Numerous enduring bonds start with a phase of mild nervousness, and such was the case with my friendship with her. Both of us were young adults, in our first year at higher education, and taking a few lessons in French. Her name escaped me her name, had never listened to her speak in the local language but, with her luxuriant curls and warm, interested stare, she stood out. I believed she would be much too stylish to associate with someone like me.
One weekend, at a college party in the well-worn union bar, booze became an icebreaker and the barriers fell away. Friendly acknowledgments in the hallway became cheery greetings, then sandwiches in the coffee shop, followed by evening adventures and nursing hangovers in front of the TV in our dilapidated homes.
She was from a Northern Irish city, I called home Yorkshire, and we formed a tie over being distant from our origins, not quite slotting into the quickly emerging cliques, and, like typical young adults in the nineties, never having any money. Whenever either managed to get hold of some – from a casual work, a birthday or a compassionate loan officer – then it meant we both had money. In advance of our autumn term student loans had even gone through, we would dash out to buy something recent to wear to boost our mood, surviving on tea and toast and budget beverages until the next windfall.
With time passing, we became close with a mutual acquaintance (not her real name), and the three of us weathered life’s key moments together. My friend had her first baby the same year I came out as queer, and we got through personal shifts, professional moves, house moves and family dramas. Her successes, of which there were numerous, were shared by all; we sensed each other’s misfortunes as if they were our own.
Once we were “real adults”, Emma and I would spend weekend days at Nichola’s house with her, her husband, and young sons, doing “Sunday club”: cooking a dinner together, gossiping, cracking jokes and swaying in the cooking area to tunes from our past. I possessed a slice of paradise and didn’t grasp until it was taken away.
A phone ring came from Emma, one warm summer afternoon. Glancing at my device, I thought it was a spontaneous catch up about the weekly gathering vacation to our destination we were scheduled to go on in 14 days. My dear friend had died out of nowhere and without warning; there was no possibility anyone could have done.
Learning the news was the most surreal, most frightening experience of my life. I felt something instinctive, almost, in the surprise and alarm of my instant grief. I had felt heartbroken to lose my older relatives years earlier, but I understood that was the expected path of things; departing in advanced years. Losing her was unusual, unfamiliar. It didn’t seem logical, it couldn’t be true – we had been texting the day before, we had plans that weekend, travel buys to do. It was a random Wednesday; how could this mundane of a day become so significant in a flash? The day of her death is a bleak, distorted puzzle component that doesn’t fit the sunny, happy and silly puzzle of a life we had shared. I remember it with photographic horror.
In the following days and weeks, my friend and I delayed our grief, prioritising Nichola’s family. They would be most affected by her death, after all – particularly her young sons. Along with other relatives, we kept things functioning, and handled agonising practical tasks. I composed and delivered a eulogy at her funeral on behalf of her friends, and assigned myself the task of terminating the holiday. The travel company were unfeeling and handled me as if I was attempting deception. They demanded to speak to her devastated husband and sought details locked away in her work email. I remember taking scans of her travel document and proof of passing to secure a potential refund – nothing strikes you with the finality harder than clear language, in print, on official paper. Her home felt so changed, the rooms larger and emptier, resonant. It was like a nightmare, really, except I’ve never woken up from it.
Busying yourself with practicalities is a way to manage but, if anything, it postponed coming to terms with her loss. Leaving the immediate bubble of mourners was difficult. The world looked exactly the same, but my heart felt cratered, the power of my grief extremely difficult to share to those not involved.
In reflecting on others’ grief, we revert to relationships’ expected orders as a standard. As a community, we recognise the impact of loss of losing a family member; it needs hardly any context, even for those holding grudges. Her children would never have a different mother, her husband had lost the soulmate, and, as a child and family member, she was unique. Such losses are traumatic and profound. A bond is harder to evaluate. What entitlement did I have to grieve for her so deeply when I had different people?
The intensity of my grief seemed to confuse people who didn’t know her. They would ask how deep we were, how long I’d had in my life her, how often we spent time with each other. I felt I somehow had to justify it, and emphasise how much she signified to me. I began to feel ashamed, as if I didn’t have a right to be so completely lost when the lives of those nearer to her had been devastated.
Friendships are ongoing dialogues … they predate and survive partnerships
After losing a loved one, nobody expects much from you for an extended period, but Emma and I had to get back to work. I was given one week off from my independent role; my companion spent days at her desk, fighting back tears, scarcely concentrating. We weren’t prepared, but grief is inconvenient for others and has a time limit; your sorrow makes them uncomfortable.
The gaps in my life gradually affected me. An absent birthday text comes through, a new juicy piece of gossip goes unsaid, your calendar has more empty slots, formerly mutual activities become diminished. Among the initial things we both would do on meeting up was evaluate each other’s clothes. All these years later, when I buy something, I try to imagine her reaction. My other friend does the same.
Perhaps we underestimate the grief of friends because “pal” is a umbrella label, applied to acquaintances and {acquaintances|contacts|associates
