'Happy New Year Dave'
'Happy New Year to you too - but I'm not Dave. Who are you?'
'Oops, sorry. Must have written his number down wrong. I'm Gerry.'
'No problem. I'm Graham. In Aberdeen.'
"Opposite end of the island. St Ives.'
And so it began. A mistyped digit, a series of texts, and two curious minds. The first exchange didn't last long, but a couple of days later it turned out we both had a bit of time on our hands, and we started to question, answer, find out things. At first it was just the usual chat - jobs, families, had we always lived there? That sort of stuff. Something clicked, no one defining moment, but a growing appreciation that we were on the same wavelength on so many subjects - music, art, TV, even politics (although it took a few months to get to that one...).
Gerry was thirteen years younger, so we were at slightly different points in our lives, but that never mattered. There was always something to talk about, to discuss in detail. Text gave way to Whatsapp, and emails. Photos exchanged, plans discussed, we were in touch most days.
And confidences. It turned out that both of us, independently of one another, had decided this relationship was something to keep to ourselves, a bit of life that was for us only. We were both only children, so maybe that had a part in those decisions. But I think it was a deeper, darker need in both our lives. Sharing secrets doesn't come naturally to men, not with other men. Especially not if it involves thoughts you're ashamed of. Even to yourself.
It took over a year for me to ask Gerry if he was happy with his life. Like, really happy. We'd both moaned about work of course, and about our kids. But I'd tried to hint at a bigger problem, one I hadn't shared with anyone else. Was I being smart, and reading between the lines, or engaging in wish fulfilment, to think that my virtual pal was giving off similar clues? Smart was the answer. Both of us had unhappy marriages, both of us knew we wouldn't have the nerve to leave, both of us had kept going without confiding in anyone. Face to face would have been impossible for our uptight natures, but a virtual pal was another matter.
Once the initial barrier had been cracked it allowed both to let go of those banged up feelings, resentments, fears, and push them across the anonymity of the internet to a fellow sufferer. It brought us closer together, and ensured we never met. Our talk of one day meeting up had always been in the hypothetical dimension of our friendship, we both knew we couldn't find an excuse to get away without owning up to our spouses, and that was never going to happen. Now it wasn't what we wanted either, and talk of the real world dissolved.
I'd 'known' Gerry for almost ten years when he told me. Told me before he told anyone else. He had the big C. Pancreatic. Diagnosed way too late for much to be done. He had six months, maybe a year. Did he want to talk? Like, really talk, using our actual voices? It was a question that had never come up before. But neither had death.
We did talk. Twice. Laughed at the accents, joked we couldn't understand, and, for once, avoided the truth. Neither of us could cope with this when it was a clearly a real human being on the other end. We returned to the virtual.
Together we went through his treatments, his agonies, his terrors and joys. We laughed. I cried. He probably did too.
His messages became less frequent. And, heartbreakingly, much funnier. I made him laugh in return. There was a gap of over a week. Every day my anguish expanded, my dread got deeper. How long did I have to give it before I could admit that he'd gone? Really gone.
And then he wasn't. He'd been rushed to hospital in the middle of the night, but they'd managed to stabilise him and he was back home. Photos of Gerry in one of those ridiculous hospital gowns, comprehensively tubed and wired, giving a thumbs up. He was exhausted, but still going, stuck in bed, stuck at home, missing me during those long few days. I wanted to ask, but couldn't. So he old me anyway. No, there was no way of knowing which of his messages to me would be his last. That night had been a reminder of how quickly changes could happen. So let's say our goodbyes now, because there would be nobody to tell me he'd gone. So we did.
He was still 'with' me for another three weeks. Then, once again, he wasn't. Never was again. It took me nearly four months to accept it, to try to jam that wee radio beacon of hope within me. My wife... never asked.
I'm happy I wasn't Dave. I'm happy I made a friend like no other I've had in my seventy one years of jumbled up existence. I'm happy that we supported each other.
We never met. Never shook hands, never had a pint together, never sat on the sofa watching a game. And I miss him. I miss a man the rest of the world would think was a stranger to me. I miss him more than I ever missed my parents, more than I ever missed my kids when they left home, more, probably, than I will miss my wife. How can that be? Life is communication. Life is in words, emotions, sharing. Gerry's gone. He took so much of my life with him.
