IDEAS

IDEAS grief is brutal, but it can be beautiful

By Stephen Smysnuik

They say, whoever “they” are, that when a person dies, the first memory that disappears is of their voice. But with Jimmy, there’s no risk of that happening. His voice was so distinct, so memorable—a tool wielded to deliver such hilarity and intelligence—that it’s lodged deep in the ol’ memory maker.

His mannerisms and turns of phrase, the way he rambled down a sidewalk, even the distinct way in which he belched—it’s all been obliterated. But like a big bang, the particles have spread out and been absorbed by all those who loved him. I occasionally belch like he did. I express joy in a way informed by how he did, with a gesture of the hand. It’s subtle. It’s not intentional. It just is.

This isn’t unique to me, either. Our other friends have reported similar experiences. I see it, too, in the mannerisms of my mom, who’s absorbed some of the same mannerisms of one her best friends after she died. Maybe it happened before that, during the 30 years that they influenced each other. But you never really notice it until they’re gone.

Because that’s how the tunnel of grief works. When the shock wears off, when the Hows and the Whys fall away, all you have left is the emptiness. It’s weird how someone close to you can be lodged firmly inside you, but so completely absent at the same time. This is the one truly painful thing about loss.

The tunnel is really a state of unreality, of suspended animation, where commonly held perspective and ideals, meaning you impart on everything around you, turns to soup. You swirl. Even the most stable of us will come unmoored. Those who have their footing and their wits about them will clamour back to reality eventually, but it gets the better of us every single time.

It took me eight months. Jimmy passed away right before Halloween 2021. When the calendar turned, I was still out of my mind. Light was flooding through the tunnel in larger gaps every day, but man alive, I was stunted. Writing every day with the feverish belief that I was going to make it in Hollywood (which, hey! Could still be true), but really just channeling the grief into strange new worlds.

I should note that Jimmy’s not his real name, but an alias used originally in the pages of this very paper, during a travel story I wrote about a particularly debauched experience in Amsterdam, a year into our friendship. He understandably didn’t want his real name in the paper. But Jimmy stuck. A true Gemini, he had his two sides. Jimmy was his dark companion, the wild man inside, the id when the ego had been cast aside.

These are things I only realized after the fact. That’s how it works, you know. The whole person comes into focus. We spend our time with loved ones fitting them into some kind of a shape that we need them to be. They are, for better or worse, characters in our lives, filling a role that we need them to. A sounding board, or a security blanket, a villain. But when they die, the complexities reveal themselves. The other mourners share their own ideas of the person, spouting off from the pain, raw and unfiltered, so you gain a clearer picture of the person. The contours are more defined.

Turns out, he was a very complicated guy. His death wasn’t easy either—made all the more difficult by the fact that we still don’t really know what happened. We know he was unhealthy, and isolated because of COVID. He smoked way too much. He was found in his car, two days after he was last seen by his hockey teammates, the result, we’re told, of natural causes. It’s one thing when your greatgrandmother passes away at 96. It’s sad, but inevitable. A 41-year-old, in what should be the prime of his life, is a whole lot more complicated.

But death is complicated only for the living. For the dead, it’s a whole lot simpler.

As 2021 turned into 2022 and I was still in the tunnel, I asked Google, “How long does grief last?” One of the searches came up with an article, I can’t remember everything it said, but I remember the line: grief will change you. That seemed ominous at the time. Like, fuck, I don’t need to change, man! I need to get through this.

And yet, the battering that ensued beat me into some new kind of shape. I felt myself getting older—wiser yes, and more mature, maybe. But literally older. I noticed the skin sagging off my face. My eyes sinking in. My posture…let’s not talk about my posture.

But the thing about it is, if you’re tuned a certain way, the grief can be a spiritual experience. It’s raw, like when you skin your knee and the skin underneath sensitive to even the air passing by. Grief feels like that—senses heightened, connected more to the mysteries that envelope us. Where did he go? It doesn’t feel like he disappeared exactly. He’s like—how do you say this without sounding like a crazy person?—inside of me. When people say “I feel them in my heart,” I guess that’s what it means. They enter into your molecules, take up residence inside of you, brimming with the love that you shared.

I felt it especially in the early days, when the intensity of the loss crashed in like waves. I thought about him constantly. That waned over the next five months, to the point where I was thinking about him, I don’t know, every hour rather than every second. By the sixth month, I’d go entire days, only reminded by a line in a song, or a joke on a TV show.

I left the tunnel for good on his birthday. Two of Jimmy’s best buddies, on a California road trip he was meant to be on, now a tribute instead. We stopped at the ocean and took a dip in the frigid Pacific ocean. It wasn’t intended to be symbolic. It just kinda happened.

We sat on the beach after, refreshed, laughing about something. I thought, without really thinking, where’s Jimmy? Like he was there all along. And then I remembered, silly me. His voice then calIed, from back there in the tunnel.

That voice isn’t going anywhere. GS

Photo via Shutterstock

Ideas section is designed for writers and other creatives to express themselves, through essay or opinion, and explore ideas important to them—microcosmic, intergalactic and everything in between. If you’d like to contribute, email us at ideas@straight.com

I SAW YOU / CONFESSIONS Behold! I saw you and confessions return

I SAW YOU

PRADO CAFE ON COMMERCIAL DRIVE

Your energy, warmth, and presence as you left the cafe. You were sitting with your back to the order counter, long black jacket, brunette to strawberry blonde hair. I had my back to the window, dark chocolate brother with a blue LA hat near the door working. I’m not often taken back, however I know a kind person when I see (feel) one. I am interested in connecting, if you come across this and aren’t opposed to connecting over a quick coffee or whatever you’re authentically open to. I’d love to connect.

From M to F

When: Wednesday, December 7

Where: Commercial Drive

TALL N BALD AT POIRIER GYM

Somebody tell me you’re single! You’re a tall, strong fellow, a regular at Poirier around 9am. 50s? 60s? For over a year now, I’ve been drawn to you. But how does a person start a conversation? Yesterday, we finally said a full hello, and this time, you smiled.

From F to M

When: Saturday, December 3

Where: Poirier Rec Centre gym

I SAW YOU SEE ME SEE YOU

I walked by you on the street along Hastings last week and recognized you from a patio last summer. You were going to a concert, and I had been serving you and your brother. I remember wondering if you had been flirting with me. I turned around to say something, but you had crossed the street to go into Beat Street. When I looked back you were staring at me from across the street. Ask me out next time.

From F to M

When: Monday, November 21

Where: West Hastings and Homer

ENGLISH BAY, WALKING BY STARBUCKS, APPRX 8PM, MONDAY NIGHT

I was in a brown toque and striped scarf, outside the Starbucks having a lively and funny conversation with an acquaintance. You suddenly walked by, looking very dapper in your jeans and corduroy blazer, blue jacket and boots. To be honest, you did not look from around these parts. A very British air to you. Or Irish...? You smiled at me, as we exchanged glances. I was so struck by you and, of course, only thought afterwards I should have said hello. It was a fleeting moment, but a most pleasant one for me seeing someone so intriguing looking in Vancouver. I hope you ARE from around these parts. Would love the opportunity again to say hello.

From F to M

When: Monday, November 14

Where: English Bay, out front of Starbucks coffee shop

VERY DELAYED FLIGHT FROM MONTREAL

It’s a rare occasion to have the aromas of a freshly baked pizza brought into a plane. I thus enquired if you were going to share that. Great airline, I think we spent more time on the ground than in the air. I was jet lagged so didn’t get your number, but would love to go for a slice :)

From M to F

When: Wednesday, November 2

Where: Flair 201

CONFESSIONS

SOBRIETY

It is 4:30am and I am waking up to go to my minimum wage job. The stars in the sky are bright and I see them from my non basement suite. I am more awake than I have been in years, I have money in the bank even though I make a quarter of what I often have in my life. Somehow I always managed to run debt the more I make. I am without a significant other, yet I am not lonely. Christmas is upon me, but I am not scared this year. I am full of cautious joy and optimism for the season, which has not been the case in 20+ years. Everything is hard, sobriety is hard. 3 years in, it is not so bad

AM I

The only one that thinks David Eby is the spitting image of Garfield’s owner, Jon Arbuckle?

MOVIE BASED ON ROBERT (WILLY) PICKTON

There is a movie that is set to premiere called Pig Killer about the notorious killer from the Greater Vancouver area. It is so inappropriate to give Robert (Willy) Pickton any fame for how he tortured and disposed of/fed the women he killed to his pigs (after putting the bodies in a tree chipper). I hope the makers of this “film” lose their shirts financially and find it impossible to ever produce another movie. Families and the friends of these women were traumatized for life, learning how their loved ones died. If this movie is considered entertainment/art in any way, we are no longer a worthwhile society.

RETREAT

I don’t want to go home for Christmas. I love my family and yet I would rather not spend the holidays with them. GS

7:30pm PACIFIC COLISEUM

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