I remember everything. I love you.

Seven years ago, right about this time, we were saying goodnight to Tim. He was awfully sleepy, and it bothered me, but God, we were all so tired, and he’d had physio, and the ward was loud, and even though I felt like something wasn’t right we decided he should sleep and we needed sleep and we said goodnight and we left. I’ve never felt guilty about it and I still don’t. My phone rang just a couple of hours later and it all began unravelling; the second stroke had happened, he had started to die and that terrible time is a time that belongs to him, and I won’t ever talk about it here.

This day and tomorrow are pretty tough, and I guess I expect it now; I mean I have an idea what to expect. Every second of the last ten days I remember perfectly; I remember what I was doing and what he was doing, colours and sounds and hope and fear and what I had for breakfast and how his face was and every single thing. Every minute of the hours that led to his death. And then it all just blew apart, and I remember things, but in no particular order, with no date or hour assigned, and dreams start to blend in with walking around.

A couple of years before Tim died, a friend of mine lost her partner, and when she did, she wrote about it on social media, in all its rawness and intimacy. When Tim died I remembered things she’d said. And when Sheena told me that eventually it would stop being the lighting and start being the wallpaper, I believed her. And eventually it did. Slowly it has.

It wasn’t like losing a parent and it wasn’t like losing a friend, and it wasn’t like losing a partner I’d been with my whole life and it wasn’t like losing a baby. It was what it was, it was losing Tim. I wanted to protect it and keep everyone else clear of it, I wanted him back and I tried to make that happen by what- by poring over every word between us, by staying up all night talking to his ashes, by not washing the sheets. And eventually I stopped. I write about it because somebody did it for me, though neither she nor I knew about it at the time. We don’t talk about these things enough. It helps to do it. It helps other people when they see their friends survive loss.

Part of being alive is unbearable. Sometimes you have your hand in the fire and you just have to find a way to keep it there till the fire dies down. For some of us it isn’t ever ok. I can’t speak for anyone but me, and I am lucky, I am resilient, I broke and I healed and I am better than I was before. Different, but better.

I love him. I miss him. I will never see him again, and I am at peace with that. People say that a dead tree is more alive than a living tree. He’s a tree to me- every moment of the time I had with him has made art and friendship and love and some pretty good jokes and strength and hope and courage.

It was a privilege to be with him when he lived, and it was a privilege to be with him when he died.

My favourite Leonard Cohen lyric is from The Sisters of Mercy- “…if your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn/ they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.” He did that for me, and for many of us. This is a sad night, but it’s alright. It is possible to be sad and joyful. We are bound by love, either way.