Julian lived.
Julian was loved.
Julian loved me.
The caption read, “What do you see?”
It was the end of 2008, and I was sitting at home perusing photos on Flickr.
“I see a handsome man, with a great smile and beautiful eyes,” I commented.
Little did I know that those words were the beginning of our life together.
In December 2009, I moved to Sydney from California to be with him. Fourteen years followed. Fourteen years of what we called “The Tale of J&J”.
Fourteen years not of “you complete me” but of “you complement me”. I felt like, with him, I could be who I was, whilst also exploring who I might want to be. I felt his support and his love every day. But I also knew that being with him, loving him, learning from him, was making me a better person.
Then came Friday, 13 October 2023. A workday, seemingly, like any other. He went off to the office. I worked from home.
When he was ready to go, we hugged, kissed, said goodbye and “love you” and he left.
At 2:30 in the afternoon, he called me. He wasn’t feeling well. I told him to come home. Then his colleague got on the line.
“It’s not good,” he said. Julian was apparently slurring his words, having trouble with his balance. I heard, in the background, the building’s First Aid people going through the “signs of stroke” procedure. His colleagues said they were calling paramedics.
Julian got back on the line. I told him I was coming to his office. That, if the paramedics got there and wanted to take him to hospital, he shouldn’t wait for me. I’d see him at the hospital. We said “I love you” to each other and hung up. That was the last time I heard his voice.
By the time I arrived at his office, he was unconscious. He never regained consciousness. Two days later, he was declared brain dead. Cause of death: an intracranial haemorrhage exacerbated by undiagnosed severe hypertension.
My world crashed that weekend. My identity dissolved. My future, our future, disappeared.
I returned to the apartment, an apartment we had proudly bought together, renovated and furnished in a way that brought us joy and comfort, that now felt empty, devoid of life and happiness.
More than two years later, I have become used to his absence. I still hate it. But it feels, if not normal, then less strange.
I still miss him every day. I still grieve his death. But I understand now that my grief is evidence of the love that we had for each other. It is my way of saying to the world that “Julian lived. That Julian was loved. That Julian loved me.” So, I don’t shy away from the grief. I don’t try to hide it. I experience it when I need to.
One of the tenants of Buddhism is that life involves suffering. And, by accepting that truth and not trying to avoid suffering, we lessen its impact on us both now and in the future.
That is what I’ve tried to do with my grief since that fateful Friday. I acknowledge it and experience it, moving through it. This also means I don’t hide my grief from those around me because, whilst hiding it may make others feel more comfortable, in the long run it causes me more suffering.
Now, I acknowledge that my grief journey is not the same as others. Many of us share similar experiences. But each of us travel a path that is unique to us. All the same, I’d encourage every one of you not to avoid your grief but to experience it – when and how and in the best ways you can. And, if you are supporting someone who is grieving, I’d encourage you to let them experience it, no matter how uncomfortable it may make you feel.
I may seem strong, but I don’t feel that way. I still feel lost without him. I still don’t know who I am or who I can be now. But I do know that I want to be someone he’d be proud of. To that end, I want to be someone who finds ways to help others through their grief journey rather than avoiding it.
It is why I volunteer to set up local catch ups. It is why I promote First Light to widows (e.g., those in the LGBTQIA+ community). The First Light community helped me (and continues to help me) through some dark moments. I want to be there and do that for others.
