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.

A good friend, S, was riding his bicycle down the hill round the corner from my house Monday 2nd March, when a car turned into the road without looking and smashed into him. He was going fast and wasn’t wearing a helmet, but the consultant said it wouldn’t have made any difference. His brain impacted so hard within his skull it haemorraged. He’s lost the use of an eye, and an arm has been crushed. But it’s the brain injury which is the real problem, of course. He’s been lying in a coma in a specialist neurological unit since the accident.

The prognosis is extremely poor, the likelihood that S will live very much longer very low. His wife, a good friend, is refusing to see most people, even their 3-year old son.

Despite the fact he’s in a coma, S has had to be heavily sedated to try and alleviate some of the pressure on his brain. On Sunday they tried to bring him out of the sedation, but the pressure in his skull increased rapidly and dangerously and they had to put him back under. They said they’d never had to use such huge quantities of sedatives on anyone before.

That’s my lad. Fighting like a rhino. That’s what I call raging against the dying of the light.

I’m still writing lame jokes on Twitter and arsing about and talking crap, because I don’t really know what else to do. You see, he wouldn’t want it any other way:

“What the FUCK are you doing, moping around?”, he’d say, “I heard there are NSFW photos of unicorns screwing narwhals which need sharing. Get to it.”

So I will. I’ll think up gags while I’m crying at my desk, or on the bus, or in bed, just to try and make him laugh in my head. And to distract me from the horror.

I can’t really see what I’m typing any more.

And I know it’s a cliché and you’ve heard this a thousand times, and I know you probably don’t need telling but I don’t fucking care, I’m going to say it anyway. Hold your people close, guys. Hold them close because you don’t ever know what’s going to happen, or whether they’ll be there tomorrow.

We love you so much, S. Keep fighting. And don’t worry, dude: give me five minutes to pull myself the eff together and normal service will be resumed. There will be lame puns and stupid jokes aplenty.

Yeah, so there you go. Right in the eye, World.