Every time you mention Agnes, I’m propelled back to the three seconds I met her for as I passed you both in the cab on Dunbridge St, the pair of you looking unfeasibly cheerful and walking with a gait that can only be defined as “jaunty”. You proudly introduced her and she cheerily shouted “Hello Nick!” across the road to me. You both looked utterly magnificent in the sunshine. It took me three seconds to see you were brilliant together. I’m still so very sorry for your loss, mate. I hope you’re going to be with people who loved you both on Monday. Look after yourself, Jonn. X
This was beautiful (and she sounds like an wonderful, memorable and interesting person).
One thing I wanted to add, from the (obviously never comparable) personal experience of relatively early in life bereavement (about six years ago I had my own 8.08am, or 8.30 perhaps, totally unexpected and sudden, which broke my brain via the shock as much as the loss) was that 2 years is not a long time at all. That you not only actively maintained this blog/other work engagement but also wrote and published books is simply incredible.
Honestly, having work that I enjoy and which brings forth affection and praise from total strangers, has been a lifeline. In the times when I've really struggled, when I don't want to get out of bed, it's always been the last thing to go. Dunno how I'd have made it without you lot. x
If and when I meet Agnes in the afterlife, I’m going to seek out the name of the clarinet thief, commit it to memory for eternity, and share my own personal 42 year grudge against Miss Gunner who pulled out of buying my flat on the day we were going to exchange.
🥺. I'm so sorry. She sounds like a woman after my own heart, a genuine original and very special person. You've written so eloquently, movingly and beautifully about her that I feel her loss myself, even though I never got the chance to get to know her. I can only begin to imagine how much you must miss her. You don't need platitudes, least of all from me, but I hope you won't take it amiss if I quote Dr Seuss. It's really about breakups, but I've found it appropriate for any kind of loss and I can only say that I've found it helpful: “Don't be sad it's over, be glad it happened.” Of course it's easier said than done. There are some losses that even time never completely heals. For me it was the untimely death of my uncle, Peter Schmidt, in 1979 when he was only 49. But that quote reminds me how fortunate I was to have known him. Agnes's death sounds like that kind of loss, not only because it was sudden, untimely and unexpected, but because she'll have left such a void. In that respect it's quite similar to my uncle's, but I only saw my uncle two or three times a year. I didn't have the intimate relationship with him that you had with Agnes and that must make it so much harder..
Thank you for sharing your tribute to Agnes. It can't have been easy to write such a personal and painful piece, so I'd like you to know how much it's appreciated. I hope your memories of Agnes will nourish you as much as her loss grieves you. And be gentle with and kind to yourself, as I'm sure Agnes would have wanted you to be.
Such a moving piece, Jon. Agnes sounds like she was the best of us and I know there is an Agnes-shaped hole in your life. My husband died one ordinary Wednesday afternoon. I had just told a colleague that I loved my life. Then there was a phone call, from John’s best friend, telling me I needed to go home.
Thank you so much Jonn. That is very kind of you as you are in the throes of anniversary grief. I guess I just wanted to let you know that, although life will never be the same again, and you will never stop loving Agnes, you can learn to live with it. People think grief will shrink as time goes by, but it doesn’t, your life just grows around it. And you have my permission to say eff off to anyone who tells you to “move on”. Time will pass, but we bring our lost love ones with us. Sending love ❤️
Sorry, pressed send too soon. He’d had a heart attack. I woke up married and went to bed a widow. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about him and what we might be doing now, 14 years later.
I don’t remember much of the first two years and at that point, if someone had told me I wouldn’t die from the pain of losing him and would still be here, watching my two sons grow up, I wouldn’t have believed them.
There is no manual for grief. It is the price we pay for love, and you and Agnes had a very special love.
I know this isn’t supposed to be about you Jonn. But you are a great man. Agnes would be even prouder of you than you know.
Every time you mention Agnes, I’m propelled back to the three seconds I met her for as I passed you both in the cab on Dunbridge St, the pair of you looking unfeasibly cheerful and walking with a gait that can only be defined as “jaunty”. You proudly introduced her and she cheerily shouted “Hello Nick!” across the road to me. You both looked utterly magnificent in the sunshine. It took me three seconds to see you were brilliant together. I’m still so very sorry for your loss, mate. I hope you’re going to be with people who loved you both on Monday. Look after yourself, Jonn. X
This was beautiful (and she sounds like an wonderful, memorable and interesting person).
One thing I wanted to add, from the (obviously never comparable) personal experience of relatively early in life bereavement (about six years ago I had my own 8.08am, or 8.30 perhaps, totally unexpected and sudden, which broke my brain via the shock as much as the loss) was that 2 years is not a long time at all. That you not only actively maintained this blog/other work engagement but also wrote and published books is simply incredible.
Honestly, having work that I enjoy and which brings forth affection and praise from total strangers, has been a lifeline. In the times when I've really struggled, when I don't want to get out of bed, it's always been the last thing to go. Dunno how I'd have made it without you lot. x
What a fabulous woman. I wish I had known her.
If and when I meet Agnes in the afterlife, I’m going to seek out the name of the clarinet thief, commit it to memory for eternity, and share my own personal 42 year grudge against Miss Gunner who pulled out of buying my flat on the day we were going to exchange.
Beautiful writing. And though I don’t know you, sending love x
This is beautiful Jonn. Agnes sounds absolutely amazing ❤️
🥺. I'm so sorry. She sounds like a woman after my own heart, a genuine original and very special person. You've written so eloquently, movingly and beautifully about her that I feel her loss myself, even though I never got the chance to get to know her. I can only begin to imagine how much you must miss her. You don't need platitudes, least of all from me, but I hope you won't take it amiss if I quote Dr Seuss. It's really about breakups, but I've found it appropriate for any kind of loss and I can only say that I've found it helpful: “Don't be sad it's over, be glad it happened.” Of course it's easier said than done. There are some losses that even time never completely heals. For me it was the untimely death of my uncle, Peter Schmidt, in 1979 when he was only 49. But that quote reminds me how fortunate I was to have known him. Agnes's death sounds like that kind of loss, not only because it was sudden, untimely and unexpected, but because she'll have left such a void. In that respect it's quite similar to my uncle's, but I only saw my uncle two or three times a year. I didn't have the intimate relationship with him that you had with Agnes and that must make it so much harder..
Thank you for sharing your tribute to Agnes. It can't have been easy to write such a personal and painful piece, so I'd like you to know how much it's appreciated. I hope your memories of Agnes will nourish you as much as her loss grieves you. And be gentle with and kind to yourself, as I'm sure Agnes would have wanted you to be.
This is gorgeous, Jonn, thank you for sharing. She sounds like she was the best of us. Look after yourself. X
Such a moving piece, Jon. Agnes sounds like she was the best of us and I know there is an Agnes-shaped hole in your life. My husband died one ordinary Wednesday afternoon. I had just told a colleague that I loved my life. Then there was a phone call, from John’s best friend, telling me I needed to go home.
oh god. I'm so very sorry, Suze
Thank you so much Jonn. That is very kind of you as you are in the throes of anniversary grief. I guess I just wanted to let you know that, although life will never be the same again, and you will never stop loving Agnes, you can learn to live with it. People think grief will shrink as time goes by, but it doesn’t, your life just grows around it. And you have my permission to say eff off to anyone who tells you to “move on”. Time will pass, but we bring our lost love ones with us. Sending love ❤️
Sorry, pressed send too soon. He’d had a heart attack. I woke up married and went to bed a widow. There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about him and what we might be doing now, 14 years later.
I don’t remember much of the first two years and at that point, if someone had told me I wouldn’t die from the pain of losing him and would still be here, watching my two sons grow up, I wouldn’t have believed them.
There is no manual for grief. It is the price we pay for love, and you and Agnes had a very special love.
Beautiful. Thanks for sharing Jonn.
Beautiful.
The love absolutely radiates through your writing, Jonn.
I’m so sorry you’ve lost Agnes, but so glad you’ve decided to write about her. She sounds infuriating, and fabulous. I wish I’d known her.
A beautiful tribute and insight.
She sounds like a wonderful woman. A beautiful tribute