“If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love.” George Orwell
I have lost my lifelong friend, William, and I am struggling to cope with it. He is still alive, yet the friend I knew has gone. That is the hardest truth to put into words. We were closer than brothers. We knew each other’s quirks, shared the same eccentric sense of humour, were schoolmates, went to the same university together, became teachers and came from modest backgrounds.
After university, we opened our first school together as the youngest School Principals in the UK. Those early years in Cambridge were the most demanding of my life, but also the most exhilarating.
When my friend left to open his school in Brighton, life for me was never quite the same.
I went on to open two more schools and, in worldly terms, I made my mark. My friend chose a different path. He kept his school small, faithful to the principles we had started with.
At the time, I thought he was wrong, but he was proven right. He kept alive the spirit of real education. He gave students room to think for themselves, encouraged critical thought, and cared just as much for the less academic student as for the gifted one.
He had no interest in glittering prizes, in headlines, or in the gimmickry of league tables, easily manipulated to flatter a school. He cared about his students’ well-being and his school earned respect because it offered excellent results without sacrificing its soul. He was, in educational terms, better than me in the ways that truly matter. He was kind, generous, loyal and the best friend I could ever have wished for.
Our friendship grew even closer after he moved to Brighton. Now that he has gone in the way that Lewy Body dementia can take a person before death, I feel as though I have lost part of myself. I use the past tense, yet grammar feels wrong here, because my friend is still alive.
But the man I knew has been taken from me by a terrible illness. Lewy Body dementia robs a person of personality, confidence and the ability to trust what is real. Hallucinations can become part of daily life. Fear and depression can follow. A person may recognise those around him, or may not. The body remains, but the person you knew disappears.
My friend’s illness suddenly worsened, caused by an infection on top of the dementia. He is now hospitalised. He is childless and has lived alone since his wife died. His sister is doing all she can, but it now seems likely he will need round-the-clock care.
Lewy Body dementia is cruel to the patient and those closest. It doesn’t just take life. It takes people while they are still alive. It leaves loved ones standing by, unable to stop the loss, unable to bring back the mind that made the person they were.
There is no clean break, no clear moment to begin grieving. Instead, one watches the person fade, day by day, and one suffers a kind of endless grief.
I miss my friend’s intelligence, wit, loyalty, decency and the way he understood me as few people ever have. Above all I miss his humour and our shared laughter. I still love him. I always will. But I mourn the man who once walked beside me through life.
His illness has left me with a sadness that is hard to name. It is sorrow, helplessness, disbelief and the pain of watching your friend vanish. This disease also places a heavy burden on those closest.
You grieve without closure, you hope for a return that may never come. I have lost my friend and yet he is still here. And I miss him so.
Karim Easterbrook
The writer is a Former Cambridge School Principal and Author
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