It was recently the 8th anniversary of my mum's death. I wasn't too worried beforehand, I'm well versed in how to grieve well. I'll plan my days in the ways I usually do, I thought, knowing that the runup is likely to be worse than the day itself and, as usual, have a vague plan for the day with easy, time consuming distractions. In this case I was going to the office with a few simple meetings to attend- ones I've been to a thousand times before, no surprises, no tension. As expected, it was sad week before the day itself (30th January), a few tears here and there, I told a handful of closer colleagues so they need not expect too much from me.
But with grief you always have to expect the unexpected. This week, only two days ago in fact, I got news that an old friend, Gemma, died. She died last week, on 30th January, the same day as my mum, after a short illness of cancer. I didn't know she had been diagnosed and was very shocked by the suddenness of her not being here any more. I have cried many times in the last few days and the knowledge of her death hits me in waves.
It is true that when someone has been genuinely traumatised the abrasive memories haunt them in pulses- they relive the experience through flashbacks or repeated nightmares. It is as if their brain has found the experience simply too painful to fathom, too emotional to rationally process, and so the unprocessed thoughts go round and round and round, shocking them again and again. Similarly with a less traumatic but still very surprising shock, the thoughts disappear for while (you simply can't cope if they're always present) but then suddenly jolt into your consciousness unexpectedly. This is how I have responded to this shock- wave after sudden wave of upset and tears that are gradually receding as my brain processes the experience and, eventually, accepts the truth of Gemma's death.
Gemma wasn't a close friend but she was an old friend. We were teenagers when we met and were pretty much inseperable for few years, we were in the same close group, went on holiday together, we even went to Glastonbury music festival together. We shared many drunk evenings together, got stoned for three days after overdosing on homemade "special fudge" and, due to her disability, I accompanied her as a loyal "plus one" on many gigs, family events and even a job interview or two. We were close for years, we shared relationship woes, saw other friendships come and go. We grew apart in our twenties but reconnected through social media a few years back and, although we never physically met again due to geographical distance, there was an unspoken bond that often exists in old friendships. The bond may not have been strong- we weren't as close as we once were- but it's deep and old.
Gemma was a connection to my past- she was someone who knew me. I have often thought it is unimportant to know people that used to know you, I am not nostalgic and my default setting is "forward". Certainly anyone I have become friends with again after years apart is someone with whom I have a new and valuable relationship based on who they are now and not what we had many years ago. But I have to admit the loss of Gemma is also about a loss of personal history and of my own past. My lived experience- all our lived experiences- is so intertwined with others that to lose someone else is to die a little too. Bereaved people know all this, of course, but sometimes it becomes so clear how much we are of other people, within other people, how much they really are part of our lives even if there's been no contact for 25 years or more. Gemma and I may not have spoken for two decades until recently but she was genuinely formative in my teenage years and therefore formative in who I am as an adult. I will think of her every day until I die and I will miss her greatly.
Rest in peace, Gemma Nash- musician, artist, disability rights activist, my old friend.
