I'm sitting here on my verandah after a distracting day at work,
reminiscing about you, as I often do. It's been three
months
since you left and I still cannot believe I will never see you again
in this lifetime. It's
just so
surreal and
heart wrenching ... In
my mind, I envision
you as
clear
as day and
I
hear your familiar voice
just as always. I
guess that's why I'm having such difficulty embracing your passing.
Spontaneous
triggers constantly happen and I find myself engrossed in wonderful,
now precious,
memories.
I immediately grin or laugh at
flashbacks,
which come
to mind. I
laugh, then I
cry
remembering you're gone.
I
still so vividly
recall
meeting you for the first time. Anthony
and I
had
dropped into the Tarwin
pub
one
day for
a quick drink.
I
have no recollection
of the year,
however
I do believe
we had moved into our newly built house on the farm. If
this is true, the year was
around 2009. I remember
you were tall, slender, clean shaven (with
a full head of hair in
those days),
and
quiet. You seemed on your own in the corner, as you leaned against
the bar with a drink in hand. There weren't many patrons in
the hotel
and I recall Anthony and I talking with bar staff.
You
joined
in on our
conversation
and
I
couldn't
help
thinking how
polite, decent
and
interesting
you
were,
and of
course you were wearing your trademark flannelette shirt!
I
didn't
meet you again until the desalination
plant
project
was in full swing. Many tradesmen
had moved into our little community and surrounds renting
temporary homes,
and a lot of money suddenly
befell
the
town.
You
were one of those
tradies,
and I was glad. Those
days I still frequented
the pub to appreciate
the regular music
bands
on the pub
deck
and
I would bump into you often. That's
where our friendship blossomed,
enjoying many afternoons and evenings. You
hilariously began
calling
me 'Stunner', which stuck
and was simply
a
term of endearment. It
made me feel a little special, just quietly. You had a knack for
making everyone feel special. You
continued
to call
me Stunner
throughout
our friendship
and
I miss hearing
your voice speak the
word,
although
I will
always
hear it in
my heart.
A
while later
you
bought your impressive
beach
house in Venus Bay, as you'd
decided you loved the area. I was so happy you
did.
You were planting
your roots and although you would intermittently
work
away or
off shore for
certain amounts
of time, I knew you would always find your way home. It
was so enjoyable
to reunite
upon your return,
as
you would mostly
just
turn up and
surprise everyone!
Early
mornings I would often leave home-made treats at
your house and
would text you, upon
waking, to
check outside
your
front door. Every birthday, Easter and Christmas I would plant a gift
too. You
especially adored
my vanilla slices, and
since
you left, I
just can't seem to bring myself to make
them.
I
loved leaving
you
little surprises, even if sometimes my baking skills weren't up to
standard when I chose you to
taste
a
new cake
recipe.
However, I
suggested you place
my disasters
onto your lawn, which never
failed to attract and feed native birds for you to
admire.
Actually the last disastrous cake enticed Rosellas into your rear
yard, which you said you'd never before
seen in
that area.
Funnily enough, often when I think of you, a Rosella
or two will suddenly fly across my path.
I'm beginning to wonder
whether
this may be a
sign you're sending, communicating
you are
near and hearing my thoughts.
In
the early days of our friendship we would often bump trolleys
while food shopping in Safeway,
Leongatha
and we
would
swap specials information.
That was amusing
and always a nice surprise,
and
as
I'm an op-shop queen, you
asked me to keep an eye out for
warm knits because
you
struggled
with
the
cold
during
the harsh
South
Gippsland winters. I picked up some beauties for you, but eventually
you had to stop me in my tracks, as you'd
collected enough for a footy team. However,
you
always appreciated them and
they did
keep you warm.
We
shared so much over the years, Mark. The spontaneous
visits
to each other's homes where we'd enjoy
meaningful chats over lunch.
You drove me to Traralgon to see your beautiful house that you often
spoke of,
unsure
whether to sell or not. When your mother passed away, I
attended her funeral to show respect
and
offer you my
support during that sad and
difficult time.
The
list goes on, however
one of my happiest
memories
is our amazing
bike
ride, which
only happened because
your good friends
had come down to stay for a
long
weekend
and kept niggling at you until you succumbed!
For
years I had been asking if you
would
take
me for a ride
on
your motorbike and
the only answer you'd
ever
give
me
was 'one
day'. I'm
sure, because you were fearful something might
happen and thought
Anthony
would never forgive you, that
day never eventuated,
even
though I continued to gently nag - until
Anzac
Day weekend, 2011.
Mike,
Lindy, Theresa, Nick,
you
and I
were having dinner at the pub one
night.
After a few drinks, I asked you again if a ride might
be
out of the question. Well, to that Mike immediately
mentioned
you
were all
planning a trip the following
day
and enthusiastically nudged you towards taking me on board. It
took a bit of convincing, and
I
guess because
you
were
half
smashed, you eventually
agreed
and I was to come over the next morning at 8am, which
I promptly and
excitedly did.
I
found
you on the couch nursing a painful hangover and looking as
pale
as a ghost. You
weren't a good sight, however
the guys were ready and waiting for you to get yourself
together, as the bikes were revving. You
fought and
threw us
every excuse you could think of not to join
in
that day. Maybe
in hindsight, we
should have let you sleep. I feel a little guilty now as
I write this … but
you did finally
rise to
the occasion and
after a shower and a coffee, you felt fit to go, although a little
seedy.
It
was a fantastic day! I absolutely loved it and, as
the breeze
kissed your
face, thankfully
you felt better
as
time
went
on. It
was sensational
weather and we
rode all morning
around
beautiful South Gippsland,
stopping wherever
we wanted and
once to rescue a bee, which had imprisoned itself
inside
your helmet! We
ate a delicious lunch at an old, country pub we discovered
along
the way before heading in
the
direction
of home.
It really
was
a
magical
day
and I still laugh thinking
about
how
I sat
behind you on the bike, tilting
my head a touch to one side so I could see the road ahead.
This annoyed you, especially as I would wave to you often
in
your mirrors! You
never let me live
that
down.
Then
of course, my
wedding neared
and I asked if you would,
on
the day, do
me
the honor of
escorting
me on the back of your bike to meet Anthony and
the wedding celebrant at
Venus
Bay's beach
no.1.
You
accepted, but I sensed the thought of it made you anxious.
You
weren't one to shine in the spotlight, as am
I.
The
celebratory
event arrived.
I
had rented a holiday
house
in the vicinity of beach no.1
to
spend the pre-wedding
afternoon with
my gorgeous friend, Conny, who
flew over from Germany to be by my side as bridesmaid. We
tried
our best to
look as elegant as we could, which
we weren't used to at all!
You
and Conny had a mutual admiration for each other, which I loved.
During
her stay here, you
went out of your way often to make her feel at home and I thank you
for that. A
few moments after Conny was eventually picked up from
the beach house to
leave for the ceremony, you arrived on your bike, just in time to
help
zip
up the back of my long, evening-
rose colored, wedding
dress. You
told me I looked absolutely
stunning and I
knew you meant
it sincerely that time.
Your words
melted my heart and
gave me much
needed confidence.
I
remember
you were concerned because you felt I should be wearing a helmet
riding
from the rental property to your house – which took a whole two
minutes, not
to mention
my hair had been styled! I assured
you I would be fine, and
that
there
were
two family members in
the police force amongst
the guests, who
were aware of
my intentions.
All would
be ok.
We
arrived at your place, went inside and waited. You were so stressed,
pacing up and down and
telling me off for drinking
too
much coffee.
Anyone would have thought you were the one getting married! I was
nervous too, but not quite as severely
as
you. Finally,
after what seemed like a long while, we received
the call all
guests had arrived and it was time for us to slowly make our way to
the beach setting.
Our
nerves then really hit the roof and outside
I again awkwardly climbed onto your
bike behind you scrunching
my dress.
I
remember us sitting there ready to go. It
was a beautiful summer's night with just the right, warm temperature.
The sunset was perfect
and would
be
magnificent for the photos. We paused, took a deep breath and I
excitedly gave you a big hug from
behind.
It
was a special, memorable
moment and I was so thankful you were such a significant
part of my wedding. We
slowly
headed
off, but not before we facetiously
whispered,
“Should we turn right (to the beach), or should we turn left (and
run away together)?”
Writing
all these wonderful memories down, I'm
right back there again reliving every moment with
you by my side,
complete with goose bumps, nerves,
laughs and tears. You
were such a unique, extraordinary friend. God,
I just can't believe you're gone!
Distressingly,
over the last couple of years you began to feel more and more unwell.
Not only did you experience unpleasant physical symptoms, you
were
emotionally
drained,
frustrated and
wore
a
sense of hopelessness. You
needed answers no
professional had been able to provide.
Eventually
a
certain
analysis
was discovered and you underwent a complicated
operation
in
the hope you
would
once
again
regain your health.
I
remember you telling me, spending time in rehab after your hospital
stay and perceiving the older, weaker patients struggling, had given
you
a
'sledge
hammer style' wake
up call to stop fluffing around wasting
time and
to
go
fulfil your
life's dreams
while you still could!
You
had
motivating
thoughts
of purchasing
some kind of camper van and
taking
off travelling around
Australia, stopping
wherever
your heart desired. It
sounded fantastic and I was happy for you; happy
you
would finally become well and happy you were going to do something
productive and
gratifying with your future, now
that you weren't working … but
you didn't get well. Instead you were diagnosed with the despicable,
unforgiving Motor Neurone Disease: the
aggressive type.
I
was devastated for
you, Mark
– and selfishly for me too.
It
took a
little
while to digest the news and have it sink in. All
that kept rotating
around in my head was, what
could I do to help you and
how can I fix this?
There
wasn't much I could think of besides attempting
to emotionally
support
you as best I could,
and
to donate regularly
to
MND foundations in the hope a cure would be found sooner rather than
later.
You
know, the last few
months of
your journey seem
like a complete blur to
me now.
I can no
longer
pinpoint
everything that eventuated time wise. However,
I
do know for a good four
months, I
texted
you
each
and
every
morning and evening, whether
I was overseas
or
not.
I would try and send you different
uplifting
words while I endlessly let you know how dear you were to me and how
fortunate
I was to have you in my life. You
initially always replied, however after
a couple of months you
slowed right down and
would apologise for
it when
we spoke, not
that there was any need.
I knew you were struggling more and more and
I was struggling to try and find appropriate words to continue
to
comfort and motivate you.
I
felt so useless.
Steve
and Carol
graciously and unconditionally took you in when you were physically
no longer able to fend for yourself; such amazing people. I remember
you always
referred
to Steve as your orb,
not
your bro.
You
were so frustrated and kept saying it shouldn't be this way. Steve
was your older
brother and you should have
been
there for him when he needed
you, not
the other way around!
As
you now lived
a couple of hours drive away, it was more difficult to visit you as
often as I had previously, however
I
came
to see you
whenever
I could.
Each
visit I noticed
how your health had
further
declined,
although
your
quick,
witty sense
of humor stayed sharp. Regardless,
you'd had enough, saying you'd never wish this gruesome
disease on anyone. You just wanted to end the all-consuming nightmare
you were living and
to stop being, what
you perceived to be,
a
debilitating and
annoying
burden.
I
had
shared with you my spiritual
beliefs that when we leave this world
(earth school),
our souls venture 'home' to be joyfully
reunited
with all our loved ones who had passed before us, and
we return to complete health, feeling
light and free.
Initially
you thought it was a load of crap,
but I was so pleased to hear you talk of going 'home' as your passing
drew near. I figured, even if you didn't fully believe this to be so,
at least it was a comforting thought for you to embrace.
You
were probably imagining and looking forward to the possible
entertaining
welcome
home
party!
The
very last time I saw you, I visited you in hospital on my way home
form the airport. You didn't let me know you had
been admitted
while I was overseas, as you didn't
want to ruin my
trip. So
typical of you!
Thankfully
I found out. I
entered the four bed hospital room I was advised
you were in and initially couldn't spot you. I
nearly wandered back to the nurse's
desk until I saw you sitting in a chair with
your
back to me. It
took all my might not to cry as I knelt
to
surprise
you. You looked so frail and were struggling to breathe. It was
horrific and heartbreaking. I couldn't understand you well as you
tried your best to talk and I felt awful having to ask you to repeat
your words, knowing how much energy you were applying
to communicate.
You
asked me if I thought you were a good person, as you
believed good
people don't get dished
out this
sort of hell.
You
were literally drowning in your lung fluid. I remember
assuring
you, you were one of the most amazing, witty, smart,
selfless,
caring, lovable, protective gentlemen I'd ever had the pleasure of
knowing. Were
you a good person? Yes Mark, you were definitely one of the best ...
I
didn't
stay too long that day. You were tired and I was mindful of your
energy levels.
It
took all
your
strength and concentration to keep
breathing, although you wished you could just
lay
down, shut your eyes and disappear. I couldn't even give you a hug,
as I had remaining symptoms of a subsiding head cold. That would have
been all you needed – a
cold!
I
don't remember our parting words. I
was numb as I left you
and
drove
the two hours
home to South Gippsland in
a daze.
Six
days later I woke to Steve's message advising everyone you had
peacefully slipped away during the night. You
passed alone and I believe that was
your intention.
My
heart sank. The
struggle was over and you had gone – just like that.
I'm not sure if it was the morning I received word of your passing or
the morning of your funeral, but the news headline that particular
day read 'Major breakthrough for MND patients'! Sadly,
too
little, too late for you.
Your
funeral was monumental.
They came from literally everywhere to respectfully wish you goodbye,
many wearing red, flannelette shirts in your honor. You
were well loved, Mark. I hope you were there to see it. You've
left such a hole in our community, impossible
to replace. Magnificent
photos
of you hang honorably on The Cavity and Tarwin Hotel
walls
now,
so you
will
continue
to
remain fresh in peoples'
minds,
while
new patrons will curiously ask
who that guy is, to
which we will proudly answer.
I
miss
you so much, Mark. I miss our delicious bear hugs that spoke a
million words. I miss your
cheeky
face trying
to gain
my attention through
the PBE real
estate window
when you walked past on your
way
to The Cavity, and
I
miss our regular
texts.
I
stare at your beautiful house now looking so forlorn, and I imagine
you sitting on the couch in front of the television, being
warmed by your cosy
fire.
Every
motorbike that passes, I think of you too.
I
desperately need to upgrade my mobile phone, but I still have
precious texts from you stored, which I'm not able to let go of just
yet. Speaking
of which, even after you passed away, for a couple of weeks I would
still pick up my phone to text you morning and night – until I
remembered the
awful reality.
Steve
and Carol popped into PBE last week and were staying that night in
your house. It was a nice surprise to see them, as always. They had
picked
up your ashes and were bringing you home until a significant day in
the near future when
you
will
be spread over beach 1, as you had requested. I
remember you
telling
me that
I had married on
that beach and
you were going to fly over
it … and
that you will, Mark.
I
could
go on. I'm
not even sure why I'm writing you a letter! Maybe it's
for my own healing benefit or maybe it's to keep our memories alive
for
when
my mind starts failing me
with age.
I
guess,
quite simply, I feel
close to you reminiscing
and reliving
our story, and
for just a little while the hole inside my heart, with your name on
it, is affectionately
overflowing. If
my love for you could have saved you, you would have lived forever.
Be
happy, be free, my
dear friend, until we meet again.
Always in my heart,
Your Stunner xoxoxox
Mark Lehane 26.2.1959 – 2.1.2019
