Dearest Mark...

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