Grief: Her Fair and Foul Weather Friends

Mainstream western society teaches us to fear death. A terminal diagnosis can often scare friends away, their individual manifestation of the collective fear of death.

Brendan and John sharing love, laughter and a beer in August 2018, 6 months before John died.

But in the end fair-weather friends may break your heart, dear,

If they do, sweetheart, remember me.

(John Prine: Remember Me When the Candelights are Gleaming (featuring Kathy Mattea), from the album; For Better, or Worse).

John Prine; country-folk singer-songwriter, was an outright favourite of John and mine. An observant storyteller with poetic genius, we especially enjoyed his repertoire of duets. Undoubtedly, like many other couples, we claimed a duet accompanied by Iris Dement, In Spite of Ourselves, as one of ‘our’ songs. Prine’s unique talent was with his pen, often writing quirky lyrics which elicited a smiling compassion for self and other’s human foibles.

Prine’s last album; The Tree of Forgiveness was released about 6 months after John’s diagnosis. The last song on the album, When I Get to Heaven, became somewhat of an ‘anthem’ for John. Having lost his capacity to speak, he would play it to visiting friends. The embedded humour would hopefully, appease their anxiety. That was the sort of generous ‘bloke’ John was; gracious and affectionate in a bloke-y way, somewhat Prine-esque. I would sometimes notice a tear escape as he lifted his forefinger to his mouth. He adopted this mannerism to disguise a missing tooth when he laughed. It now assumed an added diversion. John was a tad sceptic about an after-life. His ‘anthem’ was not lost on me.

When I Get to Heaven’s lyrics convey Prine at his quirky best. The romp of a chorus invites the listener to join in. Heaven is a carnival. In closing the final verse, Prine addresses societal fears directly:

And I always will remember these words my daddy said

He said, “Buddy, when you’re dead, you’re a dead pecker-head”

 I hope to prove him wrong

That is, when I get to heaven

John had been provided with a communicative device which required typing any said offerings. His motor function deterioration made for daily ‘lasts’ in movement. His hasty decline was going to negatively skew the average life expectancy of those with MND. Not partial to trivial or small talk, the device soon became redundant. John did not have the dexterity of movement to type anything other than a word or phrase. The phrases he did type were those that we colloquially know as ‘pearlers’ in Australia. John was a formidable intellect; astute; analytical; quirky; generous; articulate. Mostly, he was spiritedly mischievous in his disposition. At times he would inquire, “Did I miss the surgeon, when he slipped in to perform your humour-ectomy? Usually delivered with an encouraging smile; an affection that dissipated my sometimes, dwelling negative internal narrative!

John relished political banter with friends. He would indulgently type a pearler for our collective amusement. To show them he was still with us. We all inwardly mourned John’s loss of speech. We spoke for him in conversations; he conferred or refuted with soulful eyes, framing a smile or smirk. He developed flicking movements with his pointer finger; his baton, conducting us to conjure humorous rebukes. We colloquially took the piss out of ourselves and each other; for John, for us. Our laughter gave him a chorus, we all took delight in our tacit submission.

Some friends declined to visit John. A lost opportunity to sit silently with him; to reciprocate in shared gifts of be-ing. One or two offered nebulous apologies; attempts to justify unsolicited reasons for choosing to stay away. Another rang and offered monologues of their woes before signing off. Another rang for perfunctory updates, professing they didn’t want to see John like this. Another simply vaporised.

Were we disappointed; hurt, angry at what might have been deemed disloyal, weak, selfish? Those fair and foul-weather f(r)iends? I was too fraught with the confronting nature of John’s daily decline to over indulge in an egoic vortex; projections of shame, blame, guilt and anger. However, I had subconsciously interpreted their absence as judgement about our worthiness. My heart ached for John and in expressing as much he snapped, “I don’t fucking care … let it be, will you?” Not so much a convincing retort as him attempting to cast a protective energetic shield, holding the sacredness of our space. Ever pragmatic, his simple declaration, “We’ve got better shit to worry about”, was definitive. John’s beacon shone its light; dwelling on any impression of lack from friends was not the imperative in the day-to-day care of the dying. He died peacefully at home, enveloped in love, on February 5, 2019.

We remained grateful for our one lucky hand of friends; their love and laughter.

Fittingly, the title of Prine’s last album, The Tree of Forgiveness, refers to a nightclub he intended to open, when he got to heaven. Prine was due to tour Australia in the first quarter of 2020. I purchased two tickets, not yet quite ready to purchase one. As country-folk aficionados, anticipating attending concerts of performers from the States, was a treat. John would decorate his work space in our home study with concert tickets, shared memories. As ‘shit happens’, John Prine succumbed to Covid-19 complications on April 7, 2020. Our tickets were for April 14, 2020. So, it tickles me to imagine John enjoying that John Prine concert, at the Tree of Forgiveness. I bet they ‘all’ share many a tale, punctuated by love, laughter and compassion for the human condition. All in that bar, after a raucous day at the carnival! As Prine hilariously professes in the second verse of When I get to Heaven:

Then as God as my witness, I'm gettin' back into show business
I'm gonna open up a nightclub called The Tree of Forgiveness
And forgive everybody ever done me any harm
Why, I might even invite a few choice critics, those syphilitic parasitics
Buy 'em a pint of Smithwick's and smother 'em with my charm

The John Prine tickets for April 14, 2020. I imagine the concert was held at The Tree of Forgiveness, in heaven.

The following poem came to me in November 2023. The poems drop in rapidly, so I tend to jot them down and largely let them rest in their original form. I trust that they are a collaborative, relational and relevant message. I thought this one might suit as a reminder that we are more than the sum of the challenges of our human experience; an exploration of emotions. Inclusive of friendships.

Soul’s Shadow Self

The healing frequency of earth,

School for our shadow self.

An expression of creativity,

Enacted through time; our free will reality.

Our waking dream state slumber,

Fragmented memories of wavering attachments;

Investments in conflicting creations of individual … identity,

Prisoner of perceptions, privilege and power.

Dreamer of your shadow world,

Open and expand your heart centre

To feel the vibrational truth

As an individual manifestation of Love.