as if his eyes are open, try to persuade ourselves that somehow he is still here. But he’s not. He’s gone. He won’t return. And there is no way of making any kind of sense of our loss while he breathes.
No-one knows how long this will last. It could be weeks, it could be years. We will carry on loving him and caring for him. We won’t stop.
We are heartbroken. But we cannot allow ourselves to be heartbroken.
Tags: Life · so it goes6 Comments
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Had been wondering how this story resolved, and of course you’re right: this lack of resolution is dreadful. I can’t even imagine what you’re all feeling, but you get us as close to it with these words as we can be, or perhaps would want to be.
Weird and trite as it may sound, all the Twittering and Tumblring is surely a positive thing: it is life continuing, even so. Not, tragically, Stuart’s life, but life nonetheless – and he sounds the sort who would have celebrated that.
justine… you are very brave for soldiering on and i’m sure i speak for everyone when i say you are appreciated even more in that through your sadness, you are still able to make so many people laugh every day via twitter. i applaud you for that…
my heart goes out to you, stuart and family.
@LucyRcardo
(you followed me on a former account– i lured you with scotch & cookies left at my fireplace, if you recall…)
As a cyclist, this story hit me hard. As someone who spends a good deal of time working with specialists in the field of grief and bereavement counseling, your analysis of the outcome is impossible to argue with. in many ways, bereavement counseling is still in its infancy, but in that this seems to be the mirror image of people that have no body or remains to mourn over — and that makes the process more difficult and potentially damaging to the mourners — I hope those close to Stuart are getting counseling and not just trying to soldier through.
I can’t imagine how hard that is. I’m so sorry. I don’t know if there’s any chance of a recovery, but if there is then I really hope that something amazing happens soon.
As for Twitter… I can’t remember how or why I found you on Twitter, as I only follow about five people I don’t know personally, but you constantly have my in tears with your hilarious tweets. I play at being someone else on Twitter too (ok, so it’s more Hank Moody than Jack Handy) and I suppose that both your blog posts about this have surprised me, but it’s reassuring and good to know that there is a regular person behind the humour. I look forward to reading your novel, too.
I have been in your position. I am sorry you are experiencing this. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
This is my first time finding your blog, and your words have moved me more than anything has in some time. I grieve with you for your friend, and I am certain he knew — while he was still able to know – how lucky he was to have someone care so much about him.
I hope for the best outcome, whatever that may be.