This weekend marks a couple of terrible anniversaries.

Two years ago, a close friend lay struggling for life in intensive care while his partner was left dealing with hideous anguish and the inevitability of the love of his life being cruelly taken from him.

One year ago, I was deliriously happy, but confined to indoors decorating the home that I shared with the love of my life while the rest of country enjoyed one last fling of summer and she attended a conference.

My beautiful friend lost his fight for life, leaving his grief-stricken partner to pick up the pieces amongst much confusion. That night of 1st of October, 2010 was the saddest climax to a fortnight of disbelief at the rapid demise of a man who I’d loved as a brother, but which saw the rising in stature of another man who I’d walk barefoot over hot coals to make a cup of tea for if he asked. I’ve never witnessed such love as I was privileged to be part of that night as I sat in the hospital while Martin was comforted by the nurse and handed the belongings of his beloved. I was terrified as I went to say goodbye to John’s body, yet strengthened by Martin’s dignity as we were taken into the ward. My dear Piggy had left us long before that moment, before I’d seen him earlier that week, but he’d left an indelible mark on Martin, on all of us, that, well, it’s indelible.

John lives on in our hearts and fond memories, and in the strength of his super hero Tazzy. :@)

Just twelve months had passed and my life was brilliant. I was stupidly in love with the woman I’d been waiting for all my life. We’d built a home together and had plans for a future. Desperately trying to decorate before getting carpets laid, I spent the weekend up a ladder getting splattered in paint (B&Q rice cake matt emulsion) while she attended a conference. It was hot, the sun shone all that Saturday, but I persevered and finished the dining room. Eager to tell her of my progress, I waited for her call or text to say that proceedings had finished for the day; all I got was a text to say that things had gone on longer than expected and that she didn’t have time to call before going to the evening meal and disco. I thought nothing of it, but thought it odd and was disappointed that I didn’t get at least a goodnight text that night.

And so signalled the start of my justified suspicions. The rest is history… that eats at my very being every day that I breathe.

So this weekend, I think of Martin and Piggy, and of Ali. Piggy was a shit, but I will never for one second doubt his love for Martin. Ali was a shit who betrayed me in the worst possible way and left me bereft and so confused as to my belief in human relationships.

Thinking of the former though, I draw comfort from Martin and hope I can follow his example when it comes to strength and dignity. But for now, I’m still wishing that she’d have called me that night.