Good Grief


I’d like to thank all of you who took time to get in touch, be it here, on Twitter, or via email, to say absolutely lovely things following my recent post about my best mate Llŷr and the loss I feel now he’s no longer around.

Every one of them meant the world to me, and a special thank you needs to be said to those of you who have been kind and generous enough to contribute to Sian’s London Marathon adventure.

So from me, and from Llŷr’s family, a massive thank you. You’re all lovely.

I think I’m still firmly in the grieving process, but things do seem to be getting a little easier, as you may have gathered by the fact I’ve started posting again.

For many years I’d known that, given his condition, there was only one way my story with Llŷr would end. And I thought I had that under control, was ready for whenever that news came.

It turns out, I was wrong.

For prepared as I thought I was, and as I had warned friends to be (I’m the life and soul of parties, me), nothing could prepare me for the finality of his passing.

And then, suddenly, everywhere you look is a reminder.

The thing about grief is that there’s no rules. Time is a great healer, people say, but nobody tells you how long that period of time is.

When you lose someone with whom you associate so much, so many tunes, whenever you hear one of them, it sparks a memory, and the next thing you know you’re in floods because you remember you’ll never share another moment with them.

I should stop writing in the third person. I mean me, obviously.

But I’m getting there. The other day, tonight’s tune came on my iPod and, although it holds no specific memory, I found Llŷr wandering into my thoughts, probably to call me a wuss and suggest something better to post.

But this time, rather than welling up, I found myself smiling at his memory.

Having said that, as I write this I’m filling up a little. Actually, more than a little.

It seems to me that when I’m getting close to the point where I can smile at the memory of Llŷr, rather than cry about his loss – but still feel sad – then I’m almost in the “Good Grief” stage. Almost. But not quite.

Here’s the tune that holds no specific memory, but brought a much needed smile:


The Stone Roses – Ten Storey Love Song

In case you too wish to donate to the Brain Tumour Charity via Sian’s marathon Marathon efforts, but can’t be arsed with finding the link I posted last time, here it is (it’ll be appearing here quite a lot between here and the end of April):

More soon.




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2 thoughts on “Good Grief”

  1. Lovely honesty as always, Jez. You’ve had such a tough time with this and your own health issues so it’s good to see you posting again. I’m sure many of us reading this will have gone through bereavement to varying degrees too and there is a strange comfort to be had in knowing that you’re not alone – and of course the older we get the more it happens so we all get to join the “club”! In my experience it’s the brutal rawness of the pain that does eventually subside (although occasionally rears its head again at certain triggers!) and gradually the ratio of pain to acceptance shifts in favour of the latter, but you never stop missing that person. However, it’s that missing them that keeps them there with you, in your mind, as alive as they can be, as a reminder of all the good bits and, as you say, brings the much-needed smiles.

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