My Friend Died Today…

He didn’t look like this any more; this is a picture from a very long time ago, when we were all a lot younger, thinner, hairier and nicer to each other.

 

He was told at the beginning of this year that the stomach pains he’d been having, that he was being tested for gallstones for, were not in fact gallstones, but were in fact big tumours of cancer, in lots of places, all around his body.

And they weren't some hither-to unknown cancer that made your skin shiny and healthy, made you more attractive to the opposite sex, lucky on the lottery or anything like that; oh no, this was the cancer we all know and loathe, the life ending, trauma-causing, shitty-wank-bastard kind of cancer.

I saw him at Christmas, when our dwindling circle of old school friends met up for a seasonal drink and meal, which he attended, but didn’t eat or drink anything, due to the pain he was in, caused, he was being told, by gallstones. He was having a scan in late January to determine the scale of the problem and treatment plans. This was all very matter of fact; “oh, gallstones? doesn't sound like much, you’ll be fighting fit in no time” might have been a typical exchange. I texted him to find out how his ‘gallstone’ scan went, back in February when I hadn't heard anything from him. That was fairly typical, TBH; we’d go months without speaking - no fault being apportioned, we’re all grown ups here - and anyway, it was JUST gallstones right? Nothing to REALLY worry about…

So when he text back saying “actually mate, it’s cancer”, I called him straight back and we began the dance of Dying Man & Close Friend. No, he didn't have a prognosis at this stage, no, they don’t know what stage it is or how invasive or advanced it is, yes, he’s still in a lot of pain, no, he doesn’t want any help with anything. Appointments were being made, GP’s were prescribing and consultants were being consulted. It may be a secondary cancer related to a skin tumour he had 20 years ago, still not sure at this stage, one step at a time, etc. etc. He told me he didn’t feel up to speaking to everyone else in our group of friends, so I said I would tell everyone, if that’s what he wanted, which he did. Took me nearly a week to pluck up the courage to do that, and then it all began again, with me telling everyone individually all of the grim details.
 

And so it went on, me texting or calling every couple of days, him filling me in on the details of his new, cancer-enriched life, where every millimetre of tumour size sounded like a giant shard of glass in his abdomen, every new treatment plan (and it’s associated side effects) sounded about as unpleasant as humanly possible, and the changes in his tone of voice and conversation style became more and more obvious; this battle wasn’t for winning.
 

When he told me the prognosis was terminal, that they were giving him 12 months with some treatment, well, obviously cartwheels and candy floss seemed highly inappropriate. He was struggling, I struggled with him, we struggled* together for what felt like forever, trying to understand what this all meant. He was in a lot of pain, felt very remote from everyone and everything, and sounded, to me, so very lost at that time. My struggling continued long after I’d put the phone down, let’s put it that way.

I convinced him to come round to ours, and arranged for as many of our friends to be there as possible; we all talked about old times, one or two of us got a little over-refreshed, and of course, over-emotional as well. A week or so later a subset of these friends agreed to meet up and play a board game he’d just bought (we have, shall we say, ‘form’ when it comes to fantasy role playing and board games – stop judging, we were young and chick-kryptonite…). The physical effects of his illness and the side effects of the treatment were beginning to show themselves, something that shocked all of us, and really brought home the full extent of what he was going through. Some of his spark was already missing; weight-loss, stooping and hobbling were all obvious signs of what the disease was doing to him physically, but the fire in his belly and the passion in his heart were already subdued at that stage. If I had been honest with myself then, I would have realised 12 months was optimistic…but we’re not, are we? Ever honest with ourselves, I mean, when dealing with loved ones, pain and loss.

After this, communication became scarcer; he was self medicating with morphine, as well as undergoing radiotherapy and other supposed treatment regimes that were designed to help but all they seemed to do was accelerate or exacerbate his problems. A weekend away for all of us ‘school lot’ (as I have since learnt he referred to us, when explaining his different groups of friends to his family) was planned, scheduled, booked and paid for; hopeful indeed, it now seems.

I spoke with his brother when I came back from holiday last weekend; he had a heart attack on Saturday night, was rushed to hospital, stabilised and kept in for observation, but had another in the early hours of Sunday morning, and could not be saved. I know how I feel right now, but I don’t know how to explain it; I thought writing it down would help, but I can hardly see to type through my ‘struggling’. I can only imagine how his Mum and his Dad and his brother feel, and it seems almost petty to think that what I feel matters at all, when they are undoubtedly suffering immeasurably worse.

I couldn't speak to any of our mutual friends at first; couldn't speak to anyone, really; my girlfriend was there for me, told me it was OK to struggle (for the record, I did a lot more than just struggle), held me for as long as I needed to be held, and then some, because, well that’s what she does, and that’s why I love her so. My mum wanted to hold me too, and told me as much, which is why I love her as well. I only know that I hurt inside, in a way that I don’t think I've ever felt before; someone who meant a great deal to me has gone away, and he can’t ever come back. I didn't get to say goodbye, but then who does, and anyway, I didn't want to say goodbye, I want him to still be here.

My friend died today, and it feels like someone stole a piece of my heart.

Simon Willis
14th June 1970-2nd June 2013

P.

*I’m not going to spell it out for you, but I’m sure you can tell this is a euphemism…