Grieving a Friend

My friend died last week. 

It’s felt like pressure in my chest, like I’ve been kicked in the stomach and all the air has left my lungs. I’ve spent days feeling a heavy numbness, interspersed with waves of sadness. The shock is wearing off but I still get little jolts of reality every now and then. 

I’m not even on the right side of the world to go to his funeral. And it’s sort of devastating. If only he would have waited one more week to die. It’s a sick joke but he would’ve loved that. He was one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. Dripping with wit and sarcasm, he would make me laugh so hysterically that strangers would stare.

We spent years commuting to and fro our crappy retail job together, and then on night buses and last trains home after nights out in the city. He made rubbish days better, lighter. My favourite ever New Years was spent with him, drinking wine and laughing until we were stupid drunk and the ceiling spun. 

He moved to London a few years ago and was slowly making all of his goals come alive. We last talked just a few weeks ago. We made plans to have our annual Fringe Festival day out to see our favourites. He even had his own show at the festival, his first, a milestone in his career. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he’d make it.

This is my first time dealing with sudden death. Of course people die all the time. Old colleagues and friends of friends have passed. But I’ve never had to deal with the raw shock, ache and heartbreak of having someone you have years worth of memories with, being suddenly gone from this world. Memories that come back to me, jumbled together like my brain is trying to gather every conversation we ever had and hold on tight to it all. I’m still trying to come to terms with this new normal, with the fact that my life must go on.